Vanity Fair (95 page)

"Mr. Raggles," said Becky in a passion of vexation, "you will not
surely let me be insulted by that drunken man?" "Hold your noise,
Trotter; do now," said Simpson the page. He was affected by his
mistress's deplorable situation, and succeeded in preventing an
outrageous denial of the epithet "drunken" on the footman's part.

"Oh, M'am," said Raggles, "I never thought to live to see this year
day: I've known the Crawley family ever since I was born. I lived
butler with Miss Crawley for thirty years; and I little thought one
of that family was a goin' to ruing me—yes, ruing me"—said the
poor fellow with tears in his eyes. "Har you a goin' to pay me?
You've lived in this 'ouse four year. You've 'ad my substance: my
plate and linning. You ho me a milk and butter bill of two 'undred
pound, you must 'ave noo laid heggs for your homlets, and cream for
your spanil dog."

"She didn't care what her own flesh and blood had," interposed the
cook. "Many's the time, he'd have starved but for me."

"He's a charaty-boy now, Cooky," said Mr. Trotter, with a drunken
"ha! ha!"—and honest Raggles continued, in a lamentable tone, an
enumeration of his griefs. All he said was true. Becky and her
husband had ruined him. He had bills coming due next week and no
means to meet them. He would be sold up and turned out of his shop
and his house, because he had trusted to the Crawley family. His
tears and lamentations made Becky more peevish than ever.

"You all seem to be against me," she said bitterly. "What do you
want? I can't pay you on Sunday. Come back to-morrow and I'll pay
you everything. I thought Colonel Crawley had settled with you. He
will to-morrow. I declare to you upon my honour that he left home
this morning with fifteen hundred pounds in his pocket-book. He has
left me nothing. Apply to him. Give me a bonnet and shawl and let
me go out and find him. There was a difference between us this
morning. You all seem to know it. I promise you upon my word that
you shall all be paid. He has got a good appointment. Let me go
out and find him."

This audacious statement caused Raggles and the other personages
present to look at one another with a wild surprise, and with it
Rebecca left them. She went upstairs and dressed herself this time
without the aid of her French maid. She went into Rawdon's room,
and there saw that a trunk and bag were packed ready for removal,
with a pencil direction that they should be given when called for;
then she went into the Frenchwoman's garret; everything was clean,
and all the drawers emptied there. She bethought herself of the
trinkets which had been left on the ground and felt certain that the
woman had fled. "Good Heavens! was ever such ill luck as mine?" she
said; "to be so near, and to lose all. Is it all too late?" No;
there was one chance more.

She dressed herself and went away unmolested this time, but alone.
It was four o'clock. She went swiftly down the streets (she had no
money to pay for a carriage), and never stopped until she came to
Sir Pitt Crawley's door, in Great Gaunt Street. Where was Lady Jane
Crawley? She was at church. Becky was not sorry. Sir Pitt was in
his study, and had given orders not to be disturbed—she must see
him—she slipped by the sentinel in livery at once, and was in Sir
Pitt's room before the astonished Baronet had even laid down the
paper.

He turned red and started back from her with a look of great alarm
and horror.

"Do not look so," she said. "I am not guilty, Pitt, dear Pitt; you
were my friend once. Before God, I am not guilty. I seem so.
Everything is against me. And oh! at such a moment! just when all
my hopes were about to be realized: just when happiness was in
store for us."

"Is this true, what I see in the paper then?" Sir Pitt said—a
paragraph in which had greatly surprised him.

"It is true. Lord Steyne told me on Friday night, the night of that
fatal ball. He has been promised an appointment any time these six
months. Mr. Martyr, the Colonial Secretary, told him yesterday that
it was made out. That unlucky arrest ensued; that horrible meeting.
I was only guilty of too much devotedness to Rawdon's service. I
have received Lord Steyne alone a hundred times before. I confess I
had money of which Rawdon knew nothing. Don't you know how careless
he is of it, and could I dare to confide it to him?" And so she went
on with a perfectly connected story, which she poured into the ears
of her perplexed kinsman.

It was to the following effect. Becky owned, and with prefect
frankness, but deep contrition, that having remarked Lord Steyne's
partiality for her (at the mention of which Pitt blushed), and being
secure of her own virtue, she had determined to turn the great
peer's attachment to the advantage of herself and her family. "I
looked for a peerage for you, Pitt," she said (the brother-in-law
again turned red). "We have talked about it. Your genius and Lord
Steyne's interest made it more than probable, had not this dreadful
calamity come to put an end to all our hopes. But, first, I own
that it was my object to rescue my dear husband—him whom I love in
spite of all his ill usage and suspicions of me—to remove him from
the poverty and ruin which was impending over us. I saw Lord
Steyne's partiality for me," she said, casting down her eyes. "I
own that I did everything in my power to make myself pleasing to
him, and as far as an honest woman may, to secure his—his esteem.
It was only on Friday morning that the news arrived of the death of
the Governor of Coventry Island, and my Lord instantly secured the
appointment for my dear husband. It was intended as a surprise for
him—he was to see it in the papers to-day. Even after that horrid
arrest took place (the expenses of which Lord Steyne generously said
he would settle, so that I was in a manner prevented from coming to
my husband's assistance), my Lord was laughing with me, and saying
that my dearest Rawdon would be consoled when he read of his
appointment in the paper, in that shocking spun—bailiff's house.
And then—then he came home. His suspicions were excited,—the
dreadful scene took place between my Lord and my cruel, cruel
Rawdon—and, O my God, what will happen next? Pitt, dear Pitt! pity
me, and reconcile us!" And as she spoke she flung herself down on
her knees, and bursting into tears, seized hold of Pitt's hand,
which she kissed passionately.

It was in this very attitude that Lady Jane, who, returning from
church, ran to her husband's room directly she heard Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley was closeted there, found the Baronet and his sister-in-law.

"I am surprised that woman has the audacity to enter this house,"
Lady Jane said, trembling in every limb and turning quite pale.
(Her Ladyship had sent out her maid directly after breakfast, who
had communicated with Raggles and Rawdon Crawley's household, who
had told her all, and a great deal more than they knew, of that
story, and many others besides). "How dare Mrs. Crawley to enter
the house of—of an honest family?"

Sir Pitt started back, amazed at his wife's display of vigour.
Becky still kept her kneeling posture and clung to Sir Pitt's hand.

"Tell her that she does not know all: Tell her that I am innocent,
dear Pitt," she whimpered out.

"Upon-my word, my love, I think you do Mrs. Crawley injustice," Sir
Pitt said; at which speech Rebecca was vastly relieved. "Indeed I
believe her to be—"

"To be what?" cried out Lady Jane, her clear voice thrilling and,
her heart beating violently as she spoke. "To be a wicked woman—a
heartless mother, a false wife? She never loved her dear little boy,
who used to fly here and tell me of her cruelty to him. She never
came into a family but she strove to bring misery with her and to
weaken the most sacred affections with her wicked flattery and
falsehoods. She has deceived her husband, as she has deceived
everybody; her soul is black with vanity, worldliness, and all sorts
of crime. I tremble when I touch her. I keep my children out of
her sight."

"Lady Jane!" cried Sir Pitt, starting up, "this is really language—"
"I have been a true and faithful wife to you, Sir Pitt," Lady
Jane continued, intrepidly; "I have kept my marriage vow as I made
it to God and have been obedient and gentle as a wife should. But
righteous obedience has its limits, and I declare that I will not
bear that—that woman again under my roof; if she enters it, I and
my children will leave it. She is not worthy to sit down with
Christian people. You—you must choose, sir, between her and me";
and with this my Lady swept out of the room, fluttering with her own
audacity, and leaving Rebecca and Sir Pitt not a little astonished
at it.

As for Becky, she was not hurt; nay, she was pleased. "It was the
diamond-clasp you gave me," she said to Sir Pitt, reaching him out
her hand; and before she left him (for which event you may be sure
my Lady Jane was looking out from her dressing-room window in the
upper story) the Baronet had promised to go and seek out his
brother, and endeavour to bring about a reconciliation.

Rawdon found some of the young fellows of the regiment seated in the
mess-room at breakfast, and was induced without much difficulty to
partake of that meal, and of the devilled legs of fowls and soda-
water with which these young gentlemen fortified themselves. Then
they had a conversation befitting the day and their time of life:
about the next pigeon-match at Battersea, with relative bets upon
Ross and Osbaldiston; about Mademoiselle Ariane of the French Opera,
and who had left her, and how she was consoled by Panther Carr; and
about the fight between the Butcher and the Pet, and the
probabilities that it was a cross. Young Tandyman, a hero of
seventeen, laboriously endeavouring to get up a pair of mustachios,
had seen the fight, and spoke in the most scientific manner about
the battle and the condition of the men. It was he who had driven
the Butcher on to the ground in his drag and passed the whole of the
previous night with him. Had there not been foul play he must have
won it. All the old files of the Ring were in it; and Tandyman
wouldn't pay; no, dammy, he wouldn't pay. It was but a year since
the young Cornet, now so knowing a hand in Cribb's parlour, had a
still lingering liking for toffy, and used to be birched at Eton.

So they went on talking about dancers, fights, drinking, demireps,
until Macmurdo came down and joined the boys and the conversation.
He did not appear to think that any especial reverence was due to
their boyhood; the old fellow cut in with stories, to the full as
choice as any the youngest rake present had to tell—nor did his own
grey hairs nor their smooth faces detain him. Old Mac was famous
for his good stories. He was not exactly a lady's man; that is, men
asked him to dine rather at the houses of their mistresses than of
their mothers. There can scarcely be a life lower, perhaps, than
his, but he was quite contented with it, such as it was, and led it
in perfect good nature, simplicity, and modesty of demeanour.

By the time Mac had finished a copious breakfast, most of the others
had concluded their meal. Young Lord Varinas was smoking an immense
Meerschaum pipe, while Captain Hugues was employed with a cigar:
that violent little devil Tandyman, with his little bull-terrier
between his legs, was tossing for shillings with all his might (that
fellow was always at some game or other) against Captain Deuceace;
and Mac and Rawdon walked off to the Club, neither, of course,
having given any hint of the business which was occupying their
minds. Both, on the other hand, had joined pretty gaily in the
conversation, for why should they interrupt it? Feasting, drinking,
ribaldry, laughter, go on alongside of all sorts of other
occupations in Vanity Fair—the crowds were pouring out of church as
Rawdon and his friend passed down St. James's Street and entered
into their Club.

The old bucks and habitues, who ordinarily stand gaping and grinning
out of the great front window of the Club, had not arrived at their
posts as yet—the newspaper-room was almost empty. One man was
present whom Rawdon did not know; another to whom he owed a little
score for whist, and whom, in consequence, he did not care to meet;
a third was reading the Royalist (a periodical famous for its
scandal and its attachment to Church and King) Sunday paper at the
table, and looking up at Crawley with some interest, said, "Crawley,
I congratulate you."

"What do you mean?" said the Colonel.

"It's in the Observer and the Royalist too," said Mr. Smith.

"What?" Rawdon cried, turning very red. He thought that the affair
with Lord Steyne was already in the public prints. Smith looked up
wondering and smiling at the agitation which the Colonel exhibited
as he took up the paper and, trembling, began to read.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown (the gentleman with .whom Rawdon had the
outstanding whist account) had been talking about the Colonel just
before he came in.

"It is come just in the nick of time," said Smith. "I suppose
Crawley had not a shilling in the world."

"It's a wind that blows everybody good," Mr. Brown said. "He can't
go away without paying me a pony he owes me."

"What's the salary?" asked Smith.

"Two or three thousand," answered the other. "But the climate's so
infernal, they don't enjoy it long. Liverseege died after eighteen
months of it, and the man before went off in six weeks, I hear."

"Some people say his brother is a very clever man. I always found
him a d—— bore," Smith ejaculated. "He must have good interest,
though. He must have got the Colonel the place."

"He!" said Brown. with a sneer. "Pooh. It was Lord Steyne got it.

"How do you mean?"

"A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband," answered the other
enigmatically, and went to read his papers.

Rawdon, for his part, read in the Royalist the following astonishing
paragraph: