Vanity Fair (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  After a lively chat with this lady (who sat on the edge of the breakfast-table in an easy attitude displaying the drapery of her stocking and an ex-white satin shoe, which was down at heel), Colonel Crawley called for pens and ink, and paper; and being asked how many sheets, chose one which was brought to him between Miss Moss‘s own finger and thumb. Many a sheet had that dark-eyed damsel brought in; many a poor fellow had scrawled and blotted hurried lines of entreaty, and paced up and down that awful room until his messenger brought back the reply. Poor men always use messengers instead of the post. Who has not had their letters with the wafers wet, and the announcement that a person is waiting in the hall?

  Now on the score of his application, Rawdon had not many misgivings.

  DEAR BECKY (Rawdon wrote),

  I hope you slept well. Don‘t be frightened if I don‘t bring you in your coffy. Last night as I was coming home smoaking, I met with an accadent. I was nabbed by Moss of Cursitor Street—from whose gilt and splendid parler I write this—the same that had me this time two years. Miss Moss brought in my tea—she is grown very fat, and as usual, had her stockens down at heal.

  It‘s Nathan‘s business—a hundred-and-fifty-with costs, hundred-and-seventy. Please send me my desk and some cloths-I‘m in pumps and a white tye (something like Miss M.‘s stockings)—I‘ve seventy in it. And as soon as you get this, Drive to Nathan‘s—offer him seventy-five down, and ask him to renew—say I‘ll take wine—we may as well have some dinner sherry; but not picturs, they‘re too dear.

  If he won‘t stand it. Take my ticker and such of your things as you can spare, and send them to Balls—we must, of coarse, have the sum to-night. It won‘t do to let it stand over, as to-morrow‘s Sunday; the beds here are not very clean, and there may be other things out against me—I‘m glad it an‘t Rawdon‘s Saturday for coming home. God bless you.

  Yours in haste, R. C.

  PS.—Make haste and come.

  This letter, sealed with a wafer, was dispatched by one of the messengers who are always hanging about Mr. Moss‘s establishment; and Rawdon, having seen him depart, went out in the courtyard, and smoked his cigar with a tolerably easy mind—in spite of the bars overhead; for Mr. Moss‘s courtyard is railed in like a cage, lest the gentlemen who are boarding with him should take a fancy to escape from his hospitality.

  Three hours, he calculated, would be the utmost time required, before Becky should arrive and open his prison doors: and he passed these pretty cheerfully in smoking, in reading the paper, and in the coffee-room with an acquaintance, Captain Walker, who happened to be there, and with whom he cut for sixpences for some hours, with pretty equal luck on either side.

  But the day passed away and no messenger returned,—no Becky. Mr. Moss‘s tably-de-hoty was served at the appointed hour of half-past five, when such of the gentlemen lodging in the house as could afford to pay for the banquet, came and partook of it in the splendid front parlour before described, and with which Mr. Crawley‘s temporary lodging communicated, when Miss M. (Miss Hem, as her papa called her) appeared without the curl-papers of the morning, and Mrs. Hem did the honours of a prime boiled leg of mutton and turnips, of which the colonel ate with a very faint appetite. Asked whether he would ‘stand‘ a bottle of champagne for the company, he consented, and the ladies drank to his ‘ealth, and Mr. Moss, in the most polite manner ‘looked towards him‘.

  In the midst of this repast, however, the door-bell was heard,—young Moss of the ruddy hair, rose up with the keys and answered the summons, and coming back, told the colonel that the messenger had returned with a bag, a desk and a letter, which he gave him. ‘No ceremony, colonel, I beg,‘ said Mrs. Moss, with a wave of her hand, and he opened the letter rather tremulously.—It was a beautiful letter, highly scented, on a pink paper, and with a light green seal.

  MON PAUVRE CHER PETITqm (MRS. CRAWLEY WROTE),

  I could not sleep one wink for thinking of what had become of my odious old monstre: and only got to rest in the morning after sending for Mr. Blench (for I was in a fever), who gave me a composing draught and left orders with Finette that I should be disturbed on no account. So that my poor old man‘s messenger, who had bien mau vaise mine, Finette says, and sentait le genièvre,qn remained in the hall for some hours waiting my bell. You may fancy my state when I read your poor dear old ill-spelt letter.

  Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, and as soon as I was dressed (though I couldn‘t drink a drop of chocolate—I assure you I couldn‘t without my monstre to bring it to me), I drove ventre à terreqo to Nathan‘s. I saw him—I wept—I cried—I fell at his odious knees. Nothing would mollify the horrid man. He would have all the money, he said, or keep my poor monstre in prison. I drove home with the intention of paying that triste visite chez mon oncleqp (when every trinket I have should be at your disposal though they would not fetch a hundred pounds, for some, you know, are with ce cher oncle already), and found Milor there with the Bulgarian old sheep-faced monster, who had come to compliment me upon last night‘s performances. Padding-ton came in, too, drawling and lisping and twiddling his hair; so did Champignac, and his chef—everybody with foisonqq of compliments and pretty speeches—plaguing poor me, who longed to be rid of them, and was thinking every moment of the time of mon pauvre prisonnier.qr

  When they were gone, I went down on my knees to Milor; told him we were going to pawn everything, and begged and prayed him to give me two hundred pounds. He pish‘d and psha‘d in a fury—told me not to be such a fool as to pawn—and said he would see whether he could lend me the money. At last he went away, promising that he would send it me in the morning: when I will bring it to my poor old monster with a kiss from his affectionate

  BECKY.

  I am writing in bed. Oh, I have such a headache and such a heartache!

  When Rawdon read over this letter, he turned so red and looked so savage that the company at the table d‘hôte easily perceived that bad news had reached him. All his suspicions, which he had been trying to banish, returned upon him. She could not even go out and sell her trinkets to free him. She could laugh and talk about compliments paid to her, whilst he was in prison. Who had put him there? Wenham had walked with him. Was there.... He could hardly bear to think of what he suspected. Leaving the room hurriedly, he ran into his own—opened his desk, wrote two hurried lines, which he directed to Sir Pitt or Lady Crawley, and bade the messenger carry them at once to Gaunt Street, bidding him to take a cab, and promising him a guinea if he was back in an hour.

  In the note he besought his dear brother and sister, for the sake of God; for the sake of his dear child and his honour; to come to him and relieve him from his difficulty. He was in prison: he wanted a hundred pounds to set him free—he entreated them to come to him.

  He went back to the dining-room after dispatching his messenger, and called for more wine. He laughed and talked with a strange boisterousness, as the people thought. Sometimes he laughed madly at his own fears, and went on drinking for an hour; listening all the while for the carriage which was to bring his fate back.

  At the expiration of that time, wheels were heard whirling up to the gate—the young janitor went out with his gate-keys. It was a lady whom he let in at the bailiff‘s door.

  ‘Colonel Crawley,‘ she said, trembling very much. He with a knowing look, locked the outer door upon her—then unlocked and opened the inner one, and calling out, ‘Colonel, you‘re wanted,‘ led her into the back parlour, which he occupied.

  Rawdon came in from the dining-parlour where all those people were carousing, into his back-room; a flare of coarse light following him into the apartment where the lady stood, still very nervous.

  ‘It is I, Rawdon,‘ she said, in a timid voice, which she strove to render cheerful. ‘It is Jane.‘ Rawdon was quite overcome by that kind voice and presence. He ran up to her—caught her in his arms—gasped out some inarticulate words of thanks, and fairly sobbed on her shoulder. She did not know the cause of his emotion.


  The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled, perhaps to the disappointment of that gentleman, who had counted on having the colonel as his guest over Sunday at least; and Jane, with beaming smiles and happiness in her eyes, carried away Rawdon from the bailiffs house, and they went homewards in the cab in which she had hastened to his release. ‘Pitt was gone to a Parliamentary dinner,‘ she said, ‘when Rawdon‘s note came, and so, dear Rawdon, I—I came myself;‘ and she put her kind hand in his. Perhaps it was well for Rawdon Crawley that Pitt was away at that dinner. Rawdon thanked his sister a hundred times, and with an ardour of gratitude which touched and almost alarmed that soft-hearted woman. ‘Oh,‘ said he, in his rude, artless way, ‘you—you don‘t know how I‘m changed since I‘ve known you, and—and little Rawdy. I—I‘d like to change somehow. You see I want—I want—to be—.‘—He did not finish the sentence, but she could interpret it. And that night after he left her, and as she sat by her own little boy‘s bed, she prayed humbly for that poor wayworn sinner.

  Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was nine o‘clock at night. He ran across the streets, and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length came up breathless opposite his own house. He started back and fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the light from the rooms on his pale face.

  He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball-dress in which he had been captured the night before. He went silently up the stairs; leaning against the banisters at the stair-head.—Nobody was stirring in the house besides—all the servants had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within—laughter and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the night before; a hoarse voice shouted, ‘Brava! Brava!‘—it was Lord Steyne‘s.

  Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a dinner was laid out—and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging over the sofa on which Becky sat. The wretched woman was in a brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings; and the brilliants on her breast which Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing over it to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as she caught sight of Rawdon‘s white face. At the next instant she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if to welcome her husband: and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in his looks.

  He, too, attempted a laugh—and came forward holding out his hand. ‘What, come back! How d‘ye do, Crawley?‘ he said, the nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to grin at the intruder.

  There was that in Rawdon‘s face which caused Becky to fling herself before him. ‘I am innocent, Rawdon,‘ she said; ‘before God, I am innocent.‘ She clung hold of his coat, of his hands; her own were all covered with serpents, and rings, and baubles. ‘I am innocent.—Say I am innocent,‘ she said to Lord Steyne.

  He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furious with the wife as with the husband. ‘You innocent! Damn you,‘ he screamed out. ‘You innocent! Why, every trinket you have on your body is paid for by me. I have given you thousands of pounds which this fellow has spent, and for which he has sold you. Innocent, by—! You‘re as innocent as your mother, the ballet-girl, and your husband the bully. Don‘t think to frighten me as you have done others. Make way, sir, and let me pass;‘ and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and, with flame in his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the face, marched upon him, never for a moment doubting that the other would give way.

  But Rawdon Crawley springing out, seized him by the neckcloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed, and bent under his arm. ‘You lie, you dog!‘ said Rawdon. ‘You lie, you coward and villain!‘ And be struck the peer twice over the face with his open hand, and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was all done before Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trembling before him. She admired her husband, strong, brave, and victorious.

  ‘Come here,‘ he said.—She came up at once.

  ‘Take off those things.‘—She began, trembling, pulling the jewels from her arms, and the rings from her shaking fingers, and held them all in a heap, quivering and looking up at him. ‘Throw them down,‘ he said, and she dropped them. He tore the diamond ornament out of her breast, and flung it at Lord Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar to his dying day.

  ‘Come upstairs,‘ Rawdon said to his wife. ‘Don‘t kill me, Rawdon,‘ she said. He laughed savagely.—‘I want to see if that man lies about the money as he has about me. Has he given you any?‘

  ‘No,‘ said Rebecca, ‘that is—‘

  ‘Give me your keys,‘ Rawdon answered, and they went out together.

  Rebecca gave him all the keys but one: and she was in hopes that he would not have remarked the absence of that. It belonged to the little desk which Amelia had given her in early days, and which she kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumpery of their contents here and there, and at last he found the desk. The woman was forced to open it. It contained papers, love-letters many years old—all sorts of small trinkets and woman‘s memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with bank-notes. Some of these were dated ten years back, too, and one was quite a fresh one—a note for a thousand pounds which Lord Steyne had given her.

  ‘Did he give you this?‘ Rawdon said.

  ‘Yes,‘ Rebecca answered.

  ‘I‘ll send it to him to-day,‘ Rawdon said (for day had dawned again, and many hours had passed in this search), ‘and I will pay Briggs, who was kind to the boy, and some of the debts. You will let me know where I shall send the rest to you. You might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this—I have always shared with you.‘

  ‘I am innocent,‘ said Becky. And he left her without another word.

  What were her thoughts when he left her? She remained for hours after he was gone, the sunshine pouring into the room, and Rebecca sitting alone on the bed‘s edge. The drawers were all opened and their contents scattered about,—dresses and feathers, scarfs and trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying in a wreck. Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown was torn where Rawdon had wrenched the brilliants out of it. She heard him go downstairs a few minutes after he left her, and the door slamming and closing on him. She knew he would never come back. He was gone for ever. Would he kill himself?—she thought—not until after he had met Lord Steyne. She thought of her long past life, and all the dismal incidents of it. Ah, how dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely and profitless ! Should she take laudanum,qs and end it, too—have done with all hopes, schemes, debts, and triumphs? The French maid found her in this position—sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins with clasped hands and dry eyes. The woman was her accomplice and in Steyne‘s pay. ‘Mon Dieu, madame, what has happened?‘ she asked.

  What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She said not; but who could tell what was truth which came from those lips; or if that corrupt heart was in this case pure? All her lies and her schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and genius had come to this bankruptcy. The woman closed the curtains, and with some entreaty and show of kindness, persuaded her mistress to lie down on the bed. Then she went below and gathered up the trinkets which had been lying on the floor, since Rebecca dropped them there at her husband‘s orders, and Lord Steyne went away

  CHAPTER LIV

  Sunday After the Battle

  The mansion of Sir Pitt Crawley in Great Gaunt Street was just beginning to dress itself for the day, as Rawdon, in his evening costume, which he had now worn two days, passed by the scared female who was scouring the steps, and entered into his brother‘s study. Lady Jane, in her morning-gown, was up and above stairs in the nursery, superintending the toilettes of her children, and listening to the morning prayers which the little creatures performed at her knee. Every morning she and they performed t
his duty privately, and before the public ceremonial at which Sir Pitt presided, and at which all the people of the household were expected to assemble. Rawdon sat down in the study before the baronet‘s table, set out with the orderly Blue Books and the letters, the neatly docketed bills and symmetrical pamphlets; the locked account-books, desks, and dispatch boxes, the Bible, the Quarterly Review, and the Court Guide, which all stood as if on parade awaiting the inspection of their chief.

  A book of family sermons, one of which Sir Pitt was in the habit of administering to his family on Sunday mornings, lay ready on the study table, and awaiting his judicious selection. And by the sermon-book was the Observer newspaper, damp and neatly folded, and for Sir Pitt‘s own private use. His gentleman alone took the opportunity of perusing the newspaper before he laid it by his master‘s desk. Before he had brought it into the study that morning, he had read in the journal a flaming account of ‘Festivities at Gaunt House‘, with the names of all the distinguished personages invited by the Marquis of Steyne to meet his royal highness. Having made comments upon this entertainment to the housekeeper and her niece as they were taking early tea and hot buttered toast in the former lady‘s apartment, and wondered how the Rawding Crawleys could git on, the valet had damped and folded the paper once more, so that it looked quite fresh and innocent against the arrival of the master of the house.