Vanity Fair (Bantam Classic)

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  The cook was there with blackened face, seated on the beautiful chintz sofa by the side of Mrs. Raggles, to whom she was administering Maraschino. The page with the sugar-loaf buttons, who carried about Becky’s pink notes, and jumped about her little carriage with such alacrity, was now engaged putting his fingers into a cream dish; the footman was talking to Raggles, who had a face full of perplexity and woe--and yet, though the door was open, and Becky had been screaming a half-dozen of times a few feet off, not one of her attendants had obeyed her call. “Have a little drop, do’ee now, Mrs. Raggles,” the cook was saying as Becky entered, the white cashmere dressing-gown flouncing around her.

  “Simpson! Trotter!” the mistress of the house cried in great wrath. “How dare you stay here when you heard me call? How dare you sit down in my presence? Where’s my maid?” The page withdrew his fingers from his mouth with a momentary terror, but the cook took off a glass of Maraschino, of which Mrs. Raggles had had enough, staring at Becky over the little gilt glass as she drained its contents. The liquor appeared to give the odious rebel courage.

  “Your sofy, indeed!” Mrs. Cook said. “I’m a settin’ on Mrs. Raggles’s sofy. Don’t you stir, Mrs. Raggles, Mum. I’m a settin’ on Mr. and Mrs. Raggles’s sofy, which they bought with honest money, and very dear it cost ‘em, too. And I’m thinkin’ if I set here until I’m paid my wages, I shall set a precious long time, Mrs. Raggles; and set I will, too--ha! ha!” and with this she filled herself another glass of the liquor and drank it with a more hideously satirical air.

  “Trotter! Simpson! turn that drunken wretch out,” screamed Mrs. Crawley.

  “I shawn’t,” said Trotter the footman; “turn out yourself. Pay our selleries, and turn me out too. We’ll go fast enough.”

  “Are you all here to insult me?” cried Becky in a fury; “when Colonel Crawley comes home I’ll--”

  At this the servants burst into a horse haw-haw, in which, however, Raggles, who still kept a most melancholy countenance, did not join. “He ain’t a coming back,” Mr. Trotter resumed. “He sent for his things, and I wouldn’t let ’em go, although Mr. Raggles would; and I don’t b’lieve he’s no more a Colonel than I am. He’s hoff, and I suppose you’re a goin’ after him. You’re no better than swindlers, both on you. Don’t be a bullyin’ me. I won’t stand it. Pay us our selleries, I say. Pay us our selleries.” It was evident, from Mr. Trotter’s flushed countenance and defective intonation, that he, too, had had recourse to vinous stimulus.

  “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 comi
ng 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:

  Governorship of Coventry island.--H.M.S. Yellowjack, Commander Jaunders, has brought letters and papers from Coventry Island. H. E. Sir Thomas Liverseege had fallen a victim to the prevailing fever at Swampton. His loss is deeply felt in the flourishing colony. We hear that the Governorship has been offered to Colonel Raw
don Crawley, C.B., a distinguished Waterloo officer. We need not only men of acknowledged bravery, but men of administrative talents to superintend the affairs of our colonies, and we have no doubt that the gentleman selected by the Colonial Office to fill the lamented vacancy which has occurred at Coventry Island is admirably calculated for the post which he is about to occupy.”

  “Coventry Island! Where was it? Who had appointed him to the government? You must take me out as your secretary, old boy,” Captain Macmurdo said laughing; and as Crawley and his friend sat wondering and perplexed over the announcement, the Club waiter brought in to the Colonel a card on which the name of Mr. Wenham was engraved, who begged to see Colonel Crawley.

  The Colonel and his aide-de-camp went out to meet the gentleman, rightly conjecturing that he was an emissary of Lord Steyne. “How d’ye do, Crawley? I am glad to see you,” said Mr. Wenham with a bland smile, and grasping Crawley’s hand with great cordiality.

  “You come, I suppose, from--”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Wenham.

  “Then this is my friend Captain Macmurdo, of the Life Guards Green.”

  “Delighted to know Captain Macmurdo, I’m sure,” Mr. Wenham said and tendered another smile and shake of the hand to the second, as he had done to the principal. Mac put out one finger, armed with a buckskin glove, and made a very frigid bow to Mr. Wenham over his tight cravat. He was, perhaps, discontented at being put in communication with a pekin, and thought that Lord Steyne should have sent him a Colonel at the very least.

  “As Macmurdo acts for me, and knows what I mean,” Crawley said, “I had better retire and leave you together.”

  “Of course,” said Macmurdo.

  “By no means, my dear Colonel,” Mr. Wenham said; “the interview which I had the honour of requesting was with you personally, though the company of Captain Macmurdo cannot fail to be also most pleasing. In fact, Captain, I hope that our conversation will lead to none but the most agreeable results, very different from those which my friend Colonel Crawley appears to anticipate.”