Vanity Fair
splendid throughout. There were dirty trays, and wine-coolers en
permanence on the sideboard, huge dirty gilt cornices, with dingy
yellow satin hangings to the barred windows which looked into Cursitor
Street--vast and dirty gilt picture frames surrounding pieces sporting
and sacred, all of which works were by the greatest masters--and
fetched the greatest prices, too, in the bill transactions, in the
course of which they were sold and bought over and over again. The
Colonel's breakfast was served to him in the same dingy and gorgeous
plated ware. Miss Moss, a dark-eyed maid in curl-papers, appeared with
the teapot, and, smiling, asked the Colonel how he had slep? And she
brought him in the Morning Post, with the names of all the great people
who had figured at Lord Steyne's entertainment the night before. It
contained a brilliant account of the festivities and of the beautiful
and accomplished Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's admirable personifications.
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. P.S. 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 court-yard and smoked
his cigar with a tolerably easy mind--in spite of the bars
overhead--for Mr. Moss's court-yard 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-dy-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 doorbell 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 ceramony, 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 PETIT, (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 mauvaise mine Finette says,
and sentoit le Genievre, 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 a terre
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 oncle (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. Paddington
came in, too, drawling and lisping and twiddling his hair; so did
Champignac, and his chef--everybody with foison 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.
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'hote 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 bailiff's 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 way-worn 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