Vanity Fair
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 he 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 forever. 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, and end it, to 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, and 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 this 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.
Poor Rawdon took up the paper and began to try and read it until his
brother should arrive. But the print fell blank upon his eyes, and he
did not know in the least what he was reading. The Government news and
appointments (which Sir Pitt as a public man was bound to peruse,
otherwise he would by no means permit the introduction of Sunday papers
into his household), the theatrical criticisms, the fight for a hundred
pounds a side between the Barking Butcher and the Tutbury Pet, the
Gaunt House chronicle itself, which contained a most complimentary
though guarded account of the famous charades of which Mrs. Becky had
been the heroine--all these passed as in a haze before Rawdon, as he
sat waiting the arrival of the chief of the family.
Punctually, as the shrill-toned bell of the black marble study clock
began to chime nine, Sir Pitt made his appearance, fresh, neat, smugly
shaved, with a waxy clean face, and stiff shirt collar, his scanty hair
combed and oiled, trimming his nails as he descended the stairs
majestically, in a starched cravat and a grey flannel dressing-gown--a
real old English gentleman, in a word--a model of neatness and every
propriety. He started when he saw poor Rawdon in his study in tumbled
clothes, with blood-shot eyes, and his hair over his face. He thought
his brother was not sober, and had been out all night on some orgy.
"Good gracious, Rawdon," he said, with a blank face, "what brings you
here at this time of the morning? Why ain't you at home?"
"Home," said Rawdon with a wild laugh. "Don't be frightened, Pitt. I'm
not drunk. Shut the door; I want to speak to you."
Pitt closed the door and came up to the table, where he sat down in the
other arm-chair--that one placed for the reception of the steward,
agent, or confidential visitor who came to transact business with the
Baronet--and trimmed his nails more vehemently than ever.
"Pitt, it's all over with me," the Colonel said after a pause. "I'm
done."
"I always said it would come to this," the Baronet cried peevishly, and
beating a tune with his clean-trimmed nails. "I warned you a thousand
times. I can't help you any more. Every shilling of my money is tied
up. Even the hundred pounds that Jane took you last night were
promised to my lawyer to-morrow morning, and the want of it will put me
to great inconvenience. I don't mean to say that I won't assist you
ultimately. But as for paying your creditors in full, I might as well
hope to pay the National Debt. It is madness, sheer madness, to think
of such a thing. You must come to a compromise. It's a painful thing
for the family, but everybody does it. There was George Kitely, Lord
Ragland's son, went through the Court last week, and was what they call
whitewashed, I believe. Lord Ragland would not pay a shilling for him,
and--"
"It's not money I want," Rawdon broke in. "I'm not come to you about
myself. Never mind what happens to me."
"What is the matter, then?" said Pitt, somewhat relieved.
"It's the boy," said Rawdon in a husky voice. "I want you to promise
me that you will take charge of him when I'm gone. That dear good wife
of yours has always been good to him; and he's fonder of her than he is
of his . . .--Damn it. Look here, Pitt--you know that I was to have
had Miss Crawley's money. I wasn't brought up like a younger brother,
but was always encouraged to be extravagant and kep idle. But for this
I might have been quite a different man. I didn't do my duty with the
regiment so bad. You know how I was thrown over about the money, and
who got it."
"After the sacrifices I have made, and the manner in which I have stood
by you, I think this sort of reproach is useless," Sir Pitt said.
"Your marriage was your own doing, not mine."
"That's over now," said Rawdon. "That's over now." And the words were
wrenched from him with a groan, which made his brother start.
"Good God! is she dead?" Sir Pitt said with a voice of genuine alarm
and commiseration.
"I wish I was," Rawdon replied. "If it wasn't for little Rawdon I'd
have cut my throat this morning--and that damned villain's too."
Sir Pitt instantly guessed the truth and surmised that Lord Steyne was