Vanity Fair
By the time this note was composed, the Captain's servant returned from
his mission to Colonel Crawley's house in Curzon Street, but without
the carpet-bag and portmanteau, for which he had been sent, and with a
very puzzled and odd face.
"They won't give 'em up," said the man; "there's a regular shinty in
the house, and everything at sixes and sevens. The landlord's come in
and took possession. The servants was a drinkin' up in the
drawingroom. They said--they said you had gone off with the plate,
Colonel"--the man added after a pause--"One of the servants is off
already. And Simpson, the man as was very noisy and drunk indeed, says
nothing shall go out of the house until his wages is paid up."
The account of this little revolution in May Fair astonished and gave a
little gaiety to an otherwise very triste conversation. The two
officers laughed at Rawdon's discomfiture.
"I'm glad the little 'un isn't at home," Rawdon said, biting his nails.
"You remember him, Mac, don't you, in the Riding School? How he sat the
kicker to be sure! didn't he?"
"That he did, old boy," said the good-natured Captain.
Little Rawdon was then sitting, one of fifty gown boys, in the Chapel
of Whitefriars School, thinking, not about the sermon, but about going
home next Saturday, when his father would certainly tip him and perhaps
would take him to the play.
"He's a regular trump, that boy," the father went on, still musing
about his son. "I say, Mac, if anything goes wrong--if I drop--I
should like you to--to go and see him, you know, and say that I was
very fond of him, and that. And--dash it--old chap, give him these
gold sleeve-buttons: it's all I've got." He covered his face with his
black hands, over which the tears rolled and made furrows of white.
Mr. Macmurdo had also occasion to take off his silk night-cap and rub
it across his eyes.
"Go down and order some breakfast," he said to his man in a loud
cheerful voice. "What'll you have, Crawley? Some devilled kidneys and
a herring--let's say. And, Clay, lay out some dressing things for the
Colonel: we were always pretty much of a size, Rawdon, my boy, and
neither of us ride so light as we did when we first entered the corps."
With which, and leaving the Colonel to dress himself, Macmurdo turned
round towards the wall, and resumed the perusal of Bell's Life, until
such time as his friend's toilette was complete and he was at liberty
to commence his own.
This, as he was about to meet a lord, Captain Macmurdo performed with
particular care. He waxed his mustachios into a state of brilliant
polish and put on a tight cravat and a trim buff waistcoat, so that all
the young officers in the mess-room, whither Crawley had preceded his
friend, complimented Mac on his appearance at breakfast and asked if he
was going to be married that Sunday.
CHAPTER LV
In Which the Same Subject is Pursued
Becky did not rally from the state of stupor and confusion in which the
events of the previous night had plunged her intrepid spirit until the
bells of the Curzon Street Chapels were ringing for afternoon service,
and rising from her bed she began to ply her own bell, in order to
summon the French maid who had left her some hours before.
Mrs. Rawdon Crawley rang many times in vain; and though, on the last
occasion, she rang with such vehemence as to pull down the bell-rope,
Mademoiselle Fifine did not make her appearance--no, not though her
mistress, in a great pet, and with the bell-rope in her hand, came out
to the landing-place with her hair over her shoulders and screamed out
repeatedly for her attendant.
The truth is, she had quitted the premises for many hours, and upon
that permission which is called French leave among us. After picking up
the trinkets in the drawing-room, Mademoiselle had ascended to her own
apartments, packed and corded her own boxes there, tripped out and
called a cab for herself, brought down her trunks with her own hand,
and without ever so much as asking the aid of any of the other
servants, who would probably have refused it, as they hated her
cordially, and without wishing any one of them good-bye, had made her
exit from Curzon Street.
The game, in her opinion, was over in that little domestic
establishment. Fifine went off in a cab, as we have known more exalted
persons of her nation to do under similar circumstances: but, more
provident or lucky than these, she secured not only her own property,
but some of her mistress's (if indeed that lady could be said to have
any property at all)--and not only carried off the trinkets before
alluded to, and some favourite dresses on which she had long kept her
eye, but four richly gilt Louis Quatorze candlesticks, six gilt albums,
keepsakes, and Books of Beauty, a gold enamelled snuff-box which had
once belonged to Madame du Barri, and the sweetest little inkstand and
mother-of-pearl blotting book, which Becky used when she composed her
charming little pink notes, had vanished from the premises in Curzon
Street together with Mademoiselle Fifine, and all the silver laid on
the table for the little festin which Rawdon interrupted. The plated
ware Mademoiselle left behind her was too cumbrous, probably for which
reason, no doubt, she also left the fire irons, the chimney-glasses,
and the rosewood cottage piano.
A lady very like her subsequently kept a milliner's shop in the Rue du
Helder at Paris, where she lived with great credit and enjoyed the
patronage of my Lord Steyne. This person always spoke of England as of
the most treacherous country in the world, and stated to her young
pupils that she had been affreusement vole by natives of that island.
It was no doubt compassion for her misfortunes which induced the
Marquis of Steyne to be so very kind to Madame de Saint-Amaranthe. May
she flourish as she deserves--she appears no more in our quarter of
Vanity Fair.
Hearing a buzz and a stir below, and indignant at the impudence of
those servants who would not answer her summons, Mrs. Crawley flung her
morning robe round her and descended majestically to the drawing-room,
whence the noise proceeded.
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