Thackeray W M. Vanity fair

husband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes. It is
evidently a ship.

The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked
hat and a telescope, comes in, holding his hat on his
head, and looks out; his coat tails fly about as if in the
wind. When he leaves go of his hat to use his telescope,
his hat flies off, with immense applause. It is blowing
fresh. The music rises and whistles louder and louder;
the mariners go across the stage staggering, as if the ship
was in severe motion. The Steward (the Honourable G.
Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding six basins. He puts
one rapidly by Lord Squeams--Lady Squeams, giving a
pinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, puts
her pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away as
for the cabin. The music rises up to the wildest pitch of
stormy excitement, and the third syllable is concluded.

There was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," in which
Montessu and Noblet used to be famous in those days,
and which Mr. Wagg transferred to the English stage as
an opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilful
writer, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It was dressed in
old French costume, and little Lord Southdown now
appeared admirably attired in the disguise of an old woman
hobbling about the stage with a faultless crooked stick.

Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and
gurgling from a sweet pasteboard cottage covered with
roses and trellis work. "Philomele, Philomele," cries
the old woman, and Philomele comes out.

More applause--it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder
and patches, the most ravissante little Marquise in the
world.

She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the
stage with all the innocence of theatrical youth--she
makes a curtsey. Mamma says "Why, child, you are
always laughing and singing," and away she goes, with--

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY

The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming
Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;
You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is
blooming,
It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood
ringing,
Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were
blowing keen:
And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,
It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found
their voices,
The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to
dye;
And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens
and rejoices,
And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason
why.

During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the
good-natured personage addressed as Mamma by the
singer, and whose large whiskers appeared under her cap,
seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal affection
by embracing the innocent creature who performed the
daughter's part. Every caress was received with loud
acclamations of laughter by the sympathizing audience.
At its conclusion (while the music was performing a
symphony as if ever so many birds were warbling) the
whole house was unanimous for an encore: and applause
and bouquets without end were showered upon the
Nightingale of the evening. Lord Steyne's voice of
applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale, took
the flowers which he threw to her and pressed them to
her heart with the air of a consummate comedian. Lord
Steyne was frantic with delight. His guests' enthusiasm
harmonized with his own. Where was the beautiful
black-eyed Houri whose appearance in the first charade had
caused such delight? She was twice as handsome as
Becky, but the brilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsed
her. All voices were for her. Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi
de Begnis, people compared her to one or the other, and
agreed with good reason, very likely, that had she been
an actress none on the stage could have surpassed her.
She had reached her culmination: her voice rose trilling
and bright over the storm of applause, and soared as
high and joyful as her triumph. There was a ball after
the dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressed
round Becky as the great point of attraction of the
evening. The Royal Personage declared with an oath that
she was perfection, and engaged her again and again in
conversation. Little Becky's soul swelled with pride and
delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashion
before her. Lord Steyne was her slave, followed her
everywhere, and scarcely spoke to any one in the room
beside, and paid her the most marked compliments and
attention. She still appeared in her Marquise costume
and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny,
Monsieur Le Duc de la Jabotiere's attache; and the
Duke, who had all the traditions of the ancient court,
pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to have
been a pupil of Vestris, or to have figured at Versailles.
Only a feeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongest
sense of duty and personal sacrifice prevented his
Excellency from dancing with her himself, and he declared
in public that a lady who could talk and dance like Mrs.
Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court in
Europe. He was only consoled when he heard that she
was half a Frenchwoman by birth. "None but a
compatriot," his Excellency declared, "could have performed
that majestic dance in such a way."

Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de
Klingenspohr, the Prince of Peterwaradin's cousin and
attache. The delighted Prince, having less retenue than
his French diplomatic colleague, insisted upon taking a
turn with the charming creature, and twirled round the
ball-room with her, scattering the diamonds out of his
boot-tassels and hussar jacket until his Highness was fairly
out of breath. Papoosh Pasha himself would have liked
to dance with her if that amusement had been the custom
of his country. The company made a circle round her
and applauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet or
a Taglioni. Everybody was in ecstacy; and Becky too,
you may be sure. She passed by Lady Stunnington with
a look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gaunt and her
astonished and mortified sister-in-law--she ecrased all
rival charmers. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth, and her
long hair and great eyes, which had made such an effect
at the commencement of the evening--where was she
now? Nowhere in the race. She might tear her long hair
and cry her great eyes out, but there was not a person
to heed or to deplore the discomfiture.

The greatest triumph of all was at supper time. She
was placed at the grand exclusive table with his Royal
Highness the exalted personage before mentioned, and
the rest of the great guests. She was served on gold
plate. She might have had pearls melted into her
champagne if she liked--another Cleopatra--and the potentate
of Peterwaradin would have given half the brilliants off
his jacket for a kind glance from those dazzling eyes.
Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government. The
ladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver and
marked Lord Steyne's constant attention to her, vowed
it was a monstrous infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of
rank. If sarcasm could have killed, Lady Stunnington
would have slain her on the spot.

Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They
seemed to separate his wife farther than ever from him
somehow. He thought with a feeling very like pain how
immeasurably she was his superior.

When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young
men followed her to her carriage, for which the people
without bawled, the cry being caught up by the link-men
who were stationed outside the tall gates of Gaunt
House, congratulating each person who issued from the
gate and hoping his Lordship had enjoyed this noble
party.

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the
gate after due shouting, rattled into the illuminated
court-yard and drove up to the covered way. Rawdon
put his wife into the carriage, which drove off. Mr.
Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offered
the Colonel the refreshment of a cigar.

They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the
many link-boys outside, and Rawdon walked on with his
friend Wenham. Two persons separated from the crowd
and followed the two gentlemen; and when they had
walked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, one
of the men came up and, touching Rawdon on the shoulder,
said, "Beg your pardon, Colonel, I vish to speak to
you most particular." This gentleman's acquaintance
gave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal a
cab came clattering up from those stationed at the gate
of Gaunt House--and the aide-de-camp ran round and
placed himself in front of Colonel Crawley.

That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen
him. He was in the hands of the bailiffs. He started back,
falling against the man who had first touched him.

"We're three on us--it's no use bolting," the man
behind said.

"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared
to know his interlocutor. "How much is it?"

"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor
Street, Chancery Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff
of Middlesex--"One hundred and sixty-six, six and eight-
pence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan."

"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor
Rawdon said--"I've got seventy at home."

"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr.
Wenham--"Good night, my dear fellow."

"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham
walked away--and Rawdon Crawley finished his cigar
as the cab drove under Temple Bar.




CHAPTER LII


In Which Lord Steyne Shows Himself in a Most Amiable Light

When Lord Steyne was benevolently disposed, he did
nothing by halves, and his kindness towards the Crawley
family did the greatest honour to his benevolent
discrimination. His lordship extended his good-will to little
Rawdon: he pointed out to the boy's parents the necessity
of sending him to a public school, that he was of
an age now when emulation, the first principles of the
Latin language, pugilistic exercises, and the society of
his fellow-boys would be of the greatest benefit to the
boy. His father objected that he was not rich enough to
send the child to a good public school; his mother that
Briggs was a capital mistress for him, and had brought
him on (as indeed was the fact) famously in English,
the Latin rudiments, and in general learning: but all these
objections disappeared before the generous perseverance
of the Marquis of Steyne. His lordship was one of the
governors of that famous old collegiate institution called
the Whitefriars. It had been a Cistercian Convent in old
days, when the Smithfield, which is contiguous to it, was
a tournament ground. Obstinate heretics used to be
brought thither convenient for burning hard by. Henry
VIII, the Defender of the Faith, seized upon the
monastery and its possessions and hanged and tortured some
of the monks who could not accommodate themselves to
the pace of his reform. Finally, a great merchant bought
the house and land adjoining, in which, and with the help
of other wealthy endowments of land and money, he
established a famous foundation hospital for old men
and children. An extern school grew round the old almost
monastic foundation, which subsists still with its
middle-age costume and usages--and all Cistercians pray
that it may long flourish.

Of this famous house, some of the greatest noblemen,
prelates, and dignitaries in England are governors: and
as the boys are very comfortably lodged, fed, and
educated, and subsequently inducted to good scholarships
at the University and livings in the Church, many little
gentlemen are devoted to the ecclesiastical profession
from their tenderest years, and there is considerable
emulation to procure nominations for the foundation. It
was originally intended for the sons of poor and
deserving clerics and laics, but many of the noble governors
of the Institution, with an enlarged and rather capricious
benevolence, selected all sorts of objects for their bounty.
To get an education for nothing, and a future livelihood
and profession assured, was so excellent a scheme that
some of the richest people did not disdain it; and not
only great men's relations, but great men themselves, sent
their sons to profit by the chance--Right Rev. prelates
sent their own kinsmen or the sons of their clergy, while,
on the other hand, some great noblemen did not disdain
to patronize the children of their confidential servants--
so that a lad entering this establishment had every
variety of youthful society wherewith to mingle.

Rawdon Crawley, though the only book which he studied
was the Racing Calendar, and though his chief
recollections of polite learning were connected with the
floggings which he received at Eton in his early youth,
had that decent and honest reverence for classical learning
which all English gentlemen feel, and was glad to think
that his son was to have a provision for life, perhaps,
and a certain opportunity of becoming a scholar. And
although his boy was his chief solace and companion, and
endeared to him by a thousand small ties, about which
he did not care to speak to his wife, who had all along
shown the utmost indifference to their son, yet Rawdon
agreed at once to part with him and to give up his own
greatest comfort and benefit for the sake of the welfare
of the little lad. He did not know how fond he was of
the child until it became necessary to let him go away.
When he was gone, he felt more sad and downcast than
he cared to own--far sadder than the boy himself, who
was happy enough to enter a new career and find
companions of his own age. Becky burst out laughing once
or twice when the Colonel, in his clumsy, incoherent way,
tried to express his sentimental sorrows at the boy's
departure. The poor fellow felt that his dearest pleasure
and closest friend was taken from him. He looked often
and wistfully at the little vacant bed in his dressing-room,
where the child used to sleep. He missed him sadly of
mornings and tried in vain to walk in the park without
him. He did not know how solitary he was until little
Rawdon was gone. He liked the people who were fond of
him, and would go and sit for long hours with his
good-natured sister Lady Jane, and talk to her about
the virtues, and good looks, and hundred good qualities
of the child.

Young Rawdon's aunt, we have said, was very fond
of him, as was her little girl, who wept copiously when
the time for her cousin's departure came. The elder
Rawdon was thankful for the fondness of mother and
daughter. The very best and honestest feelings of the
man came out in these artless outpourings of paternal
feeling in which he indulged in their presence, and
encouraged by their sympathy. He secured not only Lady
Jane's kindness, but her sincere regard, by the feelings
which he manifested, and which he could not show to his
own wife. The two kinswomen met as seldom as possible.
Becky laughed bitterly at Jane's feelings and softness;
the other's kindly and gentle nature could not but revolt
at her sister's callous behaviour.

It estranged Rawdon from his wife more than he knew
or acknowledged to himself. She did not care for the
estrangement. Indeed, she did not miss him or anybody.
She looked upon him as her errand-man and humble
slave. He might be ever so depressed or sulky, and she
did not mark his demeanour, or only treated it with a
sneer. She was busy thinking about her position, or her
pleasures, or her advancement in society; she ought to
have held a great place in it, that is certain.

It was honest Briggs who made up the little kit for the
boy which he was to take to school. Molly, the housemaid,
blubbered in the passage when he went away--
Molly kind and faithful in spite of a long arrear of
unpaid wages. Mrs. Becky could not let her husband have
the carriage to take the boy to school. Take the horses
into the City!--such a thing was never heard of. Let a
cab be brought. She did not offer to kiss him when he
went, nor did the child propose to embrace her; but
gave a kiss to old Briggs (whom, in general, he was very
shy of caressing), and consoled her by pointing out that
he was to come home on Saturdays, when she would
have the benefit of seeing him. As the cab rolled towards
the City, Becky's carriage rattled off to the park. She
was chattering and laughing with a score of young dandies
by the Serpentine as the father and son entered at the
old gates of the school--where Rawdon left the child
and came away with a sadder purer feeling in his heart
than perhaps that poor battered fellow had ever known
since he himself came out of the nursery.

He walked all the way home very dismally, and dined
alone with Briggs. He was very kind to her and grateful
for her love and watchfulness over the boy. His
conscience smote him that he had borrowed Briggs's money
and aided in deceiving her. They talked about little
Rawdon a long time, for Becky only came home to dress
and go out to dinner--and then he went off uneasily to
drink tea with Lady Jane, and tell her of what had
happened, and how little Rawdon went off like a trump, and
how he was to wear a gown and little knee-breeches, and
how young Blackball, Jack Blackball's son, of the old
regiment, had taken him in charge and promised to be
kind to him.

In the course of a week, young Blackball had
constituted little Rawdon his fag, shoe-black, and breakfast
toaster; initiated him into the mysteries of the Latin
Grammar; and thrashed him three or four times, but not
severely. The little chap's good-natured honest face won
his way for him. He only got that degree of beating which
was, no doubt, good for him; and as for blacking shoes,
toasting bread, and fagging in general, were these offices
not deemed to be necessary parts of every young English
gentleman's education?

Our business does not lie with the second generation
and Master Rawdon's life at school, otherwise the present
tale might be carried to any indefinite length. The Colonel
went to see his son a short time afterwards and found
the lad sufficiently well and happy, grinning and laughing
in his little black gown and little breeches.

His father sagaciously tipped Blackball, his master, a
sovereign, and secured that young gentleman's good-will
towards his fag. As a protege of the great Lord Steyne,
the nephew of a County member, and son of a Colonel
and C.B., whose name appeared in some of the most
fashionable parties in the Morning Post, perhaps the
school authorities were disposed not to look unkindly on
the child. He had plenty of pocket-money, which he
spent in treating his comrades royally to raspberry tarts,
and he was often allowed to come home on Saturdays
to his father, who always made a jubilee of that day.
When free, Rawdon would take him to the play, or send
him thither with the footman; and on Sundays he went to
church with Briggs and Lady Jane and his cousins.
Rawdon marvelled over his stories about school, and
fights, and fagging. Before long, he knew the names of all
the masters and the principal boys as well as little
Rawdon himself. He invited little Rawdon's crony from
school, and made both the children sick with pastry, and
oysters, and porter after the play. He tried to look knowing
over the Latin grammar when little Rawdon showed
him what part of that work he was "in." "Stick to it, my
boy," he said to him with much gravity, "there's nothing
like a good classical education! Nothing!"

Becky's contempt for her husband grew greater every
day. "Do what you like--dine where you please--go and
have ginger-beer and sawdust at Astley's, or psalm-
singing with Lady Jane--only don't expect me to busy
myself with the boy. I have your interests to attend to,
as you can't attend to them yourself. I should like to
know where you would have been now, and in what sort
of a position in society, if I had not looked after you."
Indeed, nobody wanted poor old Rawdon at the parties
whither Becky used to go. She was often asked without
him now. She talked about great people as if she had the
fee-simple of May Fair, and when the Court went into
mourning, she always wore black.

Little Rawdon being disposed of, Lord Steyne, who
took such a parental interest in the affairs of this amiable
poor family, thought that their expenses might be very
advantageously curtailed by the departure of Miss Briggs,
and that Becky was quite clever enough to take the
management of her own house. It has been narrated in a
former chapter how the benevolent nobleman had given
his protegee money.to pay off her little debt to Miss
Briggs, who however still remained behind with her
friends; whence my lord came to the painful conclusion
that Mrs. Crawley had made some other use of the
money confided to her than that for which her generous
patron had given the loan. However, Lord Steyne was
not so rude as to impart his suspicions upon this head to
Mrs. Becky, whose feelings might be hurt by any
controversy on the money-question, and who might have a
thousand painful reasons for disposing otherwise of his
lordship's generous loan. But he determined to satisfy
himself of the real state of the case, and instituted the
necessary inquiries in a most cautious and delicate
manner.

In the first place he took an early opportunity of
pumping Miss Briggs. That was not a difficult operation.
A very little encouragement would set that worthy woman
to talk volubly and pour out all within her. And one day
when Mrs. Rawdon had gone out to drive (as Mr. Fiche,
his lordship's confidential servant, easily learned at the
livery stables where the Crawleys kept their carriage and
horses, or rather, where the livery-man kept a carriage
and horses for Mr. and Mrs. Crawley)--my lord dropped
in upon the Curzon Street house--asked Briggs for a cup
of coffee--told her that he had good accounts of the little
boy at school--and in five minutes found out from her
that Mrs. Rawdon had given her nothing except a black
silk gown, for which Miss Briggs was immensely grateful.

He laughed within himself at this artless story. For the
truth is, our dear friend Rebecca had given him a most
circumstantial narration of Briggs's delight at receiving
her money--eleven hundred and twenty-five pounds--
and in what securities she had invested it; and what a
pang Becky herself felt in being obliged to pay away such
a delightful sum of money. "Who knows," the dear
woman may have thought within herself, "perhaps he
may give me a little more?" My lord, however, made no
such proposal to the little schemer--very likely thinking
that he had been sufficiently generous already.

He had the curiosity, then, to ask Miss Briggs about
the state of her private affairs--and she told his lordship
candidly what her position was--how Miss Crawley had
left her a legacy--how her relatives had had part of it
--how Colonel Crawley had put out another portion, for
which she had the best security and interest--and how
Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon had kindly busied themselves with
Sir Pitt, who was to dispose of the remainder most
advantageously for her, when he had time. My lord asked
how much the Colonel had already invested for her, and
Miss Briggs at once and truly told him that the sum was
six hundred and odd pounds.

But as soon as she had told her story, the voluble
Briggs repented of her frankness and besought my lord
not to tell Mr. Crawley of the confessions which she had
made. "The Colonel was so kind--Mr. Crawley might
be offended and pay back the money, for which she
could get no such good interest anywhere else." Lord
Steyne, laughing, promised he never would divulge their
conversation, and when he and Miss Briggs parted he
laughed still more.

"What an accomplished little devil it is!" thought he.
"What a splendid actress and manager! She had almost
got a second supply out of me the other day; with her
coaxing ways. She beats all the women I have ever seen
in the course of all my well-spent life. They are babies
compared to her. I am a greenhorn myself, and a fool in
her hands--an old fool. She is unsurpassable in lies."
His lordship's admiration for Becky rose immeasurably
at this proof of her cleverness. Getting the money was
nothing--but getting double the sum she wanted, and
paying nobody--it was a magnificent stroke. And Crawley,
my lord thought--Crawley is not such a fool as he
looks and seems. He has managed the matter cleverly
enough on his side. Nobody would ever have supposed
from his face and demeanour that he knew anything
about this money business; and yet he put her up to it,
and has spent the money, no doubt. In this opinion my
lord, we know, was mistaken, but it influenced a good
deal his behaviour towards Colonel Crawley, whom he
began to treat with even less than that semblance of
respect which he had formerly shown towards that
gentleman. It never entered into the head of Mrs.
Crawley's patron that the little lady might be making a
purse for herself; and, perhaps, if the truth must be told,
he judged of Colonel Crawley by his experience of other
husbands, whom he had known in the course of the long
and well-spent life which had made him acquainted with
a great deal of the weakness of mankind. My lord had
bought so many men during his life that he was surely
to be pardoned for supposing that he had found the price
of this one.

He taxed Becky upon the point on the very first occasion
when he met her alone, and he complimented her,
good-humouredly, on her cleverness in getting more than
the money which she required. Becky was only a little
taken aback. It was not the habit of this dear creature
to tell falsehoods, except when necessity compelled, but
in these great emergencies it was her practice to lie very
freely; and in an instant she was ready with another neat
plausible circumstantial story which she administered to
her patron. The previous statement which she had made
to him was a falsehood--a wicked falsehood--she
owned it. But who had made her tell it? "Ah, my Lord,"
she said, "you don't know all I have to suffer and bear
in silence; you see me gay and happy before you--you
little know what I have to endure when there is no
protector near me. It was my husband, by threats and
the most savage treatment, forced me to ask for that
sum about which I deceived you. It was he who,
foreseeing that questions might be asked regarding the
disposal of the money, forced me to account for it as I
did. He took the money. He told me he had paid Miss
Briggs; I did not want, I did not dare to doubt him.
Pardon the wrong which a desperate man is forced to
commit, and pity a miserable, miserable woman." She
burst into tears as she spoke. Persecuted virtue never
looked more bewitchingly wretched.

They had a long conversation, driving round and round
the Regent's Park in Mrs. Crawley's carriage together,
a conversation of which it is not necessary to repeat
the details, but the upshot of it was that, when Becky
came home, she flew to her dear Briggs with a smiling
face and announced that she had some very good news
for her. Lord Steyne had acted in the noblest and most
generous manner. He was always thinking how and when
he could do good. Now that little Rawdon was gone to
school, a dear companion and friend was no longer
necessary to her. She was grieved beyond measure to part
with Briggs, but her means required that she should
practise every retrenchment, and her sorrow was
mitigated by the idea that her dear Briggs would be far
better provided for by her generous patron than in her
humble home. Mrs. Pilkington, the housekeeper at Gauntly
Hall, was growing exceedingly old, feeble, and rheumatic:
she was not equal to the work of superintending
that vast mansion, and must be on the look out for a
successor. It was a splendid position. The family did not
go to Gauntly once in two years. At other times the
housekeeper was the mistress of the magnificent
mansion--had four covers daily for her table; was visited by
the clergy and the most respectable people of the county
--was the lady of Gauntly, in fact; and the two last
housekeepers before Mrs. Pilkington had married rectors
of Gauntly--but Mrs. P. could not, being the aunt of
the present Rector. The place was not to be hers yet,
but she might go down on a visit to Mrs. Pilkington and
see whether she would like to succeed her.

What words can paint the ecstatic gratitude of Briggs!
All she stipulated for was that little Rawdon should be
allowed to come down and see her at the Hall. Becky
promised this--anything. She ran up to her husband when
he came home and told him the joyful news. Rawdon
was glad, deuced glad; the weight was off his conscience
about poor Briggs's money. She was provided for, at any
rate, but--but his mind was disquiet. He did not seem
to be all right, somehow. He told little Southdown what
Lord Steyne had done, and the young man eyed Crawley
with an air which surprised the latter.

He told Lady Jane of this second proof of Steyne's
bounty, and she, too, looked odd and alarmed; so did
Sir Pitt. "She is too clever and--and gay to be allowed
to go from party to party without a companion," both
said. "You must go with her, Rawdon, wherever she
goes, and you must have somebody with her--one of the
girls from Queen's Crawley, perhaps, though they were
rather giddy guardians for her."

Somebody Becky should have. But in the meantime
it was clear that honest Briggs must not lose her chance
of settlement for life, and so she and her bags were
packed, and she set off on her journey. And so two of
Rawdon's out-sentinels were in the hands of the enemy.

Sir Pitt went and expostulated with his sister-in-law
upon the subject of the dismissal of Briggs and other
matters of delicate family interest. In vain she pointed
out to him how necessary was the protection of Lord
Steyne for her poor husband; how cruel it would be on
their part to deprive Briggs of the position offered to her.
Cajolements, coaxings, smiles, tears could not satisfy Sir
Pitt, and he had something very like a quarrel with his
once admired Becky. He spoke of the honour of the
family, the unsullied reputation of the Crawleys;
expressed himself in indignant tones about her receiving
those young Frenchmen--those wild young men of fashion,
my Lord Steyne himself, whose carriage was always
at her door, who passed hours daily in her company,
and whose constant presence made the world talk about
her. As the head of the house he implored her to be
more prudent. Society was already speaking lightly of
her. Lord Steyne, though a nobleman of the greatest
station and talents, was a man whose attentions would
compromise any woman; he besought, he implored, he
commanded his sister-in-law to be watchful in her
intercourse with that nobleman.

Becky promised anything and everything Pitt wanted;
but Lord Steyne came to her house as often as ever,
and Sir Pitt's anger increased. I wonder was Lady Jane
angry or pleased that her husband at last found fault
with his favourite Rebecca? Lord Steyne's visits
continuing, his own ceased, and his wife was for refusing
all further intercourse with that nobleman and declining
the invitation to the charade-night which the marchioness
sent to her; but Sir Pitt thought it was necessary to
accept it, as his Royal Highness would be there.

Although he went to the party in question, Sir Pitt
quitted it very early, and his wife, too, was very glad
to come away. Becky hardly so much as spoke to him or
noticed her sister-in-law. Pitt Crawley declared her
behaviour was monstrously indecorous, reprobated in
strong terms the habit of play-acting and fancy dressing
as highly unbecoming a British female, and after the
charades were over, took his brother Rawdon severely
to task for appearing himself and allowing his wife to
join in such improper exhibitions.

Rawdon said she should not join in any more such
amusements--but indeed, and perhaps from hints from
his elder brother and sister, he had already become a
very watchful and exemplary domestic character. He left
off his clubs and billiards. He never left home. He took
Becky out to drive; he went laboriously with her to all
her parties. Whenever my Lord Steyne called, he was
sure to find the Colonel. And when Becky proposed to
go out without her husband, or received invitations for
herself, he peremptorily ordered her to refuse them: and
there was that in the gentleman's manner which enforced
obedience. Little Becky, to do her justice, was charmed
with Rawdon's gallantry. If he was surly, she never was.
Whether friends were present or absent, she had always
a kind smile for him and was attentive to his pleasure
and comfort. It was the early days of their marriage over
again: the same good humour, prevenances, merriment,
and artless confidence and regard. "How much pleasanter
it is," she would say, "to have you by my side in the
carriage than that foolish old Briggs! Let us always go on
so, dear Rawdon. How nice it would be, and how happy
we should always be, if we had but the money!" He
fell asleep after dinner in his chair; he did not see the
face opposite to him, haggard, weary, and terrible; it
lighted up with fresh candid smiles when he woke. It
kissed him gaily. He wondered that he had ever had
suspicions. No, he never had suspicions; all those dumb
doubts and surly misgivings which had been gathering on
his mind were mere idle jealousies. She was fond of him;
she always had been. As for her shining in society, it
was no fault of hers; she was formed to shine there.
Was there any woman who could talk, or sing, or do
anything like her? If she would but like the boy!
Rawdon thought. But the mother and son never could be
brought together.

And it was while Rawdon's mind was agitated with
these doubts and perplexities that the incident occurred
which was mentioned in the last chapter, and the
unfortunate Colonel found himself a prisoner away from
home.




CHAPTER LIII



Friend Rawdon drove on then to Mr. Moss's mansion
in Cursitor Street, and was duly inducted into that
dismal place of hospitality. Morning was breaking
over the cheerful house-tops of Chancery Lane as the
rattling cab woke up the echoes there. A little
pink-eyed Jew-boy, with a head as ruddy as the rising
morn, let the party into the house, and Rawdon was
welcomed to the ground-floor apartments by Mr. Moss, his
travelling companion and host, who cheerfully asked him
if he would like a glass of something warm after his drive.

The Colonel was not so depressed as some mortals
would be, who, quitting a palace and a placens uxor,
find themselves barred into a spunging-house; for, if the
truth must be told, he had been a lodger at Mr. Moss's
establishment once or twice before. We have not thought
it necessary in the previous course of this narrative to
mention these trivial little domestic incidents: but the
reader may be assured that they can't unfrequently occur
in the life of a man who lives on nothing a year.

Upon his first visit to Mr. Moss, the Colonel, then
a bachelor, had been liberated by the generosity of his
aunt; on the second mishap, little Becky, with the greatest
spirit and kindness, had borrowed a sum of money from
Lord Southdown and had coaxed her husband's creditor
(who was her shawl, velvet-gown, lace pocket-handkerchief,
trinket, and gim-crack purveyor, indeed) to take
a portion of the sum claimed and Rawdon's promissory
note for the remainder: so on both these occasions the
capture and release had been conducted with the utmost
gallantry on all sides, and Moss and the Colonel were
therefore on the very best of terms.

"You'll find your old bed, Colonel, and everything
comfortable," that gentleman said, "as I may honestly say.
You may be pretty sure its kep aired, and by the best
of company, too. It was slep in the night afore last by
the Honorable Capting Famish, of the Fiftieth Dragoons,
whose Mar took him out, after a fortnight, jest to punish
him, she said. But, Law bless you, I promise you, he
punished my champagne, and had a party ere every night
--reglar tip-top swells, down from the clubs and the
West End--Capting Ragg, the Honorable Deuceace, who
lives in the Temple, and some fellers as knows a good
glass of wine, I warrant you. I've got a Doctor of
Diwinity upstairs, five gents in the coffee-room, and Mrs.
Moss has a tably-dy-hoty at half-past five, and a little
cards or music afterwards, when we shall be most happy
to see you."

"I'll ring when I want anything," said Rawdon and
went quietly to his bedroom. He was an old soldier,
we have said, and not to be disturbed by any little shocks
of fate. A weaker man would have sent off a letter to his
wife on the instant of his capture. "But what is the use
of disturbing her night's rest?" thought Rawdon. "She
won't know whether I am in my room or not. It will
be time enough to write to her when she has had her
sleep out, and I have had mine. It's only a hundred-
and-seventy, and the deuce is in it if we can't raise
that." And so, thinking about little Rawdon (whom he
would not have know that he was in such a queer place),
the Colonel turned into the bed lately occupied by
Captain Famish and fell asleep. It was ten o'clock when
he woke up, and the ruddy-headed youth brought him,
with conscious pride, a fine silver dressing-case, wherewith
he might perform the operation of shaving. Indeed
Mr. Moss's house, though somewhat dirty, was 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 hi~
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 fro
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