Chapter LIII

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　Friend Rawdon drove on then to Mr. Moss's mansionin Cursitor Street, and was duly inducted into thatdismal place of hospitality. Morning was breakingover the cheerful house-tops of Chancery Lane as therattling cab woke up the echoes there. A littlepink-eyed Jew-boy, with a head as ruddy as the risingmorn, let the party into the house, and Rawdon waswelcomed to the ground-floor apartments by Mr. Moss, histravelling companion and host, who cheerfully asked himif he would like a glass of something warm after his drive.

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

　　Upon his first visit to Mr. Moss, the Colonel, thena bachelor, had been liberated by the generosity of hisaunt; on the second mishap, little Becky, with the greatestspirit and kindness, had borrowed a sum of money fromLord Southdown and had coaxed her husband's creditor(who was her shawl, velvet-gown, lace pocket-handkerchief,trinket, and gim-crack purveyor, indeed) to takea portion of the sum claimed and Rawdon's promissorynote for the remainder: so on both these occasions thecapture and release had been conducted with the utmostgallantry on all sides, and Moss and the Colonel weretherefore on the very best of terms.

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

　　"I'll ring when I want anything," said Rawdon andwent quietly to his bedroom. He was an old soldier,we have said, and not to be disturbed by any little shocksof fate. A weaker man would have sent off a letter to hiswife on the instant of his capture. "But what is the useof disturbing her night's rest?" thought Rawdon. "Shewon't know whether I am in my room or not. It willbe time enough to write to her when she has had hersleep out, and I have had mine. It's only a hundred-and-seventy, and the deuce is in it if we can't raisethat." And so, thinking about little Rawdon (whom hewould not have know that he was in such a queer place),the Colonel turned into the bed lately occupied byCaptain Famish and fell asleep. It was ten o'clock whenhe woke up, and the ruddy-headed youth brought him,with conscious pride, a fine silver dressing-case, wherewithhe might perform the operation of shaving. IndeedMr. Moss's house, though somewhat dirty, was splendidthroughout. There were dirty trays, and wine-coolers enpermanence on the sideboard, huge dirty gilt cornices,with dingy yellow satin hangings to the barred windowswhich looked into Cursitor Street--vast and dirty giltpicture frames surrounding pieces sporting and sacred, allof which works were by the greatest masters--and fetchedthe greatest prices, too, in the bill transactions, in thecourse of which they were sold and bought over andover again. The Colonel's breakfast was served to himin the same dingy and gorgeous plated ware. Miss Moss,a dark-eyed maid in curl-papers, appeared with theteapot, and, smiling, asked the Colonel how he had slep?And she brought him in the Morning Post, with thenames of all the great people who had figured at LordSteyne's entertainment the night before. It contained abrilliant account of the festivities and of the beautifuland accomplished Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's admirablepersonifications.

　　After a lively chat with this lady (who sat on theedge of the breakfast table in an easy attitude displayingthe drapery of her stocking and an ex-white satin shoe,which was down at heel), Colonel Crawley called forpens and ink, and paper, and being asked how manysheets, chose one which was brought to him betweenMiss Moss's own finger and thumb. Many a sheet hadthat dark-eyed damsel brought in; many a poor fellowhad scrawled and blotted hurried lines of entreaty andpaced up and down that awful room until his messengerbrought back the reply. Poor men always use messengersinstead of the post. Who has not had their letters, withthe wafers wet, and the announcement that a personis waiting in the hall?

　　Now on the score of his application, Rawdon had notmany misgivings.

　　Dear Becky, (Rawdon wrote)

　　I hope you slept well. Don't be frightened if I don'tbring you in your coffy. Last night as I was cominghome smoaking, I met with an accadent. I was nabbedby Moss of Cursitor Street--from whose gilt and splendidparler I write this--the same that had me this timetwo years. Miss Moss brought in my tea--she is grownvery fat, and, as usual, had her stockens down at heal.

　　It's Nathan's business--a hundred-and-fifty--withcosts, hundred-and-seventy. Please send me my desk andsome cloths--I'm in pumps and a white tye (somethinglike Miss M's stockings)--I've seventy in it. And assoon as you get this, Drive to Nathan's--offer himseventy-five down, and ask him to renew--say I'll takewine--we may as well have some dinner sherry; but notpicturs, they're too dear.

　　If he won't stand it. Take my ticker and such of yourthings as you can spare, and send them to Balls--wemust, of coarse, have the sum to-night. It won't do tolet it stand over, as to-morrow's Sunday; the beds hereare not very clean, and there may be other things outagainst me--I'm glad it an't Rawdon's Saturday forcoming home. God bless you.

　　Yours in haste,R. C.P.S. Make haste and come.

　　This letter, sealed with a wafer, was dispatched byone of the messengers who are always hanging aboutMr. Moss's establishment, and Rawdon, having seen himdepart, went out in the court-yard and smoked his cigarwith a tolerably easy mind--in spite of the barsoverhead--for Mr. Moss's court-yard is railed in like a cage,lest the gentlemen who are boarding with him shouldtake a fancy to escape from his hospitality.

　　Three hours, he calculated, would be the utmost timerequired, before Becky should arrive and open his prisondoors, and he passed these pretty cheerfully in smoking,in reading the paper, and in the coffee-room with anacquaintance, 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 theappointed hour of half-past five, when such of the gentlemenlodging in the house as could afford to pay for thebanquet came and partook of it in the splendid frontparlour before described, and with which Mr. Crawley'stemporary lodging communicated, when Miss M. (MissHem, as her papa called her) appeared without the curl-papers of the morning, and Mrs. Hem did the honoursof a prime boiled leg of mutton and turnips, of whichthe Colonel ate with a very faint appetite. Asked whetherhe would "stand" a bottle of champagne for thecompany, he consented, and the ladies drank to his 'ealth,and Mr. Moss, in the most polite manner, "looked towardshim."

　　In the midst of this repast, however, the doorbell washeard--young Moss of the ruddy hair rose up with thekeys and answered the summons, and coming back, toldthe 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 herhand, and he opened the letter rather tremulously. Itwas 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 hadbecome of my odious old monstre, and only got to restin the morning after sending for Mr. Blench (for I wasin a fever), who gave me a composing draught and leftorders with Finette that I should be disturbed on noaccount. So that my poor old man's messenger, who hadbien 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 dearold ill-spelt letter.

　　Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, andas soon as I was dressed (though I couldn't drink a dropof chocolate--I assure you I couldn't without mymonstre to bring it to me), I drove ventre a terre toNathan'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 poormonstre in prison. I drove home with the intention ofpaying that triste visite chez mon oncle (when everytrinket I have should be at your disposal though theywould not fetch a hundred pounds, for some, you know,are with ce cher oncle already), and found Milor therewith the Bulgarian old sheep-faced monster, who hadcome to compliment me upon last night's performances.Paddington came in, too, drawling and lisping andtwiddling 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, andwas thinking every moment of the time of mon pauvreprisonnier.

　　When they were gone, I went down on my knees toMilor; told him we were going to pawn everything, andbegged and prayed him to give me two hundred pounds.He pish'd and psha'd in a fury--told me not to be sucha fool as to pawn--and said he would see whether hecould lend me the money. At last he went away,promising that he would send it me in the morning: whenI will bring it to my poor old monster with a kiss frohis affectionate

　　BeckyI am writing in bed. Oh I have such a headache andsuch a heartache!

　　When Rawdon read over this letter, he turned so redand looked so savage that the company at the tabled'hote easily perceived that bad news had reachedhim. All his suspicions, which he had been trying tobanish, returned upon him. She could not even go outand sell her trinkets to free him. She could laugh andtalk about compliments paid to her, whilst he was inprison. Who had put him there? Wenham had walkedwith him. Was there.... He could hardly bear to thinkof what he suspected. Leaving the room hurriedly, he raninto his own--opened his desk, wrote two hurried lines,which he directed to Sir Pitt or Lady Crawley, andbade the messenger carry them at once to Gaunt Street,bidding him to take a cab, and promising him a guineaif 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 andhis honour, to come to him and relieve him from hisdifficulty. He was in prison, he wanted a hundred poundsto set him free--he entreated them to come to him.

　　He went back to the dining-room after dispatching hismessenger and called for more wine. He laughed andtalked with a strange boisterousness, as the peoplethought. Sometimes he laughed madly at his own fearsand went on drinking for an hour, listening all the whilefor the carriage which was to bring his fate back.

　　At the expiration of that time, wheels were heardwhirling up to the gate--the young janitor went outwith his gate-keys. It was a lady whom he let in at thebailiff'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 allthose people were carousing, into his back room; a flareof coarse light following him into the apartment wherethe lady stood, still very nervous.

　　"It is I, Rawdon," she said in a timid voice, whichshe strove to render cheerful. "It is Jane." Rawdon wasquite overcome by that kind voice and presence. He ranup to her--caught her in his arms--gasped out someinarticulate words of thanks and fairly sobbed on hershoulder. She did not know the cause of his emotion.

　　The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled, perhapsto the disappointment of that gentleman, who had countedon 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 theywent homewards in the cab in which she had hastenedto his release. "Pitt was gone to a parliamentary dinner,"she said, "when Rawdon's note came, and so, dearRawdon, I--I came myself"; and she put her kind hand inhis. Perhaps it was well for Rawdon Crawley that Pittwas away at that dinner. Rawdon thanked his sister ahundred times, and with an ardour of gratitude whichtouched and almost alarmed that soft-hearted woman."Oh," said he, in his rude, artless way, "you--you don'tknow how I'm changed since I've known you, and--andlittle Rawdy. I--I'd like to change somehow. You seeI want--I want--to be--" He did- not finish thesentence, but she could interpret it. And that night after heleft her, and as she sat by her own little boy's bed, sheprayed humbly for that poor way-worn sinner.

　　Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was nineo'clock at night. He ran across the streets and the greatsquares of Vanity Fair, and at length came up breathlessopposite his own house. He started back and fell againstthe railings, trembling as he looked up. The drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said thatshe 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 thehouse. He could hear laughter in the upper rooms. Hewas in the ball-dress in which he had been captured thenight before. He went silently up the stairs, leaningagainst the banisters at the stair-head. Nobody wasstirring in the house besides--all the servants had been sentaway. Rawdon heard laughter within--laughter and singing.Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the nightbefore; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! Brava!"--it wasLord Steyne's.

　　Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little tablewith a dinner was laid out--and wine and plate. Steynewas hanging over the sofa on which Becky sat. Thewretched woman was in a brilliant full toilette, her armsand all her fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings,and the brilliants on her breast which Steyne had givenher. He had her hand in his, and was bowing over itto kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint screamas she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the nextinstant she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if towelcome her husband; and Steyne rose up, grindinghis teeth, pale, and with fury in his looks.

　　He, too, attempted a laugh--and came forward holdingout his hand. "What, come back! How d'ye do, Crawley?"he said, the nerves of his mouth twitching as hetried to grin at the intruder.

　　There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Beckyto fling herself before him. "I am innocent, Rawdon,"she said; "before God, I am innocent." She clung holdof his coat, of his hands; her own were all covered withserpents, and rings, and baubles. "I am innocent. Say Iam innocent," she said to Lord Steyne.

　　He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was asfurious with the wife as with the husband. "Youinnocent! Damn you," he screamed out. "You innocent! Whyevery trinket you have on your body is paid for by me.I have given you thousands of pounds, which this fellowhas 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 frightenme as you have done others. Make way, sir, and let mepass"; and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and, withflame in his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in theface, marched upon him, never for a moment doubtingthat the other would give way.

　　But Rawdon Crawley springing out, seized him by theneckcloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed andbent under his arm. "You lie, you dog!" said Rawdon."You lie, you coward and villain!" And he struck thePeer twice over the face with his open hand and flunghim bleeding to the ground. It was all done beforeRebecca could interpose. She stood there trembling beforehim. She admired her husband, strong, brave, andvictorious.

　　"Come here," he said. She came up at once.

　　"Take off those things." She began, trembling, pullingthe jewels from her arms, and the rings from her shakingfingers, and held them all in a heap, quivering and lookingup at him. "Throw them down," he said, and shedropped them. He tore the diamond ornament out of herbreast and flung it at Lord Steyne. It cut him on hisbald forehead. Steyne wore the scar to his dying day.

　　"Come upstairs," Rawdon said to his wife. "Don't killme, Rawdon," she said. He laughed savagely. "I wantto see if that man lies about the money as he has aboutme. Has he given you any?"

　　"No," said Rebecca, "that is--"

　　"Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and theywent out together.

　　Rebecca gave him all the keys but one, and she was inhopes that he would not have remarked the absence ofthat. It belonged to the little desk which Amelia hadgiven her in early days, and which she kept in a secretplace. But Rawdon flung open boxes and wardrobes,throwing the multifarious trumpery of their contents hereand there, and at last he found the desk. The woman wasforced to open it. It contained papers, love-letters manyyears old--all sorts of small trinkets and woman'smemoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with bank-notes.Some of these were dated ten years back, too, and onewas quite a fresh one--a note for a thousand poundswhich 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 haddawned again, and many hours had passed in this search),"and I will pay Briggs, who was kind to the boy, andsome of the debts. You will let me know where I shallsend the rest to you. You might have spared me ahundred pounds, Becky, out of all this--I have alwaysshared with you."

　　"I am innocent," said Becky. And he left her withoutanother word.

　　What were her thoughts when he left her? Sheremained for hours after he was gone, the sunshinepouring into the room, and Rebecca sitting alone on thebed's edge. The drawers were all opened and their contentsscattered about--dresses and feathers, scarfs and trinkets,a heap of tumbled vanities lying in a wreck. Her hairwas falling over her shoulders; her gown was torn whereRawdon had wrenched the brilliants out of it. She heardhim go downstairs a few minutes after he left her, andthe door slamming and closing on him. She knew hewould never come back. He was gone forever. Wouldhe kill himself?--she thought--not until after he hadmet Lord Steyne. She thought of her long past life, andall the dismal incidents of it. Ah, how dreary it seemed,how miserable, lonely and profitless! Should she takelaudanum, and end it, to have done with all hopes,schemes, debts, and triumphs? The French maid foundher in this position--sitting in the midst of her miserableruins with clasped hands and dry eyes. The woman washer accomplice and in Steyne's pay. "Mon Dieu,madame, what has happened?" she asked.

　　What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She saidnot, but who could tell what was truth which came fromthose lips, or if that corrupt heart was in this case pure?

　　All her lies and her schemes, an her selfishness and herwiles, all her wit and genius had come to thisbankruptcy. The woman closed the curtains and, with someentreaty and show of kindness, persuaded her mistressto lie down on the bed. Then she went below andgathered up the trinkets which had been lying on the floorsince Rebecca dropped them there at her husband'sorders, and Lord Steyne went away.