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
whirling up to the gate--the young janitor went out
with his gate-keys. It was a lady whom he let in at the
