bailiff'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 all
those people were carousing, into his back room; a flare
of coarse light following him into the apartment where
the lady stood, still very nervous.
"It is I, Rawdon," she said in a timid voice, which
she strove to render cheerful. "It is Jane." Rawdon was
quite overcome by that kind voice and presence. He ran
up to her--caught her in his arms--gasped out some
inarticulate words of thanks and fairly sobbed on her
shoulder. She did not know the cause of his emotion.
The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled, perhaps
to the disappointment of that gentleman, who had counted
on 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 they
went homewards in the cab in which she had hastened
to his release. "Pitt was gone to a parliamentary dinner,"
she said, "when Rawdon's note came, and so, dear
Rawdon, I--I came myself"; and she put her kind hand in
his. Perhaps it was well for Rawdon Crawley that Pitt
was away at that dinner. Rawdon thanked his sister a
hundred times, and with an ardour of gratitude which
touched and almost alarmed that soft-hearted woman.
"Oh," said he, in his rude, artless way, "you--you don't
know how I'm changed since I've known you, and--and
little Rawdy. I--I'd like to change somehow. You see
I want--I want--to be--" He did- not finish the
sentence, but she could interpret it. And that night after he
left her, and as she sat by her own little boy's bed, she
prayed humbly for that poor way-worn sinner.
Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was nine
o'clock at night. He ran across the streets and the great
squares of Vanity Fair, and at length came up breathless
opposite his own house. He started back and fell against
the railings, trembling as he looked up. The drawing-
room windows were blazing with light. She had said that
she 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 the
house. He could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He
was in the ball-dress in which he had been captured the
night before. He went silently up the stairs, leaning
against the banisters at the stair-head. Nobody was
stirring in the house besides--all the servants had been sent
away. Rawdon heard laughter within--laughter and singing.
Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the night
before; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! Brava!"--it was
Lord Steyne's.
Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table
with a dinner was laid out--and wine and plate. Steyne
was hanging over the sofa on which Becky sat. The
wretched woman was in a brilliant full toilette, her arms
and all her fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings,
and the brilliants on her breast which Steyne had given
her. He had her 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, an 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 tho 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
