prompt:
Chapter: In Which a Charade Is Acted Which May or May Not Puzzle the Reader

After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's private and select
parties, the claims of that estimable woman as regards fashion were
settled, and some of the very greatest and tallest doors in the
metropolis were speedily opened to her--doors so great and tall that
the beloved reader and writer hereof may hope in vain to enter at them.
Dear brethren, let us tremble before those august portals.  I fancy
them guarded by grooms of the chamber with flaming silver forks with
which they prong all those who have not the right of the entree. They
say the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the hall and takes down the
names of the great ones who are admitted to the feasts dies after a
little time.  He can't survive the glare of fashion long.  It scorches
him up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted that poor
imprudent Semele--a giddy moth of a creature who ruined herself by
venturing out of her natural atmosphere. Her myth ought to be taken to
heart amongst the Tyburnians, the Belgravians--her story, and perhaps
Becky's too. Ah, ladies!--ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer if Belgravia is
not a sounding brass and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal.  These are
vanities. Even these will pass away.  And some day or other (but it
will be after our time, thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be no
better known than the celebrated horticultural outskirts of Babylon,
and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as Baker Street, or Tadmor in
the wilderness.

Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker Street? What
would not your grandmothers have given to be asked to Lady Hester's
parties in that now decayed mansion? I have dined in it--moi qui vous
parle, I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead. As we sat
soberly drinking claret there with men of to-day, the spirits of the
departed came in and took their places round the darksome board.  The
pilot who weathered the storm tossed off great bumpers of spiritual
port; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of a heeltap.
Addington sat bowing and smirking in a ghastly manner, and would not be
behindhand when the noiseless bottle went round; Scott, from under
bushy eyebrows, winked at the apparition of a beeswing; Wilberforce's
eyes went up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem to know how his
glass went up full to his mouth and came down empty; up to the ceiling
which was above us only yesterday, and which the great of the past days
have all looked at. They let the house as a furnished lodging now.
Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and lies asleep in the
wilderness. Eothen saw her there--not in Baker Street, but in the other
solitude.

It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own to liking a little of
it? I should like to know what well-constituted mind, merely because it
is transitory, dislikes roast beef? That is a vanity, but may every man
who reads this have a wholesome portion of it through life, I beg:
aye, though my readers were five hundred thousand. Sit down, gentlemen,
and fall to, with a good hearty appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy,
the horse-radish as you like it--don't spare it.  Another glass of
wine, Jones, my boy--a little bit of the Sunday side.  Yes, let us eat
our fill of the vain thing and be thankful therefor. And let us make
the best of Becky's aristocratic pleasures likewise--for these too,
like all other mortal delights, were but transitory.

The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that His Highness the Prince
of Peterwaradin took occasion to renew his acquaintance with Colonel
Crawley, when they met on the next day at the Club, and to compliment
Mrs. Crawley in the Ring of Hyde Park with a profound salute of the
hat.  She and her husband were invited immediately to one of the
Prince's small parties at Levant House, then occupied by His Highness
during the temporary absence from England of its noble proprietor.  She
sang after dinner to a very little comite. The Marquis of Steyne was
present, paternally superintending the progress of his pupil.

At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen and greatest
ministers that Europe has produced--the Duc de la Jabotiere, then
Ambassador from the Most Christian King, and subsequently Minister to
that monarch.  I declare I swell with pride as these august names are
transcribed by my pen, and I think in what brilliant company my dear
Becky is moving.  She became a constant guest at the French Embassy,
where no party was considered to be complete without the presence of
the charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley.  Messieurs de Truffigny (of the
Perigord family) and Champignac, both attaches of the Embassy, were
straightway smitten by the charms of the fair Colonel's wife, and both
declared, according to the wont of their nation (for who ever yet met a
Frenchman, come out of England, that has not left half a dozen families
miserable, and brought away as many hearts in his pocket-book?), both,
I say, declared that they were au mieux with the charming Madame
Ravdonn.

But I doubt the correctness of the assertion.  Champignac was very fond
of ecarte, and made many parties with the Colonel of evenings, while
Becky was singing to Lord Steyne in the other room; and as for
Truffigny, it is a well-known fact that he dared not go to the
Travellers', where he owed money to the waiters, and if he had not had
the Embassy as a dining-place, the worthy young gentleman must have
starved.  I doubt, I say, that Becky would have selected either of
these young men as a person on whom she would bestow her special
regard.  They ran of her messages, purchased her gloves and flowers,
went in debt for opera-boxes for her, and made themselves amiable in a
thousand ways.  And they talked English with adorable simplicity, and
to the constant amusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimic
one or other to his face, and compliment him on his advance in the
English language with a gravity which never failed to tickle the
Marquis, her sardonic old patron. Truffigny gave Briggs a shawl by way
of winning over Becky's confidante, and asked her to take charge of a
letter which the simple spinster handed over in public to the person to
whom it was addressed, and the composition of which amused everybody
who read it greatly. Lord Steyne read it, everybody but honest Rawdon,
to whom it was not necessary to tell everything that passed in the
little house in May Fair.

Here, before long, Becky received not only "the best" foreigners (as
the phrase is in our noble and admirable society slang), but some of
the best English people too. I don't mean the most virtuous, or indeed
the least virtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the richest,
or the best born, but "the best,"--in a word, people about whom there
is no question--such as the great Lady Fitz-Willis, that Patron Saint
of Almack's, the great Lady Slowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth
(she was Lady G.  Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry), and the
like.  When the Countess of Fitz-Willis (her Ladyship is of the
Kingstreet family, see Debrett and Burke) takes up a person, he or she
is safe.  There is no question about them any more.  Not that my Lady
Fitz-Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on the contrary, a
faded person, fifty-seven years of age, and neither handsome, nor
wealthy, nor entertaining; but it is agreed on all sides that she is of
the "best people." Those who go to her are of the best:  and from an
old grudge probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet her ladyship,
then the youthful Georgina Frederica, daughter of the Prince of Wales's
favourite, the Earl of Portansherry, had once tried), this great and
famous leader of the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon Crawley;
made her a most marked curtsey at the assembly over which she presided;
and not only encouraged her son, St.  Kitts (his lordship got his place
through Lord Steyne's interest), to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, but
asked her to her own mansion and spoke to her twice in the most public
and condescending manner during dinner.  The important fact was known
all over London that night.  People who had been crying fie about Mrs.
Crawley were silent.  Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord Steyne's
right-hand man, went about everywhere praising her:  some who had
hesitated, came forward at once and welcomed her; little Tom Toady, who
had warned Southdown about visiting such an abandoned woman, now
besought to be introduced to her.  In a word, she was admitted to be
among the "best" people.  Ah, my beloved readers and brethren, do not
envy poor Becky prematurely--glory like this is said to be fugitive.
It is currently reported that even in the very inmost circles, they are
no happier than the poor wanderers outside the zone; and Becky, who
penetrated into the very centre of fashion and saw the great George IV
face to face, has owned since that there too was Vanity.

We must be brief in descanting upon this part of her career.  As I
cannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry, although I have a shrewd
idea that it is a humbug, so an uninitiated man cannot take upon
himself to portray the great world accurately, and had best keep his
opinions to himself, whatever they are.

Becky has often spoken in subsequent years of this season of her life,
when she moved among the very greatest circles of the London fashion.
Her success excited, elated, and then bored her.  At first no
occupation was more pleasant than to invent and procure (the latter a
work of no small trouble and ingenuity, by the way, in a person of Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means)--to procure, we say, the prettiest
new dresses and ornaments; to drive to fine dinner parties, where she
was welcomed by great people; and from the fine dinner parties to fine
assemblies, whither the same people came with whom she had been dining,
whom she had met the night before, and would see on the morrow--the
young men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravatted, with the neatest
glossy boots and white gloves--the elders portly, brass-buttoned,
noble-looking, polite, and prosy--the young ladies blonde, timid, and
in pink--the mothers grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and in
diamonds.  They talked in English, not in bad French, as they do in the
novels.  They talked about each others' houses, and characters, and
families--just as the Joneses do about the Smiths.  Becky's former
acquaintances hated and envied her; the poor woman herself was yawning
in spirit. "I wish I were out of it," she said to herself.  "I would
rather be a parson's wife and teach a Sunday school than this; or a
sergeant's lady and ride in the regimental waggon; or, oh, how much
gayer it would be to wear spangles and trousers and dance before a
booth at a fair."

"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing. She used to
tell the great man her ennuis and perplexities in her artless way--they
amused him.

"Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer--Master of the Ceremonies--what
do you call him--the man in the large boots and the uniform, who goes
round the ring cracking the whip? He is large, heavy, and of a military
figure.  I recollect," Becky continued pensively, "my father took me to
see a show at Brookgreen Fair when I was a child, and when we came
home, I made myself a pair of stilts and danced in the studio to the
wonder of all the pupils."

"I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.

"I should like to do it now," Becky continued.  "How Lady Blinkey would
open her eyes, and Lady Grizzel Macbeth would stare!  Hush! silence!
there is Pasta beginning to sing." Becky always made a point of being
conspicuously polite to the professional ladies and gentlemen who
attended at these aristocratic parties--of following them into the
corners where they sat in silence, and shaking hands with them, and
smiling in the view of all persons.  She was an artist herself, as she
said very truly; there was a frankness and humility in the manner in
which she acknowledged her origin, which provoked, or disarmed, or
amused lookers-on, as the case might be. "How cool that woman is," said
one; "what airs of independence she assumes, where she ought to sit
still and be thankful if anybody speaks to her!" "What an honest and
good-natured soul she is!" said another. "What an artful little minx"
said a third.  They were all right very likely, but Becky went her own
way, and so fascinated the professional personages that they would
leave off their sore throats in order to sing at her parties and give
her lessons for nothing.

Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon Street.  Many
scores of carriages, with blazing lamps, blocked up the street, to the
disgust of No. 100, who could not rest for the thunder of the knocking,
and of 102, who could not sleep for envy.  The gigantic footmen who
accompanied the vehicles were too big to be contained in Becky's little
hall, and were billeted off in the neighbouring public-houses, whence,
when they were wanted, call-boys summoned them from their beer. Scores
of the great dandies of London squeezed and trod on each other on the
little stairs, laughing to find themselves there; and many spotless and
severe ladies of ton were seated in the little drawing-room, listening
to the professional singers, who were singing according to their wont,
and as if they wished to blow the windows down.  And the day after,
there appeared among the fashionable reunions in the Morning Post a
paragraph to the following effect:

"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a select party at
dinner at their house in May Fair.  Their Excellencies the Prince and
Princess of Peterwaradin, H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador
(attended by Kibob Bey, dragoman of the mission), the Marquess of
Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and Lady Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg,
&c.  After dinner Mrs. Crawley had an assembly which was attended by
the Duchess (Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, Marchioness of
Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de Brie, Baron
Schapzuger, Chevalier Tosti, Countess of Slingstone, and Lady F.
Macadam, Major-General and Lady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths;
Viscount Paddington, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon.  Sands Bedwin, Bobachy
Bahawder," and an &c., which the reader may fill at his pleasure
through a dozen close lines of small type.

And in her commerce with the great our dear friend showed the same
frankness which distinguished her transactions with the lowly in
station.  On one occasion, when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was
(perhaps rather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in the French
language with a celebrated tenor singer of that nation, while the Lady
Grizzel Macbeth looked over her shoulder scowling at the pair.

"How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said, who herself spoke
the tongue in an Edinburgh accent most remarkable to hear.

"I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting down her eyes. "I
taught it in a school, and my mother was a Frenchwoman."

Lady Grizzel was won by her humility and was mollified towards the
little woman.  She deplored the fatal levelling tendencies of the age,
which admitted persons of all classes into the society of their
superiors, but her ladyship owned that this one at least was well
behaved and never forgot her place in life.  She was a very good woman:
good to the poor; stupid, blameless, unsuspicious. It is not her
ladyship's fault that she fancies herself better than you and me.  The
skirts of her ancestors' garments have been kissed for centuries; it is
a thousand years, they say, since the tartans of the head of the family
were embraced by the defunct Duncan's lords and councillors, when the
great ancestor of the House became King of Scotland.

Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed before Becky, and perhaps
was not disinclined to her.  The younger ladies of the house of Gaunt
were also compelled into submission.  Once or twice they set people at
her, but they failed.  The brilliant Lady Stunnington tried a passage
of arms with her, but was routed with great slaughter by the intrepid
little Becky.  When attacked sometimes, Becky had a knack of adopting a
demure ingenue air, under which she was most dangerous.  She said the
wickedest things with the most simple unaffected air when in this mood,
and would take care artlessly to apologize for her blunders, so that
all the world should know that she had made them.

Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led captain and trencher-man of my
Lord Steyne, was caused by the ladies to charge her; and the worthy
fellow, leering at his patronesses and giving them a wink, as much as
to say, "Now look out for sport," one evening began an assault upon
Becky, who was unsuspiciously eating her dinner. The little woman,
attacked on a sudden, but never without arms, lighted up in an instant,
parried and riposted with a home-thrust, which made Wagg's face tingle
with shame; then she returned to her soup with the most perfect calm
and a quiet smile on her face.  Wagg's great patron, who gave him
dinners and lent him a little money sometimes, and whose election,
newspaper, and other jobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such a
savage glance with the eyes as almost made him sink under the table and
burst into tears.  He looked piteously at my lord, who never spoke to
him during dinner, and at the ladies, who disowned him.  At last Becky
herself took compassion upon him and tried to engage him in talk. He
was not asked to dinner again for six weeks; and Fiche, my lord's
confidential man, to whom Wagg naturally paid a good deal of court, was
instructed to tell him that if he ever dared to say a rude thing to
Mrs. Crawley again, or make her the butt of his stupid jokes, Milor
would put every one of his notes of hand into his lawyer's hands and
sell him up without mercy.  Wagg wept before Fiche and implored his
dear friend to intercede for him.  He wrote a poem in favour of Mrs. R.
C., which appeared in the very next number of the Harum-scarum
Magazine, which he conducted.  He implored her good-will at parties
where he met her.  He cringed and coaxed Rawdon at the club.  He was
allowed to come back to Gaunt House after a while. Becky was always
good to him, always amused, never angry.

His lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant (with a seat in
parliament and at the dinner table), Mr. Wenham, was much more prudent
in his behaviour and opinions than Mr. Wagg.  However much he might be
disposed to hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was a staunch old
True Blue Tory, and his father a small coal-merchant in the north of
England), this aide-de-camp of the Marquis never showed any sort of
hostility to the new favourite, but pursued her with stealthy
kindnesses and a sly and deferential politeness which somehow made
Becky more uneasy than other people's overt hostilities.

How the Crawleys got the money which was spent upon the entertainments
with which they treated the polite world was a mystery which gave rise
to some conversation at the time, and probably added zest to these
little festivities.  Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawley gave
his brother a handsome allowance; if he did, Becky's power over the
Baronet must have been extraordinary indeed, and his character greatly
changed in his advanced age.  Other parties hinted that it was Becky's
habit to levy contributions on all her husband's friends: going to this
one in tears with an account that there was an execution in the house;
falling on her knees to that one and declaring that the whole family
must go to gaol or commit suicide unless such and such a bill could be
paid.  Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to give many
hundreds through these pathetic representations. Young Feltham, of the
--th Dragoons (and son of the firm of Tiler and Feltham, hatters and
army accoutrement makers), and whom the Crawleys introduced into
fashionable life, was also cited as one of Becky's victims in the
pecuniary way.  People declared that she got money from various simply
disposed persons, under pretence of getting them confidential
appointments under Government. Who knows what stories were or were not
told of our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is that if she had had
all the money which she was said to have begged or borrowed or stolen,
she might have capitalized and been honest for life, whereas,--but this
is advancing matters.

The truth is, that by economy and good management--by a sparing use of
ready money and by paying scarcely anybody--people can manage, for a
time at least, to make a great show with very little means: and it is
our belief that Becky's much-talked-of parties, which were not, after
all was said, very numerous, cost this lady very little more than the
wax candles which lighted the walls. Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley
supplied her with game and fruit in abundance.  Lord Steyne's cellars
were at her disposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cooks
presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's order the rarest
delicacies from their own.  I protest it is quite shameful in the world
to abuse a simple creature, as people of her time abuse Becky, and I
warn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her.
If every person is to be banished from society who runs into debt and
cannot pay--if we are to be peering into everybody's private life,
speculating upon their income, and cutting them if we don't approve of
their expenditure--why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable
dwelling Vanity Fair would be! Every man's hand would be against his
neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the benefits of civilization
would be done away with. We should be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding
one another.  Our houses would become caverns, and we should go in rags
because we cared for nobody.  Rents would go down. Parties wouldn't be
given any more. All the tradesmen of the town would be bankrupt.  Wine,
wax-lights, comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs,
Louis-Quatorze gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, and splendid
high-stepping carriage horses--all the delights of life, I say,--would
go to the deuce, if people did but act upon their silly principles and
avoid those whom they dislike and abuse.  Whereas, by a little charity
and mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly enough:  we
may abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the greatest rascal
unhanged--but do we wish to hang him therefore? No. We shake hands when
we meet.  If his cook is good we forgive him and go and dine with him,
and we expect he will do the same by us.  Thus trade
flourishes--civilization advances; peace is kept; new dresses are
wanted for new assemblies every week; and the last year's vintage of
Lafitte will remunerate the honest proprietor who reared it.

At the time whereof we are writing, though the Great George was on the
throne and ladies wore gigots and large combs like tortoise-shell
shovels in their hair, instead of the simple sleeves and lovely wreaths
which are actually in fashion, the manners of the very polite world
were not, I take it, essentially different from those of the present
day:  and their amusements pretty similar.  To us, from the outside,
gazing over the policeman's shoulders at the bewildering beauties as
they pass into Court or ball, they may seem beings of unearthly
splendour and in the enjoyment of an exquisite happiness by us
unattainable. It is to console some of these dissatisfied beings that
we are narrating our dear Becky's struggles, and triumphs, and
disappointments, of all of which, indeed, as is the case with all
persons of merit, she had her share.

At this time the amiable amusement of acting charades had come among us
from France, and was considerably in vogue in this country, enabling
the many ladies amongst us who had beauty to display their charms, and
the fewer number who had cleverness to exhibit their wit. My Lord
Steyne was incited by Becky, who perhaps believed herself endowed with
both the above qualifications, to give an entertainment at Gaunt House,
which should include some of these little dramas--and we must take
leave to introduce the reader to this brilliant reunion, and, with a
melancholy welcome too, for it will be among the very last of the
fashionable entertainments to which it will be our fortune to conduct
him.

A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery of Gaunt House,
was arranged as the charade theatre.  It had been so used when George
III was king; and a picture of the Marquis of Gaunt is still extant,
with his hair in powder and a pink ribbon, in a Roman shape, as it was
called, enacting the part of Cato in Mr. Addison's tragedy of that
name, performed before their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales, the
Bishop of Osnaburgh, and Prince William Henry, then children like the
actor. One or two of the old properties were drawn out of the garrets,
where they had lain ever since, and furbished up anew for the present
festivities.

Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern traveller, was
manager of the revels.  An Eastern traveller was somebody in those
days, and the adventurous Bedwin, who had published his quarto and
passed some months under the tents in the desert, was a personage of no
small importance.  In his volume there were several pictures of Sands
in various oriental costumes; and he travelled about with a black
attendant of most unprepossessing appearance, just like another Brian
de Bois Guilbert.  Bedwin, his costumes, and black man, were hailed at
Gaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.

He led off the first charade.  A Turkish officer with an immense plume
of feathers (the Janizaries were supposed to be still in existence, and
the tarboosh had not as yet displaced the ancient and majestic
head-dress of the true believers) was seen couched on a divan, and
making believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however, for the sake
of the ladies, only a fragrant pastille was allowed to smoke.  The
Turkish dignitary yawns and expresses signs of weariness and idleness.
He claps his hands and Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms,
bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament--gaunt, tall, and
hideous.  He makes a salaam before my lord the Aga.

A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly. The ladies
whisper to one another.  The black slave was given to Bedwin Sands by
an Egyptian pasha in exchange for three dozen of Maraschino.  He has
sewn up ever so many odalisques in sacks and tilted them into the Nile.

"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish voluptuary with a wave
of his hand.  Mesrour conducts the slave-merchant into my lord's
presence; he brings a veiled female with him.  He removes the veil.  A
thrill of applause bursts through the house.  It is Mrs. Winkworth (she
was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes and hair. She is in a
gorgeous oriental costume; the black braided locks are twined with
innumerable jewels; her dress is covered over with gold piastres.  The
odious Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty.  She falls
down on her knees and entreats him to restore her to the mountains
where she was born, and where her Circassian lover is still deploring
the absence of his Zuleikah. No entreaties will move the obdurate
Hassan.  He laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom. Zuleikah
covers her face with her hands and drops down in an attitude of the
most beautiful despair.  There seems to be no hope for her, when--when
the Kislar Aga appears.

The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan.  Hassan receives and
places on his head the dread firman.  A ghastly terror seizes him,
while on the Negro's face (it is Mesrour again in another costume)
appears a ghastly joy.  "Mercy!  mercy!" cries the Pasha:  while the
Kislar Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.

The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful weapon. Hassan
from within bawls out, "First two syllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,
who is going to act in the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs.
Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of her costume.

The second part of the charade takes place.  It is still an Eastern
scene.  Hassan, in another dress, is in an attitude by Zuleikah, who is
perfectly reconciled to him. The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black
slave.  It is sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads
eastwards and bow to the sand.  As there are no dromedaries at hand,
the band facetiously plays "The Camels are coming." An enormous
Egyptian head figures in the scene.  It is a musical one--and, to the
surprise of the oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by
Mr. Wagg.  The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like Papageno and the
Moorish King in The Magic Flute.  "Last two syllables," roars the head.

The last act opens.  It is a Grecian tent this time.  A tall and
stalwart man reposes on a couch there.  Above him hang his helmet and
shield.  There is no need for them now.  Ilium is down. Iphigenia is
slain.  Cassandra is a prisoner in his outer halls. The king of men (it
is Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion about the sack of Ilium
or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andron is asleep in his chamber
at Argos.  A lamp casts the broad shadow of the sleeping warrior
flickering on the wall--the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its
light. The band plays the awful music of Don Juan, before the statue
enters.

Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe.  What is that ghastly face
looking out balefully after him from behind the arras? He raises his
dagger to strike the sleeper, who turns in his bed, and opens his broad
chest as if for the blow.  He cannot strike the noble slumbering
chieftain. Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like an
apparition--her arms are bare and white--her tawny hair floats down her
shoulders--her face is deadly pale--and her eyes are lighted up with a
smile so ghastly that people quake as they look at her.

A tremor ran through the room.  "Good God!" somebody said, "it's Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley."

Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus's hand and advances
to the bed.  You see it shining over her head in the glimmer of the
lamp, and--and the lamp goes out, with a groan, and all is dark.

The darkness and the scene frightened people.  Rebecca performed her
part so well, and with such ghastly truth, that the spectators were all
dumb, until, with a burst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out again,
when everybody began to shout applause.  "Brava!  brava!" old Steyne's
strident voice was heard roaring over all the rest.  "By--, she'd do it
too," he said between his teeth. The performers were called by the
whole house, which sounded with cries of "Manager! Clytemnestra!"
Agamemnon could not be got to show in his classical tunic, but stood in
the background with Aegisthus and others of the performers of the
little play.  Mr. Bedwin Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra.  A
great personage insisted on being presented to the charming
Clytemnestra.  "Heigh ha? Run him through the body. Marry somebody
else, hay?" was the apposite remark made by His Royal Highness.

"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part," said Lord Steyne.
Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking, and swept the prettiest little
curtsey ever seen.

Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cool dainties, and
the performers disappeared to get ready for the second charade-tableau.

The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted in pantomime,
and the performance took place in the following wise:

First syllable.  Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a slouched hat and
a staff, a great-coat, and a lantern borrowed from the stables, passed
across the stage bawling out, as if warning the inhabitants of the
hour.  In the lower window are seen two bagmen playing apparently at
the game of cribbage, over which they yawn much. To them enters one
looking like Boots (the Honourable G.  Ringwood), which character the
young gentleman performed to perfection, and divests them of their
lower coverings; and presently Chambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord
Southdown) with two candlesticks, and a warming-pan.  She ascends to
the upper apartment and warms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as a
weapon wherewith she wards off the attention of the bagmen. She exits.
They put on their night-caps and pull down the blinds.  Boots comes out
and closes the shutters of the ground-floor chamber.  You hear him
bolting and chaining the door within.  All the lights go out.  The
music plays Dormez, dormez, chers Amours.  A voice from behind the
curtain says, "First syllable."

Second syllable.  The lamps are lighted up all of a sudden.  The music
plays the old air from John of Paris, Ah quel plaisir d'etre en voyage.
It is the same scene. Between the first and second floors of the house
represented, you behold a sign on which the Steyne arms are painted.
All the bells are ringing all over the house. In the lower apartment
you see a man with a long slip of paper presenting it to another, who
shakes his fists, threatens and vows that it is monstrous.  "Ostler,
bring round my gig," cries another at the door.  He chucks Chambermaid
(the Right Honourable Lord Southdown) under the chin; she seems to
deplore his absence, as Calypso did that of that other eminent
traveller Ulysses. Boots (the Honourable G.  Ringwood) passes with a
wooden box, containing silver flagons, and cries "Pots" with such
exquisite humour and naturalness that the whole house rings with
applause, and a bouquet is thrown to him.  Crack, crack, crack, go the
whips.   Landlord, chambermaid, waiter rush to the door, but just as
some distinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and the
invisible theatrical manager cries out "Second syllable."

"I think it must be 'Hotel,'" says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards;
there is a general laugh at the Captain's cleverness.  He is not very
far from the mark.

While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a nautical
medley--"All in the Downs," "Cease Rude Boreas," "Rule Britannia," "In
the Bay of Biscay O!"--some maritime event is about to take place.  A
bell is heard ringing as the curtain draws aside. "Now, gents, for the
shore!" a voice exclaims.  People take leave of each other.  They point
anxiously as if towards the clouds, which are represented by a dark
curtain, and they nod their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right
Honourable Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, and
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.

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.

A Rescue and a Catastrophe

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 his 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 from
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 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, and 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.

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 the 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 compromise.  It's a painful thing
for the family, but everybody does it.  There was George Kitely, Lord
Ragland's son, went through the Court last week, and was what they call
whitewashed, I believe. Lord Ragland would not pay a shilling for him,
and--"

"It's not money I want," Rawdon broke in.  "I'm not come to you about
myself.  Never mind what happens to me."

"What is the matter, then?" said Pitt, somewhat relieved.

"It's the boy," said Rawdon in a husky voice.  "I want you to promise
me that you will take charge of him when I'm gone.  That dear good wife
of yours has always been good to him; and he's fonder of her than he is
of his . . .--Damn it.  Look here, Pitt--you know that I was to have
had Miss Crawley's money.  I wasn't brought up like a younger brother,
but was always encouraged to be extravagant and kep idle.  But for this
I might have been quite a different man.  I didn't do my duty with the
regiment so bad.  You know how I was thrown over about the money, and
who got it."

"After the sacrifices I have made, and the manner in which I have stood
by you, I think this sort of reproach is useless," Sir Pitt said.
"Your marriage was your own doing, not mine."

"That's over now," said Rawdon.  "That's over now." And the words were
wrenched from him with a groan, which made his brother start.

"Good God!  is she dead?" Sir Pitt said with a voice of genuine alarm
and commiseration.

"I wish I was," Rawdon replied.  "If it wasn't for little Rawdon I'd
have cut my throat this morning--and that damned villain's too."

Sir Pitt instantly guessed the truth and surmised that Lord Steyne was
the person whose life Rawdon wished to take.  The Colonel told his
senior briefly, and in broken accents, the circumstances of the case.
"It was a regular plan between that scoundrel and her," he said.  "The
bailiffs were put upon me; I was taken as I was going out of his house;
when I wrote to her for money, she said she was ill in bed and put me
off to another day. And when I got home I found her in diamonds and
sitting with that villain alone." He then went on to describe hurriedly
the personal conflict with Lord Steyne.  To an affair of that nature,
of course, he said, there was but one issue, and after his conference
with his brother, he was going away to make the necessary arrangements
for the meeting which must ensue.  "And as it may end fatally with me,"
Rawdon said with a broken voice, "and as the boy has no mother, I must
leave him to you and Jane, Pitt--only it will be a comfort to me if you
will promise me to be his friend."

The elder brother was much affected, and shook Rawdon's hand with a
cordiality seldom exhibited by him. Rawdon passed his hand over his
shaggy eyebrows. "Thank you, brother," said he.  "I know I can trust
your word."

"I will, upon my honour," the Baronet said.  And thus, and almost
mutely, this bargain was struck between them.

Then Rawdon took out of his pocket the little pocket-book which he had
discovered in Becky's desk, and from which he drew a bundle of the
notes which it contained. "Here's six hundred," he said--"you didn't
know I was so rich.  I want you to give the money to Briggs, who lent
it to us--and who was kind to the boy--and I've always felt ashamed of
having taken the poor old woman's money.  And here's some more--I've
only kept back a few pounds--which Becky may as well have, to get on
with." As he spoke he took hold of the other notes to give to his
brother, but his hands shook, and he was so agitated that the
pocket-book fell from him, and out of it the thousand-pound note which
had been the last of the unlucky Becky's winnings.

Pitt stooped and picked them up, amazed at so much wealth.  "Not that,"
Rawdon said.  "I hope to put a bullet into the man whom that belongs
to." He had thought to himself, it would be a fine revenge to wrap a
ball in the note and kill Steyne with it.

After this colloquy the brothers once more shook hands and parted. Lady
Jane had heard of the Colonel's arrival, and was waiting for her
husband in the adjoining dining-room, with female instinct, auguring
evil.  The door of the dining-room happened to be left open, and the
lady of course was issuing from it as the two brothers passed out of
the study.  She held out her hand to Rawdon and said she was glad he
was come to breakfast, though she could perceive, by his haggard
unshorn face and the dark looks of her husband, that there was very
little question of breakfast between them.  Rawdon muttered some
excuses about an engagement, squeezing hard the timid little hand which
his sister-in-law reached out to him.  Her imploring eyes could read
nothing but calamity in his face, but he went away without another
word.  Nor did Sir Pitt vouchsafe her any explanation. The children
came up to salute him, and he kissed them in his usual frigid manner.
The mother took both of them close to herself, and held a hand of each
of them as they knelt down to prayers, which Sir Pitt read to them, and
to the servants in their Sunday suits or liveries, ranged upon chairs
on the other side of the hissing tea-urn. Breakfast was so late that
day, in consequence of the delays which had occurred, that the
church-bells began to ring whilst they were sitting over their meal;
and Lady Jane was too ill, she said, to go to church, though her
thoughts had been entirely astray during the period of family devotion.

Rawdon Crawley meanwhile hurried on from Great Gaunt Street, and
knocking at the great bronze Medusa's head which stands on the portal
of Gaunt House, brought out the purple Silenus in a red and silver
waistcoat who acts as porter of that palace.  The man was scared also
by the Colonel's dishevelled appearance, and barred the way as if
afraid that the other was going to force it.  But Colonel Crawley only
took out a card and enjoined him particularly to send it in to Lord
Steyne, and to mark the address written on it, and say that Colonel
Crawley would be all day after one o'clock at the Regent Club in St.
James's Street--not at home.  The fat red-faced man looked after him
with astonishment as he strode away; so did the people in their Sunday
clothes who were out so early; the charity-boys with shining faces,
the greengrocer lolling at his door, and the publican shutting his
shutters in the sunshine, against service commenced.  The people joked
at the cab-stand about his appearance, as he took a carriage there, and
told the driver to drive him to Knightsbridge Barracks.

All the bells were jangling and tolling as he reached that place. He
might have seen his old acquaintance Amelia on her way from Brompton to
Russell Square, had he been looking out.  Troops of schools were on
their march to church, the shiny pavement and outsides of coaches in
the suburbs were thronged with people out upon their Sunday pleasure;
but the Colonel was much too busy to take any heed of these phenomena,
and, arriving at Knightsbridge, speedily made his way up to the room of
his old friend and comrade Captain Macmurdo, who Crawley found, to his
satisfaction, was in barracks.

Captain Macmurdo, a veteran officer and Waterloo man, greatly liked by
his regiment, in which want of money alone prevented him from attaining
the highest ranks, was enjoying the forenoon calmly in bed.  He had
been at a fast supper-party, given the night before by Captain the
Honourable George Cinqbars, at his house in Brompton Square, to several
young men of the regiment, and a number of ladies of the corps de
ballet, and old Mac, who was at home with people of all ages and ranks,
and consorted with generals, dog-fanciers, opera-dancers, bruisers, and
every kind of person, in a word, was resting himself after the night's
labours, and, not being on duty, was in bed.

His room was hung round with boxing, sporting, and dancing pictures,
presented to him by comrades as they retired from the regiment, and
married and settled into quiet life.  And as he was now nearly fifty
years of age, twenty-four of which he had passed in the corps, he had a
singular museum.  He was one of the best shots in England, and, for a
heavy man, one of the best riders; indeed, he and Crawley had been
rivals when the latter was in the Army.  To be brief, Mr. Macmurdo was
lying in bed, reading in Bell's Life an account of that very fight
between the Tutbury Pet and the Barking Butcher, which has been before
mentioned--a venerable bristly warrior, with a little close-shaved grey
head, with a silk nightcap, a red face and nose, and a great dyed
moustache.

When Rawdon told the Captain he wanted a friend, the latter knew
perfectly well on what duty of friendship he was called to act, and
indeed had conducted scores of affairs for his acquaintances with the
greatest prudence and skill.  His Royal Highness the late lamented
Commander-in-Chief had had the greatest regard for Macmurdo on this
account, and he was the common refuge of gentlemen in trouble.

"What's the row about, Crawley, my boy?" said the old warrior.  "No
more gambling business, hay, like that when we shot Captain Marker?"

"It's about--about my wife," Crawley answered, casting down his eyes
and turning very red.

The other gave a whistle.  "I always said she'd throw you over," he
began--indeed there were bets in the regiment and at the clubs
regarding the probable fate of Colonel Crawley, so lightly was his
wife's character esteemed by his comrades and the world; but seeing the
savage look with which Rawdon answered the expression of this opinion,
Macmurdo did not think fit to enlarge upon it further.

"Is there no way out of it, old boy?" the Captain continued in a grave
tone.  "Is it only suspicion, you know, or--or what is it? Any letters?
Can't you keep it quiet? Best not make any noise about a thing of that
sort if you can help it." "Think of his only finding her out now," the
Captain thought to himself, and remembered a hundred particular
conversations at the mess-table, in which Mrs. Crawley's reputation had
been torn to shreds.

"There's no way but one out of it," Rawdon replied--"and there's only a
way out of it for one of us, Mac--do you understand? I was put out of
the way--arrested--I found 'em alone together.  I told him he was a
liar and a coward, and knocked him down and thrashed him."

"Serve him right," Macmurdo said.  "Who is it?"

Rawdon answered it was Lord Steyne.

"The deuce!  a Marquis!  they said he--that is, they said you--"

"What the devil do you mean?" roared out Rawdon; "do you mean that you
ever heard a fellow doubt about my wife and didn't tell me, Mac?"

"The world's very censorious, old boy," the other replied.  "What the
deuce was the good of my telling you what any tom-fools talked about?"

"It was damned unfriendly, Mac," said Rawdon, quite overcome; and,
covering his face with his hands, he gave way to an emotion, the sight
of which caused the tough old campaigner opposite him to wince with
sympathy. "Hold up, old boy," he said; "great man or not, we'll put a
bullet in him, damn him.  As for women, they're all so."

"You don't know how fond I was of that one," Rawdon said,
half-inarticulately.  "Damme, I followed her like a footman.  I gave up
everything I had to her.  I'm a beggar because I would marry her. By
Jove, sir, I've pawned my own watch in order to get her anything she
fancied; and she--she's been making a purse for herself all the time,
and grudged me a hundred pound to get me out of quod." He then fiercely
and incoherently, and with an agitation under which his counsellor had
never before seen him labour, told Macmurdo the circumstances of the
story.  His adviser caught at some stray hints in it. "She may be
innocent, after all," he said.  "She says so. Steyne has been a hundred
times alone with her in the house before."

"It may be so," Rawdon answered sadly, "but this don't look very
innocent":  and he showed the Captain the thousand-pound note which he
had found in Becky's pocket-book.  "This is what he gave her, Mac, and
she kep it unknown to me; and with this money in the house, she refused
to stand by me when I was locked up." The Captain could not but own
that the secreting of the money had a very ugly look.

Whilst they were engaged in their conference, Rawdon dispatched Captain
Macmurdo's servant to Curzon Street, with an order to the domestic
there to give up a bag of clothes of which the Colonel had great need.
And during the man's absence, and with great labour and a Johnson's
Dictionary, which stood them in much stead, Rawdon and his second
composed a letter, which the latter was to send to Lord Steyne.
Captain Macmurdo had the honour of waiting upon the Marquis of Steyne,
on the part of Colonel Rawdon Crawley, and begged to intimate that he
was empowered by the Colonel to make any arrangements for the meeting
which, he had no doubt, it was his Lordship's intention to demand, and
which the circumstances of the morning had rendered inevitable.
Captain Macmurdo begged Lord Steyne, in the most polite manner, to
appoint a friend, with whom he (Captain M.M.) might communicate, and
desired that the meeting might take place with as little delay as
possible.

In a postscript the Captain stated that he had in his possession a
bank-note for a large amount, which Colonel Crawley had reason to
suppose was the property of the Marquis of Steyne.  And he was anxious,
on the Colonel's behalf, to give up the note to its owner.

By the time this note was composed, the Captain's servant returned from
his mission to Colonel Crawley's house in Curzon Street, but without
the carpet-bag and portmanteau, for which he had been sent, and with a
very puzzled and odd face.

"They won't give 'em up," said the man; "there's a regular shinty in
the house, and everything at sixes and sevens.  The landlord's come in
and took possession.  The servants was a drinkin' up in the
drawingroom.  They said--they said you had gone off with the plate,
Colonel"--the man added after a pause--"One of the servants is off
already.  And Simpson, the man as was very noisy and drunk indeed, says
nothing shall go out of the house until his wages is paid up."

The account of this little revolution in May Fair astonished and gave a
little gaiety to an otherwise very triste conversation.  The two
officers laughed at Rawdon's discomfiture.

"I'm glad the little 'un isn't at home," Rawdon said, biting his nails.
"You remember him, Mac, don't you, in the Riding School? How he sat the
kicker to be sure! didn't he?"

"That he did, old boy," said the good-natured Captain.

Little Rawdon was then sitting, one of fifty gown boys, in the Chapel
of Whitefriars School, thinking, not about the sermon, but about going
home next Saturday, when his father would certainly tip him and perhaps
would take him to the play.

"He's a regular trump, that boy," the father went on, still musing
about his son.  "I say, Mac, if anything goes wrong--if I drop--I
should like you to--to go and see him, you know, and say that I was
very fond of him, and that.  And--dash it--old chap, give him these
gold sleeve-buttons:  it's all I've got." He covered his face with his
black hands, over which the tears rolled and made furrows of white.
Mr. Macmurdo had also occasion to take off his silk night-cap and rub
it across his eyes.

"Go down and order some breakfast," he said to his man in a loud
cheerful voice.  "What'll you have, Crawley? Some devilled kidneys and
a herring--let's say.  And, Clay, lay out some dressing things for the
Colonel:  we were always pretty much of a size, Rawdon, my boy, and
neither of us ride so light as we did when we first entered the corps."
With which, and leaving the Colonel to dress himself, Macmurdo turned
round towards the wall, and resumed the perusal of Bell's Life, until
such time as his friend's toilette was complete and he was at liberty
to commence his own.

This, as he was about to meet a lord, Captain Macmurdo performed with
particular care.  He waxed his mustachios into a state of brilliant
polish and put on a tight cravat and a trim buff waistcoat, so that all
the young officers in the mess-room, whither Crawley had preceded his
friend, complimented Mac on his appearance at breakfast and asked if he
was going to be married that Sunday.

In Which the Same Subject is Pursued

Becky did not rally from the state of stupor and confusion in which the
events of the previous night had plunged her intrepid spirit until the
bells of the Curzon Street Chapels were ringing for afternoon service,
and rising from her bed she began to ply her own bell, in order to
summon the French maid who had left her some hours before.

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley rang many times in vain; and though, on the last
occasion, she rang with such vehemence as to pull down the bell-rope,
Mademoiselle Fifine did not make her appearance--no, not though her
mistress, in a great pet, and with the bell-rope in her hand, came out
to the landing-place with her hair over her shoulders and screamed out
repeatedly for her attendant.

The truth is, she had quitted the premises for many hours, and upon
that permission which is called French leave among us.  After picking up
the trinkets in the drawing-room, Mademoiselle had ascended to her own
apartments, packed and corded her own boxes there, tripped out and
called a cab for herself, brought down her trunks with her own hand,
and without ever so much as asking the aid of any of the other
servants, who would probably have refused it, as they hated her
cordially, and without wishing any one of them good-bye, had made her
exit from Curzon Street.

The game, in her opinion, was over in that little domestic
establishment.  Fifine went off in a cab, as we have known more exalted
persons of her nation to do under similar circumstances: but, more
provident or lucky than these, she secured not only her own property,
but some of her mistress's (if indeed that lady could be said to have
any property at all)--and not only carried off the trinkets before
alluded to, and some favourite dresses on which she had long kept her
eye, but four richly gilt Louis Quatorze candlesticks, six gilt albums,
keepsakes, and Books of Beauty, a gold enamelled snuff-box which had
once belonged to Madame du Barri, and the sweetest little inkstand and
mother-of-pearl blotting book, which Becky used when she composed her
charming little pink notes, had vanished from the premises in Curzon
Street together with Mademoiselle Fifine, and all the silver laid on
the table for the little festin which Rawdon interrupted.  The plated
ware Mademoiselle left behind her was too cumbrous, probably for which
reason, no doubt, she also left the fire irons, the chimney-glasses,
and the rosewood cottage piano.

A lady very like her subsequently kept a milliner's shop in the Rue du
Helder at Paris, where she lived with great credit and enjoyed the
patronage of my Lord Steyne.  This person always spoke of England as of
the most treacherous country in the world, and stated to her young
pupils that she had been affreusement vole by natives of that island.
It was no doubt compassion for her misfortunes which induced the
Marquis of Steyne to be so very kind to Madame de Saint-Amaranthe.  May
she flourish as she deserves--she appears no more in our quarter of
Vanity Fair.

Hearing a buzz and a stir below, and indignant at the impudence of
those servants who would not answer her summons, Mrs. Crawley flung her
morning robe round her and descended majestically to the drawing-room,
whence the noise proceeded.

The cook was there with blackened face, seated on the beautiful chintz
sofa by the side of Mrs. Raggles, to whom she was administering
Maraschino.  The page with the sugar-loaf buttons, who carried about
Becky's pink notes, and jumped about her little carriage with such
alacrity, was now engaged putting his fingers into a cream dish; the
footman was talking to Raggles, who had a face full of perplexity and
woe--and yet, though the door was open, and Becky had been screaming a
half-dozen of times a few feet off, not one of her attendants had
obeyed her call.  "Have a little drop, do'ee now, Mrs. Raggles," the
cook was saying as Becky entered, the white cashmere dressing-gown
flouncing around her.

"Simpson!  Trotter!" the mistress of the house cried in great wrath.
"How dare you stay here when you heard me call? How dare you sit down
in my presence? Where's my maid?" The page withdrew his fingers from
his mouth with a momentary terror, but the cook took off a glass of
Maraschino, of which Mrs. Raggles had had enough, staring at Becky over
the little gilt glass as she drained its contents. The liquor appeared
to give the odious rebel courage.

"YOUR sofy, indeed!" Mrs. Cook said.  "I'm a settin' on Mrs. Raggles's
sofy.  Don't you stir, Mrs. Raggles, Mum. I'm a settin' on Mr. and Mrs.
Raggles's sofy, which they bought with honest money, and very dear it
cost 'em, too.  And I'm thinkin' if I set here until I'm paid my wages,
I shall set a precious long time, Mrs. Raggles; and set I will,
too--ha!  ha!" and with this she filled herself another glass of the
liquor and drank it with a more hideously satirical air.

"Trotter!  Simpson!  turn that drunken wretch out," screamed Mrs.
Crawley.

"I shawn't," said Trotter the footman; "turn out yourself.  Pay our
selleries, and turn me out too.  WE'LL go fast enough."

"Are you all here to insult me?" cried Becky in a fury; "when Colonel
Crawley comes home I'll--"

At this the servants burst into a horse haw-haw, in which, however,
Raggles, who still kept a most melancholy countenance, did not join.
"He ain't a coming back," Mr. Trotter resumed.  "He sent for his
things, and I wouldn't let 'em go, although Mr. Raggles would; and I
don't b'lieve he's no more a Colonel than I am.  He's hoff, and I
suppose you're a goin' after him.  You're no better than swindlers,
both on you.  Don't be a bullyin' ME.  I won't stand it.  Pay us our
selleries, I say.  Pay us our selleries." It was evident, from Mr.
Trotter's flushed countenance and defective intonation, that he, too,
had had recourse to vinous stimulus.

"Mr. Raggles," said Becky in a passion of vexation, "you will not
surely let me be insulted by that drunken man?" "Hold your noise,
Trotter; do now," said Simpson the page.  He was affected by his
mistress's deplorable situation, and succeeded in preventing an
outrageous denial of the epithet "drunken" on the footman's part.

"Oh, M'am," said Raggles, "I never thought to live to see this year
day:  I've known the Crawley family ever since I was born.  I lived
butler with Miss Crawley for thirty years; and I little thought one of
that family was a goin' to ruing me--yes, ruing me"--said the poor
fellow with tears in his eyes.  "Har you a goin' to pay me? You've
lived in this 'ouse four year.  You've 'ad my substance: my plate and
linning.  You ho me a milk and butter bill of two 'undred pound, you
must 'ave noo laid heggs for your homlets, and cream for your spanil
dog."

"She didn't care what her own flesh and blood had," interposed the
cook.  "Many's the time, he'd have starved but for me."

"He's a charaty-boy now, Cooky," said Mr. Trotter, with a drunken "ha!
ha!"--and honest Raggles continued, in a lamentable tone, an
enumeration of his griefs.  All he said was true.  Becky and her
husband had ruined him. He had bills coming due next week and no means
to meet them.  He would be sold up and turned out of his shop and his
house, because he had trusted to the Crawley family.  His tears and
lamentations made Becky more peevish than ever.

"You all seem to be against me," she said bitterly. "What do you want?
I can't pay you on Sunday.  Come back to-morrow and I'll pay you
everything.  I thought Colonel Crawley had settled with you.  He will
to-morrow. I declare to you upon my honour that he left home this
morning with fifteen hundred pounds in his pocket-book. He has left me
nothing.  Apply to him.  Give me a bonnet and shawl and let me go out
and find him.  There was a difference between us this morning.  You all
seem to know it.  I promise you upon my word that you shall all be
paid.  He has got a good appointment.  Let me go out and find him."

This audacious statement caused Raggles and the other personages
present to look at one another with a wild surprise, and with it
Rebecca left them.  She went upstairs and dressed herself this time
without the aid of her French maid.  She went into Rawdon's room, and
there saw that a trunk and bag were packed ready for removal, with a
pencil direction that they should be given when called for; then she
went into the Frenchwoman's garret; everything was clean, and all the
drawers emptied there. She bethought herself of the trinkets which had
been left on the ground and felt certain that the woman had fled. "Good
Heavens!  was ever such ill luck as mine?" she said; "to be so near,
and to lose all.  Is it all too late?" No; there was one chance more.

She dressed herself and went away unmolested this time, but alone. It
was four o'clock.  She went swiftly down the streets (she had no money
to pay for a carriage), and never stopped until she came to Sir Pitt
Crawley's door, in Great Gaunt Street.  Where was Lady Jane Crawley?
She was at church.  Becky was not sorry. Sir Pitt was in his study, and
had given orders not to be disturbed--she must see him--she slipped by
the sentinel in livery at once, and was in Sir Pitt's room before the
astonished Baronet had even laid down the paper.

He turned red and started back from her with a look of great alarm and
horror.

"Do not look so," she said.  "I am not guilty, Pitt, dear Pitt; you
were my friend once.  Before God, I am not guilty.  I seem so.
Everything is against me.  And oh!  at such a moment!  just when all my
hopes were about to be realized:  just when happiness was in store for
us."

"Is this true, what I see in the paper then?" Sir Pitt said--a
paragraph in which had greatly surprised him.

"It is true.  Lord Steyne told me on Friday night, the night of that
fatal ball.  He has been promised an appointment any time these six
months.  Mr. Martyr, the Colonial Secretary, told him yesterday that it
was made out. That unlucky arrest ensued; that horrible meeting. I was
only guilty of too much devotedness to Rawdon's service.  I have
received Lord Steyne alone a hundred times before. I confess I had
money of which Rawdon knew nothing. Don't you know how careless he is
of it, and could I dare to confide it to him?" And so she went on with
a perfectly connected story, which she poured into the ears of her
perplexed kinsman.

It was to the following effect.  Becky owned, and with perfect
frankness, but deep contrition, that having remarked Lord Steyne's
partiality for her (at the mention of which Pitt blushed), and being
secure of her own virtue, she had determined to turn the great peer's
attachment to the advantage of herself and her family.  "I looked for a
peerage for you, Pitt," she said (the brother-in-law again turned red).
"We have talked about it.  Your genius and Lord Steyne's interest made
it more than probable, had not this dreadful calamity come to put an
end to all our hopes.  But, first, I own that it was my object to
rescue my dear husband--him whom I love in spite of all his ill usage
and suspicions of me--to remove him from the poverty and ruin which was
impending over us.  I saw Lord Steyne's partiality for me," she said,
casting down her eyes.  "I own that I did everything in my power to
make myself pleasing to him, and as far as an honest woman may, to
secure his--his esteem. It was only on Friday morning that the news
arrived of the death of the Governor of Coventry Island, and my Lord
instantly secured the appointment for my dear husband. It was intended
as a surprise for him--he was to see it in the papers to-day.  Even
after that horrid arrest took place (the expenses of which Lord Steyne
generously said he would settle, so that I was in a manner prevented
from coming to my husband's assistance), my Lord was laughing with me,
and saying that my dearest Rawdon would be consoled when he read of his
appointment in the paper, in that shocking spun--bailiff's house. And
then--then he came home.  His suspicions were excited,--the dreadful
scene took place between my Lord and my cruel, cruel Rawdon--and, O my
God, what will happen next? Pitt, dear Pitt!  pity me, and reconcile
us!" And as she spoke she flung herself down on her knees, and bursting
into tears, seized hold of Pitt's hand, which she kissed passionately.

It was in this very attitude that Lady Jane, who, returning from
church, ran to her husband's room directly she heard Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley was closeted there, found the Baronet and his sister-in-law.

"I am surprised that woman has the audacity to enter this house," Lady
Jane said, trembling in every limb and turning quite pale. (Her
Ladyship had sent out her maid directly after breakfast, who had
communicated with Raggles and Rawdon Crawley's household, who had told
her all, and a great deal more than they knew, of that story, and many
others besides).  "How dare Mrs. Crawley to enter the house of--of an
honest family?"

Sir Pitt started back, amazed at his wife's display of vigour. Becky
still kept her kneeling posture and clung to Sir Pitt's hand.

"Tell her that she does not know all:  Tell her that I am innocent,
dear Pitt," she whimpered out.

"Upon my word, my love, I think you do Mrs. Crawley injustice," Sir
Pitt said; at which speech Rebecca was vastly relieved.  "Indeed I
believe her to be--"

"To be what?" cried out Lady Jane, her clear voice thrilling and, her
heart beating violently as she spoke. "To be a wicked woman--a
heartless mother, a false wife? She never loved her dear little boy,
who used to fly here and tell me of her cruelty to him.  She never came
into a family but she strove to bring misery with her and to weaken the
most sacred affections with her wicked flattery and falsehoods.  She
has deceived her husband, as she has deceived everybody; her soul is
black with vanity, worldliness, and all sorts of crime.  I tremble when
I touch her.  I keep my children out of her sight."

"Lady Jane!" cried Sir Pitt, starting up, "this is really language--"
"I have been a true and faithful wife to you, Sir Pitt," Lady Jane
continued, intrepidly; "I have kept my marriage vow as I made it to God
and have been obedient and gentle as a wife should.  But righteous
obedience has its limits, and I declare that I will not bear that--that
woman again under my roof; if she enters it, I and my children will
leave it.  She is not worthy to sit down with Christian people.
You--you must choose, sir, between her and me"; and with this my Lady
swept out of the room, fluttering with her own audacity, and leaving
Rebecca and Sir Pitt not a little astonished at it.

As for Becky, she was not hurt; nay, she was pleased. "It was the
diamond-clasp you gave me," she said to Sir Pitt, reaching him out her
hand; and before she left him (for which event you may be sure my Lady
Jane was looking out from her dressing-room window in the upper story)
the Baronet had promised to go and seek out his brother, and endeavour
to bring about a reconciliation.

Rawdon found some of the young fellows of the regiment seated in the
mess-room at breakfast, and was induced without much difficulty to
partake of that meal, and of the devilled legs of fowls and soda-water
with which these young gentlemen fortified themselves.  Then they had a
conversation befitting the day and their time of life: about the next
pigeon-match at Battersea, with relative bets upon Ross and
Osbaldiston; about Mademoiselle Ariane of the French Opera, and who had
left her, and how she was consoled by Panther Carr; and about the fight
between the Butcher and the Pet, and the probabilities that it was a
cross.  Young Tandyman, a hero of seventeen, laboriously endeavouring
to get up a pair of mustachios, had seen the fight, and spoke in the
most scientific manner about the battle and the condition of the men.
It was he who had driven the Butcher on to the ground in his drag and
passed the whole of the previous night with him.  Had there not been
foul play he must have won it.  All the old files of the Ring were in
it; and Tandyman wouldn't pay; no, dammy, he wouldn't pay.  It was but
a year since the young Cornet, now so knowing a hand in Cribb's
parlour, had a still lingering liking for toffy, and used to be birched
at Eton.

So they went on talking about dancers, fights, drinking, demireps,
until Macmurdo came down and joined the boys and the conversation. He
did not appear to think that any especial reverence was due to their
boyhood; the old fellow cut in with stories, to the full as choice as
any the youngest rake present had to tell--nor did his own grey hairs
nor their smooth faces detain him.  Old Mac was famous for his good
stories.  He was not exactly a lady's man; that is, men asked him to
dine rather at the houses of their mistresses than of their mothers.
There can scarcely be a life lower, perhaps, than his, but he was quite
contented with it, such as it was, and led it in perfect good nature,
simplicity, and modesty of demeanour.

By the time Mac had finished a copious breakfast, most of the others
had concluded their meal.  Young Lord Varinas was smoking an immense
Meerschaum pipe, while Captain Hugues was employed with a cigar: that
violent little devil Tandyman, with his little bull-terrier between his
legs, was tossing for shillings with all his might (that fellow was
always at some game or other) against Captain Deuceace; and Mac and
Rawdon walked off to the Club, neither, of course, having given any
hint of the business which was occupying their minds.  Both, on the
other hand, had joined pretty gaily in the conversation, for why should
they interrupt it? Feasting, drinking, ribaldry, laughter, go on
alongside of all sorts of other occupations in Vanity Fair--the crowds
were pouring out of church as Rawdon and his friend passed down St.
James's Street and entered into their Club.

The old bucks and habitues, who ordinarily stand gaping and grinning
out of the great front window of the Club, had not arrived at their
posts as yet--the newspaper-room was almost empty.  One man was present
whom Rawdon did not know; another to whom he owed a little score for
whist, and whom, in consequence, he did not care to meet; a third was
reading the Royalist (a periodical famous for its scandal and its
attachment to Church and King) Sunday paper at the table, and looking
up at Crawley with some interest, said, "Crawley, I congratulate you."

"What do you mean?" said the Colonel.

"It's in the Observer and the Royalist too," said Mr. Smith.

"What?" Rawdon cried, turning very red.  He thought that the affair
with Lord Steyne was already in the public prints.  Smith looked up
wondering and smiling at the agitation which the Colonel exhibited as
he took up the paper and, trembling, began to read.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown (the gentleman with whom Rawdon had the
outstanding whist account) had been talking about the Colonel just
before he came in.

"It is come just in the nick of time," said Smith.  "I suppose Crawley
had not a shilling in the world."

"It's a wind that blows everybody good," Mr. Brown said.  "He can't go
away without paying me a pony he owes me."

"What's the salary?" asked Smith.

"Two or three thousand," answered the other.  "But the climate's so
infernal, they don't enjoy it long. Liverseege died after eighteen
months of it, and the man before went off in six weeks, I hear."

"Some people say his brother is a very clever man.  I always found him
a d------ bore," Smith ejaculated.  "He must have good interest, though.
He must have got the Colonel the place."

"He!" said Brown, with a sneer.  "Pooh.  It was Lord Steyne got it."

"How do you mean?"

"A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband," answered the other
enigmatically, and went to read his papers.

Rawdon, for his part, read in the Royalist the following astonishing
paragraph:

GOVERNORSHIP OF COVENTRY ISLAND.--H.M.S. Yellowjack, Commander
Jaunders, has brought letters and papers from Coventry Island.  H. E.
Sir Thomas Liverseege had fallen a victim to the prevailing fever at
Swampton.  His loss is deeply felt in the flourishing colony.  We hear
that the Governorship has been offered to Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B.,
a distinguished Waterloo officer.  We need not only men of acknowledged
bravery, but men of administrative talents to superintend the affairs
of our colonies, and we have no doubt that the gentleman selected by
the Colonial Office to fill the lamented vacancy which has occurred at
Coventry Island is admirably calculated for the post which he is about
to occupy.

"Coventry Island!  Where was it? Who had appointed him to the
government? You must take me out as your secretary, old boy," Captain
Macmurdo said laughing; and as Crawley and his friend sat wondering and
perplexed over the announcement, the Club waiter brought in to the
Colonel a card on which the name of Mr. Wenham was engraved, who begged
to see Colonel Crawley.

The Colonel and his aide-de-camp went out to meet the gentleman,
rightly conjecturing that he was an emissary of Lord Steyne.  "How d'ye
do, Crawley? I am glad to see you," said Mr. Wenham with a bland smile,
and grasping Crawley's hand with great cordiality.

"You come, I suppose, from--"

"Exactly," said Mr. Wenham.

"Then this is my friend Captain Macmurdo, of the Life Guards Green."

"Delighted to know Captain Macmurdo, I'm sure," Mr. Wenham said and
tendered another smile and shake of the hand to the second, as he had
done to the principal. Mac put out one finger, armed with a buckskin
glove, and made a very frigid bow to Mr. Wenham over his tight cravat.
He was, perhaps, discontented at being put in communication with a
pekin, and thought that Lord Steyne should have sent him a Colonel at
the very least.

"As Macmurdo acts for me, and knows what I mean," Crawley said, "I had
better retire and leave you together."

"Of course," said Macmurdo.

"By no means, my dear Colonel," Mr. Wenham said; "the interview which I
had the honour of requesting was with you personally, though the
company of Captain Macmurdo cannot fail to be also most pleasing.  In
fact, Captain, I hope that our conversation will lead to none but the
most agreeable results, very different from those which my friend
Colonel Crawley appears to anticipate."

"Humph!" said Captain Macmurdo.  Be hanged to these civilians, he
thought to himself, they are always for arranging and speechifying. Mr.
Wenham took a chair which was not offered to him--took a paper from his
pocket, and resumed--

"You have seen this gratifying announcement in the papers this morning,
Colonel? Government has secured a most valuable servant, and you, if
you accept office, as I presume you will, an excellent appointment.
Three thousand a year, delightful climate, excellent government-house,
all your own way in the Colony, and a certain promotion.  I
congratulate you with all my heart.  I presume you know, gentlemen, to
whom my friend is indebted for this piece of patronage?"

"Hanged if I know," the Captain said; his principal turned very red.

"To one of the most generous and kindest men in the world, as he is one
of the greatest--to my excellent friend, the Marquis of Steyne."

"I'll see him d---- before I take his place," growled out Rawdon.

"You are irritated against my noble friend," Mr. Wenham calmly resumed;
"and now, in the name of common sense and justice, tell me why?"

"WHY?" cried Rawdon in surprise.

"Why? Dammy!" said the Captain, ringing his stick on the ground.

"Dammy, indeed," said Mr. Wenham with the most agreeable smile; "still,
look at the matter as a man of the world--as an honest man--and see if
you have not been in the wrong.  You come home from a journey, and
find--what?--my Lord Steyne supping at your house in Curzon Street with
Mrs. Crawley.  Is the circumstance strange or novel? Has he not been a
hundred times before in the same position? Upon my honour and word as a
gentleman"--Mr. Wenham here put his hand on his waistcoat with a
parliamentary air--"I declare I think that your suspicions are
monstrous and utterly unfounded, and that they injure an honourable
gentleman who has proved his good-will towards you by a thousand
benefactions--and a most spotless and innocent lady."

"You don't mean to say that--that Crawley's mistaken?" said Mr.
Macmurdo.

"I believe that Mrs. Crawley is as innocent as my wife, Mrs. Wenham,"
Mr. Wenham said with great energy.  "I believe that, misled by an
infernal jealousy, my friend here strikes a blow against not only an
infirm and old man of high station, his constant friend and benefactor,
but against his wife, his own dearest honour, his son's future
reputation, and his own prospects in life."

"I will tell you what happened," Mr. Wenham continued with great
solemnity; "I was sent for this morning by my Lord Steyne, and found
him in a pitiable state, as, I need hardly inform Colonel Crawley, any
man of age and infirmity would be after a personal conflict with a man
of your strength.  I say to your face; it was a cruel advantage you
took of that strength, Colonel Crawley.  It was not only the body of my
noble and excellent friend which was wounded--his heart, sir, was
bleeding.  A man whom he had loaded with benefits and regarded with
affection had subjected him to the foulest indignity.  What was this
very appointment, which appears in the journals of to-day, but a proof
of his kindness to you? When I saw his Lordship this morning I found
him in a state pitiable indeed to see, and as anxious as you are to
revenge the outrage committed upon him, by blood.  You know he has
given his proofs, I presume, Colonel Crawley?"

"He has plenty of pluck," said the Colonel.  "Nobody ever said he
hadn't."

"His first order to me was to write a letter of challenge, and to carry
it to Colonel Crawley.  One or other of us," he said, "must not survive
the outrage of last night."

Crawley nodded.  "You're coming to the point, Wenham," he said.

"I tried my utmost to calm Lord Steyne. 'Good God! sir,' I said, 'how I
regret that Mrs. Wenham and myself had not accepted Mrs. Crawley's
invitation to sup with her!'"

"She asked you to sup with her?" Captain Macmurdo said.

"After the opera.  Here's the note of invitation--stop--no, this is
another paper--I thought I had it, but it's of no consequence, and I
pledge you my word to the fact.  If we had come--and it was only one of
Mrs. Wenham's headaches which prevented us--she suffers under them a
good deal, especially in the spring--if we had come, and you had
returned home, there would have been no quarrel, no insult, no
suspicion--and so it is positively because my poor wife has a headache
that you are to bring death down upon two men of honour and plunge two
of the most excellent and ancient families in the kingdom into disgrace
and sorrow."

Mr. Macmurdo looked at his principal with the air of a man profoundly
puzzled, and Rawdon felt with a kind of rage that his prey was escaping
him.  He did not believe a word of the story, and yet, how discredit or
disprove it?

Mr. Wenham continued with the same fluent oratory, which in his place
in Parliament he had so often practised--"I sat for an hour or more by
Lord Steyne's bedside, beseeching, imploring Lord Steyne to forego his
intention of demanding a meeting.  I pointed out to him that the
circumstances were after all suspicious--they were suspicious.  I
acknowledge it--any man in your position might have been taken in--I
said that a man furious with jealousy is to all intents and purposes a
madman, and should be as such regarded--that a duel between you must
lead to the disgrace of all parties concerned--that a man of his
Lordship's exalted station had no right in these days, when the most
atrocious revolutionary principles, and the most dangerous levelling
doctrines are preached among the vulgar, to create a public scandal;
and that, however innocent, the common people would insist that he was
guilty.  In fine, I implored him not to send the challenge."

"I don't believe one word of the whole story," said Rawdon, grinding
his teeth.  "I believe it a d------ lie, and that you're in it, Mr.
Wenham.  If the challenge don't come from him, by Jove it shall come
from me."

Mr. Wenham turned deadly pale at this savage interruption of the
Colonel and looked towards the door.

But he found a champion in Captain Macmurdo.  That gentleman rose up
with an oath and rebuked Rawdon for his language.  "You put the affair
into my hands, and you shall act as I think fit, by Jove, and not as
you do. You have no right to insult Mr. Wenham with this sort of
language; and dammy, Mr. Wenham, you deserve an apology.  And as for a
challenge to Lord Steyne, you may get somebody else to carry it, I
won't.  If my lord, after being thrashed, chooses to sit still, dammy
let him. And as for the affair with--with Mrs. Crawley, my belief is,
there's nothing proved at all:  that your wife's innocent, as innocent
as Mr. Wenham says she is; and at any rate that you would be a d--fool
not to take the place and hold your tongue."

"Captain Macmurdo, you speak like a man of sense," Mr. Wenham cried
out, immensely relieved--"I forget any words that Colonel Crawley has
used in the irritation of the moment."

"I thought you would," Rawdon said with a sneer.

"Shut your mouth, you old stoopid," the Captain said good-naturedly.
"Mr. Wenham ain't a fighting man; and quite right, too."

"This matter, in my belief," the Steyne emissary cried, "ought to be
buried in the most profound oblivion.  A word concerning it should
never pass these doors.  I speak in the interest of my friend, as well
as of Colonel Crawley, who persists in considering me his enemy."

"I suppose Lord Steyne won't talk about it very much," said Captain
Macmurdo; "and I don't see why our side should.  The affair ain't a
very pretty one, any way you take it, and the less said about it the
better. It's you are thrashed, and not us; and if you are satisfied,
why, I think, we should be."

Mr. Wenham took his hat, upon this, and Captain Macmurdo following him
to the door, shut it upon himself and Lord Steyne's agent, leaving
Rawdon chafing within.  When the two were on the other side, Macmurdo
looked hard at the other ambassador and with an expression of anything
but respect on his round jolly face.

"You don't stick at a trifle, Mr. Wenham," he said.

"You flatter me, Captain Macmurdo," answered the other with a smile.
"Upon my honour and conscience now, Mrs. Crawley did ask us to sup
after the opera."

"Of course; and Mrs. Wenham had one of her head-aches.  I say, I've got
a thousand-pound note here, which I will give you if you will give me a
receipt, please; and I will put the note up in an envelope for Lord
Steyne. My man shan't fight him.  But we had rather not take his money."

"It was all a mistake--all a mistake, my dear sir," the other said with
the utmost innocence of manner; and was bowed down the Club steps by
Captain Macmurdo, just as Sir Pitt Crawley ascended them. There was a
slight acquaintance between these two gentlemen, and the Captain, going
back with the Baronet to the room where the latter's brother was, told
Sir Pitt, in confidence, that he had made the affair all right between
Lord Steyne and the Colonel.

Sir Pitt was well pleased, of course, at this intelligence, and
congratulated his brother warmly upon the peaceful issue of the affair,
making appropriate moral remarks upon the evils of duelling and the
unsatisfactory nature of that sort of settlement of disputes.

And after this preface, he tried with all his eloquence to effect a
reconciliation between Rawdon and his wife. He recapitulated the
statements which Becky had made, pointed out the probabilities of their
truth, and asserted his own firm belief in her innocence.

But Rawdon would not hear of it.  "She has kep money concealed from me
these ten years," he said "She swore, last night only, she had none
from Steyne.  She knew it was all up, directly I found it.  If she's
not guilty, Pitt, she's as bad as guilty, and I'll never see her
again--never." His head sank down on his chest as he spoke the words,
and he looked quite broken and sad.

"Poor old boy," Macmurdo said, shaking his head.

Rawdon Crawley resisted for some time the idea of taking the place
which had been procured for him by so odious a patron, and was also for
removing the boy from the school where Lord Steyne's interest had
placed him.  He was induced, however, to acquiesce in these benefits by
the entreaties of his brother and Macmurdo, but mainly by the latter,
pointing out to him what a fury Steyne would be in to think that his
enemy's fortune was made through his means.

When the Marquis of Steyne came abroad after his accident, the Colonial
Secretary bowed up to him and congratulated himself and the Service
upon having made so excellent an appointment.  These congratulations
were received with a degree of gratitude which may be imagined on the
part of Lord Steyne.

The secret of the rencontre between him and Colonel Crawley was buried
in the profoundest oblivion, as Wenham said; that is, by the seconds
and the principals. But before that evening was over it was talked of
at fifty dinner-tables in Vanity Fair.  Little Cackleby himself went to
seven evening parties and told the story with comments and emendations
at each place.  How Mrs. Washington White revelled in it!  The
Bishopess of Ealing was shocked beyond expression; the Bishop went and
wrote his name down in the visiting-book at Gaunt House that very day.
Little Southdown was sorry; so you may be sure was his sister Lady
Jane, very sorry.  Lady Southdown wrote it off to her other daughter at
the Cape of Good Hope.  It was town-talk for at least three days, and
was only kept out of the newspapers by the exertions of Mr. Wagg,
acting upon a hint from Mr. Wenham.

The bailiffs and brokers seized upon poor Raggles in Curzon Street, and
the late fair tenant of that poor little mansion was in the
meanwhile--where? Who cared!  Who asked after a day or two? Was she
guilty or not? We all know how charitable the world is, and how the
verdict of Vanity Fair goes when there is a doubt.  Some people said
she had gone to Naples in pursuit of Lord Steyne, whilst others averred
that his Lordship quitted that city and fled to Palermo on hearing of
Becky's arrival; some said she was living in Bierstadt, and had become
a dame d'honneur to the Queen of Bulgaria; some that she was at
Boulogne; and others, at a boarding-house at Cheltenham.

Rawdon made her a tolerable annuity, and we may be sure that she was a
woman who could make a little money go a great way, as the saying is.
He would have paid his debts on leaving England, could he have got any
Insurance Office to take his life, but the climate of Coventry Island
was so bad that he could borrow no money on the strength of his salary.
He remitted, however, to his brother punctually, and wrote to his
little boy regularly every mail.  He kept Macmurdo in cigars and sent
over quantities of shells, cayenne pepper, hot pickles, guava jelly,
and colonial produce to Lady Jane. He sent his brother home the Swamp
Town Gazette, in which the new Governor was praised with immense
enthusiasm; whereas the Swamp Town Sentinel, whose wife was not asked
to Government House, declared that his Excellency was a tyrant,
compared to whom Nero was an enlightened philanthropist.  Little Rawdon
used to like to get the papers and read about his Excellency.

His mother never made any movement to see the child. He went home to
his aunt for Sundays and holidays; he soon knew every bird's nest about
Queen's Crawley, and rode out with Sir Huddlestone's hounds, which he
admired so on his first well-remembered visit to Hampshire.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: One, Fifty Two, Fifty Three, Fifty Four and Fifty Five In Chapter Fifty One, we are told that after being invited to Lord Steyne's parties, 'some of the very greatest and tallest doors in the metropolis' were now open to Becky. At first her success excites her, but then it begins to bore her. A description of a game of charades ensues and Becky impresses the gathering when she performs the part of Clytemnestra. After a successful evening for Becky, Rawdon walks home with Mr Wenham but is stopped by bailiffs and taken away. Wenham says he does not have enough money to spare him from this action. Chapter Fifty Two takes the readers back to events leading up to Rawdon's arrest. With Lord Steyne's influence, little Rawdon is to be taken on at the prestigious Whitefriars boarding school. Rawdon misses him and this sentiment amuses Becky, but his sister-in-law Jane shows him kindness. Having been instrumental in little Rawdon's move to school, Lord Steyne determines to find out how much Briggs is still owed by Becky. He discovers the amount is PS600 . Lord Steyne laughs at his own naivety and Becky rises further in his estimation. When he asks her about the discrepancy, she blames Rawdon and says he took the money and claimed he paid Briggs. After a discussion with the lord, Becky tells Briggs she is no longer needed as a companion and Lord Steyne has a position for her at Gauntly Hall. Jane and Sir Pitt Crawley think it is wrong to dismiss Briggs and suggest Rawdon chaperones Becky more closely. Sir Pitt also believes Lord Steyne visits too often and Rawdon makes sure he is present when he appears. Becky claims she prefers Rawdon's company to 'old Briggs', but when he falls asleep her face is 'haggard, weary and terrible'. It is shortly after that Rawdon is arrested by the bailiffs. Chapter Fifty Two continues with an explanation of where Rawdon is taken. He is being held at Mr Moss's establishment and writes to Becky the next day with instructions on how to pay his debt. The day passes, though, and her reply does not come until tea time. She is light-hearted in the note and says 'Milor' will see if he can lend her the money tomorrow. Rawdon writes to Sir Pitt and Jane, and Jane comes to his rescue. He walks home and hears laughter inside. There are no servants about and Lord Steyne and Becky are alone together upstairs. He is about to kiss her hand and she is covered in jewels. She tells Rawdon she is innocent and asks Lord Steyne to say the same. The lord thinks a trap has been set for him and damns her. He says she is not innocent and he has paid for all the trinkets she is wearing. He adds that he has given her thousands, which he thinks Rawdon has spent, and then calls Rawdon a bully. Rawdon calls Lord Steyne a liar, a coward and a villain and hits him. He tells Becky to remove her jewellery and he then throws a diamond ornament at him. Rawdon demands Becky's keys to find the money that has been referred to and eventually discovers the PS1,000 bill and more in her secret desk. He says how she could have spared PS100 to release him from the bailiff. He then informs her he will pay back Briggs what is owed to her as well as some of the debts and he will send the rest back to Lord Steyne. Becky repeats she is innocent, but he leaves. In Chapter Fifty Four, Rawdon visits Sir Pitt and tells him his relationship with Becky is over. He thinks she and the lord set the bailiffs on him and implies he is going to duel with him. He asks Sir Pitt and Jane to be a friend to his son and Sir Pitt agrees. They part by shaking hands after he gives Sir Pitt PS600 to pay back Briggs and some money for Becky. Rawdon visits Lord Steyne's home next and leaves his calling card. He tells the servant to inform his master that he will be in the Regent Club any time after 1 pm. After this, Rawdon goes to Knightsbridge Barracks to see his friend and comrade, Captain Macmurdo. He acts as Rawdon's second and writes to Lord Steyne to arrange a duel. The chapter ends with a man being sent to Rawdon's home to retrieve some clothes. The man returns with nothing as the landlord is keeping the possessions and the servants are revolting over not being paid. Becky's maid, Fifine, leaves the house with many of Becky's possessions in Chapter Fifty Five. Fifine goes on to set up a milliner shop in Paris under the patronage of Lord Steyne. There is then a description of the servants rebelling against Becky and Raggles says how she has ruined him. She blames Rawdon and says he left with PS1,500. They let her go to find Rawdon and she arrives at Sir Pitt's at 4 pm. She tells Sir Pitt she knew of Lord Steyne's partiality, but was using it for the family's advantage. She claims she used it to 'look for' a peerage for him. Jane enters and criticizes Becky, and says he must choose between them. The narrative shifts back to Rawdon and Macmurdo in the club. Rawdon discovers, through a newspaper report, that he has been appointed the Governor of Coventry Island. . Wenham then talks to Rawdon and Macmurdo on behalf of the lord. He claims he and his wife were also invited to Becky's on the night Rawdon found her with the lord, but had been unable to attend. Rawdon does not believe him but feels as though his prey is escaping him. After Wenham leaves, Sir Pitt comes to the club to try to reconcile Rawdon with Becky. Rawdon refuses, but he goes on to accept the position of Governor and makes Becky a 'tolerable annuity'. He writes regularly to his son, who is never visited by Becky and spends his Sundays and holidays with his aunt Jane.