Chapter: 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.

 Rawdon goes with the bailiffs who arrested him to the debtors holding prison. He's not too worried, since the amount he owes isn't huge. Everyone at the prison is very nice to him because apparently he has been there a couple times before. Debtors' prisons were more like inns with walls around them than jails. The idea was that the debtor would call in all his favors to pay the debt back and be released. The warden shows Rawdon to his room, tells him when food will be served and asks him if he needs anything. Rawdon decides to wait until morning to tell Becky what's happened, since she most likely wouldn't have noticed that he's not there. He goes to sleep. The next morning Rawdon has breakfast, chats with the chambermaid, then writes a letter to Becky asking her to bail him out ASAP. At this point, he's thinking it'll be about three hours until he's out of there. Becky will need to first pawn something to raise the money, then pay back the creditor who called the debt in, then come get him. Three hours pass...nothing. The whole day passes...nothing. Finally, during dinner, a messenger comes with a letter from Becky. In it, she claims to be have been too overcome by the news of his arrest to run the necessary errands to get him out. She says she had people over and told Lord Steyne what had happened. He agreed to lend her the needed money so she wouldn't have to go to the pawn shop. Rawdon is beyond furious. He realizes several things all at once: 1) Becky doesn't care enough about him to sell her stuff to get him out of prison; 2) she had guests over that day; and 3) the timing of all of this is crazily suspicious. He quickly writes another letter to Pitt and Lady Jane. He is particularly eager to get out now because he doesn't want Rawdon Jr. to find out that he had been in debtors prison. A little while later a woman comes to the gate with his release. It turns out to be...Jane! We know, we know - we were hoping Becky would come through, too. Rawdon is all emotional and confesses to Jane how his love for Rawdon Jr. makes him want to be a better man. Then he leaves her and goes home. Guys, things are about to hit the fan. You'd better sit down. Rawdon looks at the house. The lights are on. But didn't Becky say she was sick? He opens the front door and hears sounds of laughter and singing. He looks around. All the servants are gone. He opens the door to the living room and sees Becky and Lord Steyne alone together! She is dressed to the nines with all her jewelry . Steyne is holding her hand and is about to kiss it. There are two plates and two wine glasses out. OK, insanity breaks out. Becky screams that she is innocent and asks Steyne to confirm. Steyne is all, as if! He yells that he bought all the jewels she is wearing and has given her a ton of money. So what does that mean? Well, Becky means she is innocent of adultery. It's not clear if that's true or not. Steyne's response is ambiguous; either he is saying 1) oh, please, we totally had a bunch of sex and you know it, or 2) all you've done is extort money from me which is not what an innocent person would do. Rawdon grabs Steyne around the neck and punches him in the face until he bleeds. He makes Becky take off all the jewelry and throw it on the ground. He flings one of the pieces at Steyne, leaving a mark that scars him for life. Finally he makes Becky go upstairs and searches all of her rooms for the money and jewels Steyne was talking about. Eventually he finds the locked desk drawer, opens it, and sees all the checks and things. One of them is a check from Steyne for 1,000 pounds. Rawdon's last words to Becky are: "You might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this - I have always shared with you" . Wow, harsh. And sad. Becky gets out another "I am innocent" , but Rawdon leaves. Becky collapses. She contemplates suicide briefly until her maid finds her and gets her to lie down. The narrator has a coy moment telling us that even he doesn't know whether she is innocent or not.

