‘I‘m gittin very old, and have been cruel bad this year with the lumbago. I shan‘t be here now for long; but I‘m glad ee‘ve come, daughter-in-law. I like your face, Lady Jane: it‘s got none of the damned high-boned Binkie look in it; and I‘ll give ee something pretty, my dear, to go to Court in.‘ And he shuffled across the room to a cupboard, from which he took a little old case containing jewels of some value. ‘Take that,‘ said he, ‘my dear; it belonged to my mother, and afterwards to the first Lady Crawley. Pretty pearls—never gave ‘em the ironmonger‘s daughter. No, no. Take ‘em and put ‘em up quick,‘ said he, thrusting the case into his daughter‘s hand, and clapping the door of the cabinet to, as Horrocks entered with a salver and refreshments.
‘What have you a been and given Pitt‘s wife?‘ said the individual in ribbons, when Pitt and Lady Jane had taken leave of the old gentleman. It was Miss Horrocks, the butler‘s daughter—the cause of the scandal throughout the country—the lady who reigned now almost supreme at Queen‘s Crawley.
The rise and progress of those Ribbons had been marked with dismay by the county and family. The Ribbons opened an account at the Mudbury Branch Savings Bank; the Ribbons drove to church, monopolizing the pony-chaise, which was for the use of the servants at the Hall. The domestics were dismissed at her pleasure. The Scotch gardener, who still lingered on the premises, taking a pride in his walls and hothouses, and indeed making a pretty good livelihood by the garden, which he farmed, and of which he sold the produce at Southampton, found the Ribbons eating peaches in a sunshiny morning at the south wall, and had his ears boxed when he remonstrated about this attack on his property. He and his Scotch wife and his Scotch children, the only respectable inhabitants of Queen‘s Crawley, were forced to migrate, with their goods and their chattels, and left the stately comfortable gardens to go to waste, and the flower-beds to run to seed. Poor Lady Crawley‘s rose-garden became the dreariest wilderness. Only two or three domestics shuddered in the bleak old servants‘ hall. The stables and offices were vacant, and shut up, and half ruined. Sir Pitt lived in private, and boozed nightly with Horrocks, his butler or house-steward (as he now began to be called), and the abandoned Ribbons. The times were very much changed since the period when she drove to Mudbury in the spring-cart, and called the small tradesmen ‘sir‘. It may have been shame, or it may have been dislike of his neighbours, but the old Cynic of Queen‘s Crawley hardly issued from his park-gates at all now. He quarrelled with his agents, and screwed his tenants by letter. His days were passed in conducting his own correspondence; the lawyers and farm-bailiffs who had to do business with him, could not reach him but through the Ribbons, who received them at the door of the housekeeper‘s room, which commanded the back entrance by which they were admitted; and so the baronet‘s daily perplexities increased, and his embarrassments multiplied round him.
The horror of Pitt Crawley may be imagined, as these reports of his father‘s dotage reached the most exemplary and correct of gentlemen. He trembled daily lest he should hear that the Ribbons was proclaimed his second legal mother-in-law. After that first and last visit, his father‘s name was never mentioned in Pitt‘s polite and genteel establishment. It was the skeleton in his house, and all the family walked by it in terror and silence. The Countess Southdown kept on dropping per coach at the lodge-gate the most exciting tracts, tracts which ought to frighten the hair off your head. Mrs. Bute at the parsonage nightly looked out to see if the sky was red over the elms behind which the Hall stood, and the mansion was on fire. Sir G. Wapshot and Sir H. Fuddlestone, old friends of the house, wouldn‘t sit on the bench with Sir Pitt at Quarter Sessions, and cut him dead in the High Street of Southampton, where the reprobate stood offering his dirty old hands to them. Nothing had any effect upon him; he put his hands into his pockets, and burst out laughing, as he scrambled into his carriage-and-four; he used to burst out laughing at Lady Southdown‘s tracts; and he laughed at his sons, and at the world, and at the Ribbons when she was angry, which was not seldom.
Miss Horrocks was installed as housekeeper at Queen‘s Crawley, and ruled all the domestics there with great majesty and rigour. All the servants were instructed to address her as ‘mum‘, or ‘madam‘,—and there was one little maid, on her promotion, who persisted in calling her ‘my lady‘, without any rebuke on the part of the housekeeper. ‘There has been better ladies, and there has been worser, Hester,‘ was Miss Horrocks‘s reply to this compliment of her inferior: so she ruled, having supreme power over all except her father, whom, however, she treated with considerable haughtiness, warning him not to be too familiar in his behaviour to one ‘as was to be a baronet‘s lady‘. Indeed, she rehearsed that exalted part in life with great satisfaction to herself, and to the amusement of old Sir Pitt, who chuckled at her airs and graces, and would laugh by the hour together at her assumptions of dignity and imitations of genteel life. He swore it was as good as a play to see her in the character of a fine dame, and he made her put on one of the first Lady Crawley‘s court-dresses, swearing (entirely to Miss Horrocks‘s own concurrence) that the dress became her prodigiously, and threatening to drive her off that very instant to Court in a coach-and-four. She had the ransacking of the wardrobes of the two defunct ladies, and cut and hacked their posthumous finery so as to suit her own tastes and figure. And she would have liked to take possession of their jewels and trinkets too; but the old baronet had locked them away in his private cabinet, nor could she coax or wheedle him out of the keys. And it is a fact, that some time after she left Queen‘s Crawley a copy-book belonging to this lady was discovered, which showed that she had taken great pains in private to learn the art of writing in general, and especially of writing her own name as Lady Crawley, Lady Betsy Horrocks, Lady Elizabeth Crawley, &c.
Though the good people of the parsonage never went to the Hall, and shunned the horrid old dotard its owner, yet they kept a strict knowledge of all that happened there, and were looking out every day for the catastrophe for which Miss Horrocks was also eager. But Fate intervened enviously, and prevented her from receiving the reward due to such immaculate love and virtue.
One day the baronet surprised ‘her ladyship‘, as he jocularly called her, seated at that old and tuneless piano in the drawing-room, which had scarcely been touched since Becky Sharp played quadrilles upon it. Seated at the piano with the utmost gravity, and squalling to the best of her power in imitation of the music which she had sometimes heard. The little kitchenmaid on her promotion was standing at her mistress‘s side, quite delighted during the operation, and wagging her head up and down, and crying, ‘Lor, mum, ‘tis bittiful,‘—just like a genteel sycophant in a real drawing-room.
This incident made the old baronet roar with laughter, as usual. He narrated the circumstance a dozen times to Horrocks in the course of the evening, and greatly to the discomfiture of Miss Horrocks. He thrummed on the table as if it had been a musical instrument and squalled in imitation of her manner of singing. He vowed that such a beautiful voice ought to be cultivated, and declared she ought to have singing-masters, in which proposals she saw nothing ridiculous. He was in great spirits that night; and drank with his friend and butler an extraordinary quantity of rum-and-water—at a very late hour the faithful friend and domestic conducted his master to his bedroom.
Half an hour afterwards there was a great hurry and bustle in the house. Lights went about from window to window in the lonely desolate old Hall, whereof but two or three rooms were ordinarily occupied by its owner. Presently a boy on a pony went galloping off to Mudbury, to the doctor‘s house there. And in another hour (by which fact we ascertain how carefully the excellent Mrs. Bute Crawley had always kept up an understanding with the great house), that lady in her clogs and calash,ly the Reverend Bute Crawley, and James Crawley her son, had walked over from the Rectory through the park, and had entered the mansion by the open hall-door.
They passed through the hall and the small oak parlour, on the table of which stood the three tumble
rs and the empty rum-bottle which had served for Sir Pitt‘s carouse, and through that apartment into Sir Pitt‘s study, where they found Miss Horrocks, of the guilty ribbons, with a wild air, trying at the presses and escritoires with a bunch of keys. She dropped them with a scream of terror, as little Mrs. Bute‘s eyes flashed out at her from under her black calash.
‘Look at that, James and Mr. Crawley,‘ cried Mrs. Bute, pointing at the scared figure of the black-eyed, guilty wench.
‘He gave ‘em me; he gave ‘em me!‘ she cried.
‘Gave them you, you abandoned creature!‘ screamed Mrs. Bute. ‘Bear witness, Mr. Crawley, we found this good-for-nothing woman in the act of stealing your brother‘s property; and she will be hanged, as I always said she would.‘
Betsy Horrocks quite daunted, flung herself down on her knees, bursting into tears. But those who know a really good woman are aware that she is not in a hurry to forgive, and that the humiliation of an enemy is a triumph to her soul.
‘Ring the bell, James,‘ Mrs. Bute said. ‘Go on ringing it till the people come.‘ The three or four domestics resident in the deserted old house came presently at that jangling and continued summons.
‘Put that woman in the strong-room,‘ she said. ‘We caught her in the act of robbing Sir Pitt. Mr. Crawley, you‘ll make out her committal—and, Beddoes, you‘ll drive her over in the spring-cart, in the morning, to Southampton Gaol.‘
‘My dear,‘ interposed the magistrate and rector—‘she‘s only—‘
‘Are there no handcuffs?‘ Mrs. Bute continued, stamping in her clogs. ‘There used to be handcuffs. Where‘s the creature‘s abominable father?‘
‘He did give ‘em me,‘ still cried poor Betsy; ‘didn‘t he, Hester? You saw Sir Pitt—you know you did—give ‘em me, ever so long ago—the day after Mudbury fair: not that I want ‘em. Take ‘em if you think they ain‘t mine.‘ And here the unhappy wretch pulled out from her pocket a large pair of paste shoe-buckles which had excited her admiration, and which she had just appropriated out of one of the bookcases in the study, where they had lain.
THE RIBBONS DISCOVERED IN THE FACT
‘Law, Betsy, how could you go for to tell such a wicked story!‘ said Hester, the little kitchenmaid late on her promotion—‘and to Madam Crawley, so good and kind, and his rev‘rince‘ (with a curtsy) ‘and you may search all my boxes, mum, I‘m sure, and here‘s my keys as I‘m an honest girl though of pore parents and workhouse bred—and if you find so much as a beggarly bit of lace or a silk stocking out of all the gownds as you‘ve had the picking of may I never go to church agin.‘
‘Give up your keys, you hardened hussy,‘ hissed out the virtuous little lady in the calash.
‘And here‘s a candle, mum, and if you please, mum, I can show you her room, mum, and the press in the housekeeper‘s room, mum, where she keeps heaps and heaps of things, mum,‘ cried out the eager little Hester with a profusion of curtsies.
‘Hold your tongue, if you please. I know the room which the creature occupies perfectly well. Mrs. Brown, have the goodness to come with me, and Beddoes, don‘t you lose sight of that woman,‘ said Mrs. Bute, seizing the candle.—‘Mr. Crawley, you had better go upstairs, and see that they are not murdering your unfortunate brother‘—and the calash, escorted by Mrs. Brown, walked away to the apartment, which, as she said truly, she knew perfectly well.
Bute went upstairs, and found the doctor from Mudbury, with the frightened Horrocks over his master in a chair. They were trying to bleed Sir Pitt Crawley.
With the early morning an express was sent off to Mr. Pitt Crawley by the rector‘s lady, who assumed the command of everything, and had watched the old baronet through the night. He had been brought back to a sort of life; he could not speak, but seemed to recognize people. Mrs. Bute kept resolutely by his bedside. She never seemed to want to sleep, that little woman, and did not close her fiery black eyes once, though the Doctor snored in the arm-chair. Horrocks made some wild efforts to assert his authority and assist his master: but Mrs. Bute called him a tipsy old wretch, and bade him never show his face again in that house or he should be transported like his abominable daughter.
Terrified by her manner he slunk down to the oak parlour where Mr. James was, who, having tried the bottle standing there and found no liquor in it, ordered Mr. Horrocks to get another bottle of rum, which he fetched, with clean glasses, and to which the rector and his son sat down: ordering Horrocks to put down the keys at that instant and never to show his face again.
Cowed by this behaviour Horrocks gave up the keys: and he and his daughter slunk off silently through the night, and gave up possession of the house of Queen‘s Crawley.
CHAPTER XL
In Which Becky Is Recognized By the Family
The heir of Crawley arrived at home, in due time, after this catastrophe, and henceforth may be said to have reigned in Queen‘s Crawley. For though the old baronet survived many months, he never recovered the use of his intellect or his speech completely, and the government of the estate devolved upon his elder son. In a strange condition Pitt found it. Sir Pitt was always buying and mortgaging : he had twenty men of business, and quarrels with each; quarrels with all his tenants, and lawsuits with them; lawsuits with the lawyers; lawsuits with the Mining and Dock Companies in which he was proprietor; and with every person with whom he had business. To unravel these difficulties, and to set the estate clear was a task worthy of the orderly and persevering diplomatist of Pumpernickel: and he set himself to work with prodigious assiduity. His whole family, of course, was transported to Queen‘s Crawley, whither Lady Southdown, of course, came too; and she set about converting the parish under the rector‘s nose, and brought down her irregular clergy to the dismay of the angry Mrs. Bute. Sir Pitt had concluded no bargain for the sale of the living of Queen‘s Crawley; when it should drop, her ladyship proposed to take the patronage into her own hands, and present a young protégé to the Rectory; on which subject the diplomatic Pitt said nothing.
Mrs. Bute‘s intentions with regard to Miss Betsy Horrocks were not carried into effect: and she paid no visit to Southampton Gaol. She and her father left the Hall, when the latter took possession of the ‘Crawley Arms‘ in the village, of which he had got a lease from Sir Pitt. The ex-butler had obtained a small freeholdlz there likewise, which gave him a vote for the borough. The rector had another of these votes, and these and four others formed the representative body which returned the two members for Queen‘s Crawley.22
There was a show of courtesy kept up between the Rectory and the Hall ladies, between the younger ones at least, for Mrs. Bute and Lady Southdown never could meet without battles, and gradually ceased seeing each other. Her ladyship kept her room when the ladies from the Rectory visited their cousins at the Hall. Perhaps Mr. Pitt was not very much displeased at these occasional absences of his mamma-in-law. He believed the Binkie family to be the greatest and wisest, and most interesting in the world, and her ladyship and his aunt had long held ascendancy over him; but sometimes he felt that she commanded him too much. To be considered young was complimentary doubtless; but at six-and-forty to be treated as a boy was sometimes mortifying. Lady Jane yielded up everything, however, to her mother. She was only fond of her children in private ; and it was lucky for her that Lady Southdown‘s multifarious business, her conferences with ministers, and her correspondence with all the missionaries of Africa, Asia, and Australasia, &c., occupied the venerable countess a great deal, so that she had but little time to devote to her granddaughter, the little Matilda, and her grandson, Master Pitt Crawley. The latter was a feeble child: and it was only by prodigious quantities of calomel that Lady Southdown was able to keep him in life at all.
As for Sir Pitt he retired into those very apartments where Lady Crawley had been previously extinguished, and here was tended by Miss Hester, the girl upon her promotion, with constant care and assiduity. What love, what fidelity, what constancy is there equal to that of a nurse with good wages? They smoo
th pillows: and make arrowroot: they get up at nights: they bear complaints and querulousness: they see the sun shining out of doors and don‘t want to go abroad: they sleep on arm-chairs, and eat their meals in solitude: they pass long, long evenings doing nothing, watching the embers, and the patient‘s drink simmering in the jug: they read the weekly paper the whole week through; and Law‘s Serious Call or the Whole Duty of Man suffices them for literature for the year—and we quarrel with them because, when their relations come to see them once a week, a little gin is smuggled in in their linen-basket. Ladies, what man‘s love is there that would stand a year‘s nursing of the object of his affection ? Whereas a nurse will stand by you for ten pounds a quarter, and we think her too highly paid. At least Mr. Crawley grumbled a good deal about paying half as much to Miss Hester for her constant attendance upon the baronet his father.
Of sunshiny days this old gentleman was taken out in a chair on the terrace—the very chair which Miss Crawley had had at Brighton, and which had been transported thence with a number of Lady Southdown‘s effects to Queen‘s Crawley. Lady Jane always walked by the old man; and was an evident favourite with him. He used to nod many times to her and smile when she came in, and utter inarticulate deprecatory moans when she was going away. When the door shut upon her he would cry and sob—whereupon Hester‘s face and manner, which was always exceedingly bland and gentle while her lady was present, would change at once and she would make faces at him, and clench her fist, and scream out, ‘Hold your tongue, you stoopid old fool,‘ and twirl away his chair from the fire which he loved to look at—at which he would cry more. For this was all that was left after more than seventy years of cunning and struggling, and drinking, and scheming, and sin, and selfishness—a whimpering old idiot put in and out of bed and cleaned and fed like a baby.
Vanity Fair (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 56