Vanity Fair (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  ‘I can‘t send her away,‘ Becky said presently, after a pause, and in a very sad voice. Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and she turned away her head.

  ‘You owe her her wages? I suppose,‘ said the peer.

  ‘Worse than that,‘ said Becky, still casting down her eyes, ‘I have ruined her.‘

  ‘Ruined her?—then why don‘t you turn her out?‘ the gentleman asked.

  ‘Men do that,‘ Becky answered bitterly. ‘Women are not so bad as you. Last year when we were reduced to our last guinea, she gave us everything. She shall never leave me, until we are ruined utterly ourselves, which does not seem far off, or until I can pay her the uttermost farthing.‘

  ‘—it, how much is it?‘ said the peer with an oath. And Becky, reflecting on the largeness of his means, mentioned not only the sum which she had borrowed from Miss Briggs, but one of nearly double the amount.

  This caused the Lord Steyne to break out in another brief and energetic expression of anger, at which Rebecca held down her head the more, and cried bitterly. ‘I could not help it. It was my only chance. I dare not tell my husband. He would kill me if I told him what I have done. I have kept it a secret from everybody but you—and you forced it from me. Ah, what shall I do, Lord Steyne? for I am very, very unhappy!‘

  Lord Steyne made no reply except by beating the devil‘s tattoo,on and biting his nails. At last he clapped his hat on his head, and flung out of the room. Rebecca did not rise from her attitude of misery until the door slammed upon him, and his carriage whirled away. Then she rose up with the queerest expression of victorious mischief glittering in her green eyes. She burst out laughing once or twice to herself, as she sat at work; and sitting down to the piano, she rattled away a triumphant voluntary on the keys, which made the people pause under her window to listen to her brilliant music.

  That night, there came two notes from Gaunt House for the little woman, the one containing a card of invitation from Lord and Lady Steyne to a dinner at Gaunt House next Friday: while the other enclosed a slip of grey paper bearing Lord Steyne‘s signature and the address of Messrs. Jones, Brown, and Robinson, Lombard Street.

  Rawdon heard Becky laughing in the night once or twice. It was only her delight at going to Gaunt House and facing the ladies there, she said, which amused her so. But the truth was, that she was occupied with a great number of other thoughts. Should she pay off old Briggs and give her her congé?oo Should she astonish Raggles by settling his account? She turned over all these thoughts on her pillow, and on the next day, when Rawdon went out to pay his morning visit to the club, Mrs. Crawley (in a modest dress with a veil on) whipped off in a hackney-coach to the City: and being landed at Messrs. Jones and Robinson‘s bank, presented a document there to the authority at the desk, who, in reply, asked her ‘How she would take it?‘

  BECKY IN LOMBARD STREET

  She gently said ‘she would take a hundred and fifty pounds in small notes and the remainder in one note‘: and passing through St. Paul‘s Churchyard stopped there and bought the handsomest black silk gown for Briggs which money could buy; and which, with a kiss and the kindest speeches, she presented to the simple old spinster.

  Then she walked to Mr. Raggles, inquired about his children affectionately, and gave him fifty pounds on account. Then she went to the livery-man from whom she jobbed her carriages and gratified him with a similar sum. ‘And I hope this will be a lesson to you, Spavin,‘ she said, ‘and that on the next Drawing-room day my brother, Sir Pitt, will not be inconve nienced by being obliged to take four of us in his carriage to wait upon His Majesty, because my own carriage is not forthcoming.‘ It appears there had been a difference on the last Drawing-room day. Hence the degradation which the colonel had almost suffered, of being obliged to enter the presence of his sovereign in a hack cab.

  These arrangement‘s concluded, Becky paid a visit upstairs to the before-mentioned desk, which Amelia Sedley had given her years and years ago, and which contained a number of useful and valuable little things: in which private museum she placed the one note which Messrs. Jones and Robinson‘s cashier had given her.

  CHAPTER XLIX

  In Which We Enjoy Three Courses and a Dessert

  When the ladies of Gaunt House were at breakfast that morning Lord Steyne (who took his chocolate in private, and seldom disturbed the females of his household, or saw them except upon public days, or when they crossed each other in the hall, or when from his pit-box at the Opera he surveyed them in their box on the grand tier)—his lordship, we say, appeared among the ladies and the children who were assembled over the tea and toast, and a battle royal ensued à propos of Rebecca.

  ‘My Lady Steyne,‘ he said, ‘I want to see the list for your dinner on Friday; and I want you, if you please, to write a card for Colonel and Mrs. Crawley.‘

  ‘Blanche writes them,‘ Lady Steyne said, in a flutter. ‘Lady Gaunt writes them.‘

  ‘I will not write to that person,‘ Lady Gaunt said, a tall and stately lady, who looked up for an instant and then down again after she had spoken. It was not good to meet Lord Steyne‘s eyes for those who had offended him.

  ‘Send the children out of the room. Go!‘ said he, pulling at the bell-rope. The urchins, always frightened before him, retired: their mother would have followed too. ‘Not you,‘ he said. ‘You stop.‘

  ‘My Lady Steyne,‘ he said, ‘once more will you have the goodness to go to the desk, and write that card for your dinner on Friday?‘

  ‘My lord, I will not be present at it,‘ Lady Gaunt said; ‘I will go home.‘

  ‘I wish you would, and stay there. You will find the bailiffs at Bareacres very pleasant company, and I shall be freed from lending money to your relations, and from your own damned tragedy airs. Who are you to give orders here? You have no money. You‘ve got no brains. You were here to have children, and you have not had any. Gaunt‘s tired of you; and George‘s wife is the only person in the family who doesn‘t wish you were dead. Gaunt would marry again if you were.‘

  ‘I wish I were,‘ her ladyship answered, with tears and rage in her eyes.

  ‘You, forsooth, must give yourself airs of virtue; while my wife, who is an immaculate saint, as everybody knows, and never did wrong in her life, has no objection to meet my young friend, Mrs. Crawley. My Lady Steyne knows that appearances are sometimes against the best of women; that lies are often told about the most innocent of them. Pray, madame, shall I tell you some little anecdotes about my Lady Bareacres, your mamma?‘

  ‘You may strike me if you like, sir, or hit any cruel blow,‘ Lady Gaunt said. To see his wife and daughter suffering always put his lordship into a good humour.

  ‘My sweet Blanche,‘ he said, ‘I am a gentleman, and never lay my hand upon a woman, save in the way of kindness. I only wish to correct little faults in your character. You women are too proud, and sadly lack humility, as Father Mole, I‘m sure, would tell my Lady Steyne if he were here. You mustn‘t give yourselves airs: you must be meek and humble, my blessings. For all Lady Steyne knows, this calumniated, simple, good-humoured Mrs. Crawley is quite innocent—even more innocent than herself. Her husband‘s character is not good, but it is as good as Bareacres‘s, who has played a little and not paid a great deal, who cheated you out of the only legacy you ever had, and left you a pauper on my hands. And Mrs. Crawley is not very well born; but she is not worse than Fanny‘s illustrious ancestor, the first de la Jones.‘

  ‘The money which I brought into the family, sir,‘ Lady George cried out

  ‘You purchased a contingent reversionop with it,‘ the marquis said, darkly. ‘If Gaunt dies, your husband may come to his honours; your little boys may inherit them, and who knows what besides? In the meanwhile, ladies, be as proud and virtuous as you like abroad, but don‘t give me any airs. As for Mrs. Crawley‘s character, I shan‘t demean myself or that most spotless and perfectly irreproachable lady, by even hinting that it requires a defence. You will be pleased to receive her with the utmost
cordiality, as you will receive all persons whom I present in this house. This house?‘ He broke out with a laugh. ‘Who is the master of it? and what is it? This Temple of Virtue belongs to me. And if I invite all Newgate or all Bedlamoq here, by—, they shall be welcome.‘

  After this vigorous allocution, to one of which sort Lord Steyne treated his ‘Hareem‘, whenever symptoms of insubordination appeared in his household, the crestfallen women had nothing for it but to obey. Lady Gaunt wrote the invitation which his lordship required, and she and her mother-in-law drove in person, and with bitter and humiliated hearts, to leave the cards on Mrs. Rawdon, the reception of which caused that innocent woman so much pleasure.

  There were families in London who would have sacrificed a year‘s income to receive such an honour at the hands of those great ladies. Mrs. Frederick Bullock, for instance, would have gone on her knees from May Fair to Lombard Street, if Lady Steyne and Lady Gaunt had been waiting in the City to raise her up, and say, ‘Come to us next Friday,‘—not to one of the great crushes, and grand balls of Gaunt House, whither everybody went, but to the sacred, unapproachable, mysterious, delicious entertainments, to be admitted to one of which was a privilege, and an honour, and a blessing indeed.

  Severe, spotless, and beautiful, Lady Gaunt held the very highest rank in Vanity Fair. The distinguished courtesy with which Lord Steyne treated her, charmed everybody who witnessed his behaviour, caused the severest critics to admit how perfect a gentleman he was, and to own that his lordship‘s heart at least was in the right place.

  The ladies of Gaunt House called Lady Bareacres in to their aid, in order to repulse the common enemy. One of Lady Gaunt‘s carriages went to Hill Street for her ladyship‘s mother, all whose equipages were in the hands of the bailiffs, whose very jewels and wardrobe, it was said, had been seized by those inexorable Israelites. Bareacres Castle was theirs, too, with all its costly pictures, furniture, and articles of virtuor—the magnificent Vandykes; the noble Reynolds pictures; the Lawrence portraits, tawdry and beautiful, and, thirty years ago, deemed as precious as works of real genius; the matchless Dancing Nymph of Canova, for which Lady Bareacres had sat in her youth—Lady Bareacres splendid then, and radiant in wealth, rank, and beauty—a toothless, bald, old woman now—a mere rag of a former robe of state. Her lord, painted at the same time by Lawrence, as waving his sabre in front of Bareacres Castle, and clothed in his uniform as colonel of the Thistlewood Yeomanry, was a withered, old, lean man in a greatcoat and a Brutus wig: slinking about Gray‘s Inn of mornings chiefly, and dining alone at clubs. He did not like to dine with Steyne now. They had run races of pleasure together in youth when Bareacres was the winner. But Steyne had more bottom than he, and had lasted him out. The marquis was ten times a greater man now than the young Lord Gaunt of ‘85; and Bareacres nowhere in the race—old, beaten, bankrupt, and broken down. He had borrowed too much money of Steyne to find it pleasant to meet his old comrade often. The latter, whenever he wished to be merry, used jeeringly to ask Lady Gaunt, why her father had not come to see her? ‘He has not been here for four months,‘ Lord Steyne would say. ‘I can always tell by my cheque-book afterwards, when I get a visit from Bareacres. What a comfort it is, my ladies, I bank with one of my sons‘ fathers-in-law, and the other banks with me!‘

  Of the other illustrious persons whom Becky had the honour to encounter on this her first presentation to the grand world, it does not become the present historian to say much. There was His Excellency the Prince of Peterwaradin, with his princess; a nobleman tightly girthed, with a large military chest, on which the plaque of his order shone magnificently, and wearing the red collar of the Golden Fleece round his neck. He was the owner of countless flocks. ‘Look at his face. I think he must be descended from a sheep,‘ Becky whispered to Lord Steyne. Indeed, his excellency‘s countenance, long, solemn, and white, with the ornament round his neck, bore some resemblance to that of a venerable bell-wether.

  There was Mr. John Paul Jefferson Jones, titularly attached to the American Embassy, and correspondent of the New York Demagogue; who, by way of making himself agreeable to the company, asked Lady Steyne, during a pause in the conversation at dinner, how his dear friend, George Gaunt, liked the Brazils?—He and George had been most intimate at Naples, and had gone up Vesuvius together. Mr. Jones wrote a full and particular account of the dinner, which appeared duly in the Demagogue. He mentioned the names and titles of all the guests, giving biographical sketches of the principal people. He described the persons of the ladies with great eloquence; the service of the table; the size and costume of the servants; enumerated the dishes and wines served; the ornaments of the sideboard, and the probable value of the plate. Such a dinner he calculated could not be dished up under fifteen or eighteen dollars per head. And he was in the habit, until very lately, of sending over protégés, with letters of recommendation, to the present Marquis of Steyne, encouraged to do so by the intimate terms on which he had lived with his dear friend, the late lord. He was most indignant that a young and insignificant aristocrat, the Earl of Southdown, should have taken the pas of him in their procession to the dining-room. ‘Just as I was stepping up to offer my hand to a very pleasing and witty fashionable, the brilliant and exclusive Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,‘—he wrote—‘the young patrician interposed between me and the lady, and whisked my Helen off without a word of apology. I was fain to bring up the rear with the colonel, the lady‘s husband, a stout red-faced warrior who distinguished himself at Waterloo, where he had better luck than befell some of his brother red-coats at New Orleans.‘os

  The colonel‘s countenance on coming into this polite society wore as many blushes as the face of a boy of sixteen assumes when he is confronted with his sister‘s schoolfellows. It has been told before that honest Rawdon had not been much used at any period of his life to ladies‘ company. With the men at the club or the mess-room, he was well enough; and could ride, bet, smoke, or play at billiards with the boldest of them. He had had his time for female friendships too: but that was twenty years ago, and the ladies were of the rank of those with whom Young Marlow in the com edy is represented as having been familiar before he became abashed in the presence of Miss Hardcastle.ot The times are such that one scarcely dares to allude to that kind of company which thousands of our young men in Vanity Fair are frequenting every day, which nightly fills casinos and dancing-rooms, which is known to exist as well as the ring in Hyde Park or the congregation at St. James‘s—but which the most squeamish if not the most moral of societies is determined to ignore. In a word, although Colonel Crawley was now five-and-forty years of age, it had not been his lot in life to meet with a half-dozen good women, besides his paragon of a wife. All except her and his kind sister Lady Jane, whose gentle nature had tamed and won him, scared the worthy colonel; and on occasion of his first dinner at Gaunt House he was not heard to make a single remark, except to state that the weather was very hot. Indeed Becky would have left him at home, but that virtue ordained that her husband should be by her side to protect the timid and fluttering little creature on her first appearance in polite society.

  On her first appearance Lord Steyne stepped forward, taking her hand, and greeting her with great courtesy, and presenting her to Lady Steyne, and their ladyships, her daughters. Their ladyships made three stately curtsies, and the elder lady to be sure gave her hand to the newcomer, but it was as cold and lifeless as marble.

  Becky took it, however, with grateful humility; and performing a reverence which would have done credit to the best dancing-master, put herself at Lady Steyne‘s feet, as it were, by saying that his lordship had been her father‘s earliest friend and patron, and that she, Becky, had learned to honour and respect the Steyne family from the days of her childhood. The fact is, that Lord Steyne had once purchased a couple of pictures of the late Sharp, and the affectionate orphan could never forget her gratitude for that favour.

  The Lady Bareacres then came under Becky‘s cognizance—to whom the colonel‘s
lady made also a most respectful obeisance: it was returned with severe dignity by the exalted person in question.

  ‘I had the pleasure of making your ladyship‘s acquaintance at Brussels ten years ago,‘ Becky said, in the most winning manner. ‘I had the good fortune to meet Lady Bareacres, at the Duchess of Richmond‘s ball, the night before the battle of Waterloo. And I recollect your ladyship, and my Lady Blanche, your daughter, sitting in the carriage in the porte-cochère at the inn, waiting for horses. I hope your ladyship‘s diamonds are safe.‘

  Everybody‘s eyes looked into their neighbours‘. The famous diamonds had undergone a famous seizure, it appears, about which Becky, of course, knew nothing. Rawdon Crawley retreated with Lord Southdown into a window, where the latter was heard to laugh immoderately, as Rawdon told him the story of Lady Bareacres wanting horses, and ‘knuckling down by Jove‘, to Mrs. Crawley. ‘I think I needn‘t be afraid of that woman,‘ Becky thought. Indeed, Lady Bareacres exchanged terrified and angry looks with her daughter, and retreated to a table, where she began to look at pictures with great energy.

  When the potentate from the Danube made his appearance, the conversation was carried on in the French language, and the Lady Bareacres and the younger ladies found, to their farther mortification, that Mrs. Crawley was much better acquainted with that tongue, and spoke it with a much better accent than they. Becky had met other Hungarian magnates with the army in France, in 1816-17. She asked after her friends with great interest. The foreign personages thought that she was a lady of great distinction; and the prince and the princess asked severally of Lord Steyne and the marchioness, whom they conducted to dinner, who was that petite dame who spoke so well?