Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray (best thriller novels to read TXT) 📕

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, 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 tumblers 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 strongroom,” 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.

“Law, Betsy, how could you go for to tell such a wicked story!” said Hester, the little kitchen-maid late on her promotion⁠—“and to Madame Crawley, so good and kind, and his Rev’rince (with a curtsey), 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 curtseys.

“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 armchair. 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.

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