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

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 softhearted 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 stairhead. 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