teyne, though a nobleman of the greatest
station and talents, was a man whose attentions would
compromise any woman; he besought, he implored, he
commanded his sister-in-law to be watchful in her
intercourse with that nobleman.

Becky promised anything and everything Pitt wanted;
but Lord Steyne came to her house as often as ever,
and Sir Pitt's anger increased.  I wonder was Lady Jane
angry or pleased that her husband at last found fault
with his favourite Rebecca? Lord Steyne's visits
continuing, his own ceased, and his wife was for refusing
all further intercourse with that nobleman and declining
the invitation to the charade-night which the marchioness
sent to her; but Sir Pitt thought it was necessary to
accept it, as his Royal Highness would be there.

Although he went to the party in question, Sir Pitt
quitted it very early, and his wife, too, was very glad
to come away.  Becky hardly so much as spoke to him or
noticed her sister-in-law.  Pitt Crawley declared her
behaviour was monstrously indecorous, reprobated in
strong terms the habit of play-acting and fancy dressing
as highly unbecoming a British female, and after the
charades were over, took his brother Rawdon severely
to task for appearing himself and allowing his wife to
join in such improper exhibitions.

Rawdon said she should not join in any more such
amusements--but indeed, and perhaps from hints from
his elder brother and sister, he had already become a
very watchful and exemplary domestic character.  He left
off his clubs and billiards.  He never left home.  He took
Becky out to drive; he went laboriously with her to all
her parties.  Whenever my Lord Steyne called, he was
sure to find the Colonel.  And when Becky proposed to
go out without her husband, or received invitations for
herself, he peremptorily ordered her to refuse them:  and
there was that in the gentleman's manner which enforced
obedience.  Little Becky, to do her justice, was charmed
with Rawdon's gallantry.  If he was surly, she never was.
Whether friends were present or absent, she had always
a kind smile for him and was attentive to his pleasure
and comfort.  It was the early days of their marriage over
again:  the same good humour, prevenances, merriment,
and artless confidence and regard.  "How much pleasanter
it is," she would say, "to have you by my side in the
carriage than that foolish old Briggs!  Let us always go on
so, dear Rawdon.  How nice it would be, and how happy
we should always be, if we had but the money!" He
fell asleep after dinner in his chair; he did not see the
face opposite to him, haggard, weary, and terrible; it
lighted up with fresh candid smiles when he woke.  It
kissed him gaily.  He wondered that he had ever had
suspicions.  No, he never had suspicions; all those dumb
doubts and surly misgivings which had been gathering on
his mind were mere idle jealousies.  She was fond of him;
she always had been.  As for her shining in society, it
was no fault of hers; she was formed to shine there.
Was there any woman who could talk, or sing, or do
anything like her? If she would but like the boy!
Rawdon thought.  But the mother and son never could be
brought together.

And it was while Rawdon's mind was agitated with
these doubts and perplexities that the incident occurred
which was mentioned in the last chapter, and the
unfortunate Colonel found himself a prisoner away from
home.




CHAPTER LIII



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 hi~
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 fro
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, an 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.




CHAPTER LIV


Sunday After the Battle

The mansion of Sir Pitt Crawley, in Great Gaunt Street,
was just beginning to dress itself for the day, as Rawdon,
in his evening costume, which he had now worn
two days, passed by the scared female who was scouring
the steps and entered into his brother's study.  Lady
Jane, in her morning-gown, was up and above stairs in
the nursery superintending the toilettes of her children
and listening to the morning prayers which the little
creatures performed at her knee.  Every morning she and
they performed this duty privately, and before the public
ceremonial at which Sir Pitt presided and at which all the
people of the household were expected to assemble.
Rawdon sat down in the study before the Baronet's table,
set out with the orderly blue books and the letters, the
neatly docketed bills and symmetrical pamphlets, the
locked account-books, desks, and dispatch boxes, the
Bible, the Quarterly Review, and the Court Guide, which
all stood as if on parade awaiting the inspection of their
chief.

A book of family sermons, one of which Sir Pitt was
in the habit of administering to his family on Sunday
mornings, lay ready on the study table, and awaiting his
judicious selection.  And by the sermon-book was the
Observer newspaper, damp and neatly folded, and for
Sir Pitt's own private use.  His gentleman alone took the
opportunity of perusing the newspaper before he laid it
by his master's desk.  Before he had brought it into the
study that morning, he had read in the journal a flaming
account of "Festivities at Gaunt House," with the names
of all the distinguished personages invited by tho Marquis
of Steyne to meet his Royal Highness.  Having made
comments upon this entertainment to the housekeeper
and her niece as they were taking early tea and hot
buttered toast in the former lady's apartment, and
wondered how the Rawding Crawleys could git on, the valet
had damped and folded the paper once more, so that it
looked quite fresh and innocent against the arrival of
the master of the house.

Poor Rawdon took up the paper and began to try and
read it until his brother should arrive.  But the print fell
blank upon his eyes, and he did not know in the least
what he was reading.  The Government news and
appointments (which Sir Pitt as a public man was bound
to peruse, otherwise he would by no means permit the
introduction of Sunday papers into his household), the
theatrical criticisms, the fight for a hundred pounds
a side between the Barking Butcher and the Tutbury
Pet, the Gaunt House chronicle itself, which contained a
most complimentary though guarded account of the
famous charades of which Mrs. Becky had been the
heroine--all these passed as in a haze before Rawdon, as he
sat waiting the arrival of the chief of the family.

Punctually, as the shrill-toned bell of the black marble
study clock began to chime nine, Sir Pitt made his
appearance, fresh, neat, smugly shaved, with a waxy clean
face, and stiff shirt collar, his scanty hair combed and
oiled, trimming his nails as he descended the stairs
majestically, in a starched cravat and a grey flannel
dressing-gown--a real old English gentleman, in a word--
a model of neatness and every propriety.  He started when
he saw poor Rawdon in his study in tumbled clothes, with
blood-shot eyes, and his hair over his face.  He thought
his brother was not sober, and had been out all night on
some orgy.  "Good gracious, Rawdon," he said, with a
blank face, "what brings you here at this time of the
morning? Why ain't you at home?"

"Home," said Rawdon with a wild laugh.  "Don't be
frightened, Pitt.  I'm not drunk.  Shut the door; I want to
speak to you."

Pitt closed the door and came up to the table, where
he sat down in the other arm-chair--that one placed for
the reception of the steward, agent, or confidential
visitor who came to transact business with the Baronet--
and trimmed his nails more vehemently than ever.

"Pitt, it's all over with me," the Colonel said after a
pause.  "I'm done."

"I always said it would come to this," the Baronet
cried peevishly, and beating a tune with his clean-
trimmed nails.  "I warned you a thousand times.  I can't
help you any more.  Every shilling of my money is tied
up.  Even the hundred pounds that Jane took you last
night were promised to my lawyer to-morrow morning,
and the want of it will put me to great inconvenience.
I don't mean to say that I won't assist you ultimately.
But as for paying your creditors in full, I might as well
hope to pay the National Debt.  It is madness, sheer
madness, to think of such a thing.  You must come to a
compromise.  It's a painful thing for the family, but everybody
does it.  There was George Kitely, Lord Ragland's son,
went through the Court last week, and was what they
call whitewashed, I believe.  Lord Ragland would not pay
a shilling for him, and--"

"It's not money I want," Rawdon broke in.  "I'm not
come to you about myself.  Never mind what happens to
me "

"What is the matter, then?" said Pitt, somewhat
relieved.

"It's the boy," said Rawdon in a husky voice.  "I want
you to promise me that you will take charge of him
when I'm gone.  That dear good wife of yours has always
been good to him; and he's fonder of her than he is of
his .  .  .--Damn it.  Look here, Pitt--you know that I
was to have had Miss Crawley's money.  I wasn't brought
up like a younger brother, but was always encouraged to
be extravagant and kep idle.  But for this I might have
been quite a different man.  I didn't do my duty with the
regiment so bad.  You know how I was thrown over
about the money, and who got it."

"After the sacrifices I have made, and the manner in
which I have stood by you, I think this sort of reproach
is useless," Sir Pitt said.  "Your marriage was your own
doing, not mine."

"That's over now," said Rawdon.  "That's over now."
And the words were wrenched from him with a groan,
which made his brother start.

"Good God!  is she dead?" Sir Pitt said with a voice
of genuine alarm and commiseration.

"I wish I was," Rawdon replied.  "If it wasn't for little
Rawdon I'd have cut my throat this morning--and that
damned villain's too."

Sir Pitt instantly guessed the truth and surmised that
Lord Steyne was the person whose life Rawdon wished to
take.  The Colonel told his senior briefly, and in broken
accents, the circumstances of the case.  "It was a regular
plan between that scoundrel and her," he said.  "The
bailiffs were put upon me; I was taken as I was going
out of his house; when I wrote to her for money, she
said she was ill in bed and put me off to another day.
And when I got home I found her in diamonds and
sitting with that villain alone." He then went on to describe
hurriedly the personal conflict with Lord Steyne.  To an
affair of that nature, of course, he said, there was but
one issue, and after his conference with his brother, he
was going away to make the necessary arrangements for
the meeting which must ensue.  "And as it may end
fatally with me," Rawdon said with a broken voice, "and
as the boy has no mother, I must leave him to you and
Jane, Pitt--only it will be a comfort to me if you will
promise me to be his friend."

The elder brother was much affected, and shook
Rawdon's hand with a cordiality seldom exhibited by him.
Rawdon passed his hand over his shaggy eyebrows.
"Thank you, brother," said he.  "I know I can trust your
word."

"I will, upon my honour," the Baronet said.  And thus,
and almost mutely, this bargain was struck between
them.

Then Rawdon took out of his pocket the little
pocket-book which he had discovered in Becky's desk, and from
which he drew a bundle of the notes which it contained.
"Here's six hundred," he said--"you didn't know I was
so rich.  I want you to give the money to Briggs, who lent
it to us--and who was kind to the boy--and I've always
felt ashamed of having taken the poor old woman's
money.  And here's some more--I've only kept back a
few pounds--which Becky may as well have, to get on
with." As he spoke he took hold of the other notes to
give to his brother, but his hands shook, and he was so
agitated that the pocket-book fell from him, and out of
it the thousand-pound note which had been the last of
the unlucky Becky's winnings.

Pitt stooped and picked them up, amazed at so much
wealth.  "Not that," Rawdon said.  "I hope to put a bullet
into the man whom that belongs to." He had thought to
himself, it would be a fine revenge to wrap a ball in the
note and kill Steyne with it.

After this colloquy the brothers once more shook
hands and parted.  Lady Jane had heard of the Colonel's
arrival, and was waiting for her husband in the adjoining
dining-room, with female instinct, auguring evil.  The
door of the dining-room happened to be left open, and
the lady of course was issuing from it as the two brothers
passed out of the study.  She held out her hand to
Rawdon and said she was glad he was come to breakfast,
though she could perceive, by his haggard unshorn face
and the dark looks of her husband, that there was very
little question of breakfast between them.  Rawdon
muttered some excuses about an engagement, squeezing hard
the timid little hand which his sister-in-law reached out
to him.  Her imploring eyes could read nothing but
calamity in his face, but he went away without another
word.  Nor did Sir Pitt vouchsafe her any explanation.
The children came up to salute him, and he kissed them
in his usual frigid manner.  The mother took both of them
close to herself, and held a hand of each of them as they
knelt down to prayers, which Sir Pitt read to them, and
to the servants in their Sunday suits or liveries, ranged
upon chairs on the other side of the hissing tea-urn.
Breakfast was so late that day, in consequence of the
delays which had occurred, that the church-bells began
to ring whilst they were sitting over their meal; and
Lady Jane was too ill, she said, to go to church, though
her thoughts had been entirely astray during the period
of family devotion.

Rawdon Crawley meanwhile hurried on from Great
Gaunt Street, and knocking at the great bronze
Medusa's head which stands on the portal of Gaunt House,
brought out the purple Silenus in a red and silver
waistcoat who acts as porter of that palace.  The man was
scared also by the Colonel's dishevelled appearance, and
barred the way as if afraid that the other was going to
force it.  But Colonel Crawley only took out a card and
enjoined him particularly to send it in to Lord Steyne,
and to mark the address written on it, and say that
Colonel Crawley would be all day after one o'clock at the
Regent Club in St.  James's Street--not at home.  The fat
red-faced man looked after him with astonishment as he
strode away; so did the people in their Sunday clothes
who were out so early; the charity-boys with shining
faces, the greengrocer lolling at his door, and the publican
shutting his shutters in the sunshine, against service
commenced.  The people joked at the cab-stand about
his appearance, as he took a carriage there, and told the
driver to drive him to Knightsbridge Barracks.

All the bells were jangling and tolling as he reached
that place.  He might have seen his old acquaintance
Amelia on her way from Brompton to Russell Square,
had he been looking out.  Troops of schools were on
their march to church, the shiny pavement and outsides
of coaches in the suburbs were thronged with people out
upon their Sunday pleasure; but the Colonel was much
too busy to take any heed of these phenomena, and,
arriving at Knightsbridge, speedily made his way up to the
room of his old friend and comrade Captain Macmurdo,
who Crawley found, to his satisfaction, was in barracks.

Captain Macmurdo, a veteran officer and Waterloo
man, greatly liked by his regiment, in which want of
money alone prevented him from attaining the highest
ranks, was enjoying the forenoon calmly in bed.  He had
been at a fast supper-party, given the night before by
Captain the Honourable George Cinqbars, at his house
in Brompton Square, to several young men of the
regiment, and a number of ladies of the corps de ballet, and
old Mac, who was at home with people of all ages and
ranks, and consorted with generals, dog-fanciers, opera-
dancers, bruisers, and every kind of person, in a word,
was resting himself after the night's labours, and, not
being on duty, was in bed.

His room was hung round with boxing, sporting, and
dancing pictures, presented to him by comrades as they
retired from the regiment, and married and settled into
quiet life.  And as he was now nearly fifty years of age,
twenty-four of which he had passed in the corps, he had
a singular museum.  He was one of the best shots in
England, and, for a heavy man, one of the best riders;
indeed, he and Crawley had been rivals when the latter
was in the Army.  To be brief, Mr. Macmurdo was lying
in bed, reading in Bell's Life an account of that very
fight between the Tutbury Pet and the Barking Butcher,
which has been before mentioned--a venerable bristly
warrior, with a little close-shaved grey head, with a silk
nightcap, a red face and nose, and a great dyed
moustache.

When Rawdon told the Captain he wanted a friend, the
latter knew perfectly well on what duty of friendship he
was called to act, and indeed had conducted scores of
affairs for his acquaintances with the greatest prudence
and skill.  His Royal Highness the late lamented
Commander-in-Chief had had the greatest regard for
Macmurdo on this account, and he was the common refuge
of gentlemen in trouble.

"What's the row about, Crawley, my boy?" said the
old warrior.  "No more gambling business, hay, like that
when we shot Captain Marker?"

"It's about--about my wife," Crawley answered,
casting down his eyes and turning very red.

The other gave a whistle.  "I always said she'd throw
you over," he began--indeed there were bets in the
regiment and at the clubs regarding the probable fate of
Colonel Crawley, so lightly was his wife's character
esteemed by his comrades and the world; but seeing the
savage look with which Rawdon answered the expression
of this opinion, Macmurdo did not think fit to enlarge
upon it further.

"Is there no way out of it, old boy?" the Captain
continued in a grave tone.  "Is it only suspicion, you know,
or--or what is it? Any letters? Can't you keep it quiet?
Best not make any noise about a thing of that sort if you
can help it." "Think of his only finding her out now," the
Captain thought to himself, and remembered a hundred
particular conversations at the mess-table, in which Mrs.
Crawley's reputation had been torn to shreds.

"There's no way but one out of it," Rawdon replied--
"and there's only a way out of it for one of us, Mac--do
you understand? I was put out of the way--arrested--I
found 'em alone together.  I told him he was a liar and a
coward, and knocked him down and thrashed him."

"Serve him right," Macmurdo said.  "Who is it?"

Rawdon answered it was Lord Steyne.

"The deuce!  a Marquis!  they said he--that is, they
said you--"

"What the devil do you mean?" roared out Rawdon;
"do you mean that you ever heard a fellow doubt about
my wife and didn't tell me, Mac?"

"The world's very censorious, old boy," the other
replied.  "What the deuce was the good of my telling you
what any tom-fools talked about?"

"It was damned unfriendly, Mac," said Rawdon, quite
overcome; and, covering his face with his hands, he gave
way to an emotion, the sight of which caused the tough
old campaigner opposite him to wince with sympathy.
"Hold up, old boy," he said; "great man or not, we'll put
a bullet in him, damn him.  As for women, they're all so."

"You don't know how fond I was of that one,"
Rawdon said, half-inarticulately.  "Damme, I followed her like
a footman.  I gave up everything I had to her.  I'm a
beggar because I would marry her.  By Jove, sir, I've pawned
my own watch in order to get her anything she fancied;
and she she's been making a purse for herself all the
time, and grudged me a hundred pound to get me out of
quod." He then fiercely and incoherently, and with an
agitation under which his counsellor had never before
seen him labour, told Macmurdo the circumstances of
the story.  His adviser caught at some stray hints in it.
"She may be innocent, after all," he said.  "She says
so.  Steyne has been a hundred times alone with her in
the house before."

"It may be so," Rawdon answered sadly, "but this don't
look very innocent":  and he showed the Captain the
thousand-pound note which he had found in Becky's
pocket-book.  "This is what he gave her, Mac, and she
kep it unknown to me; and with this money in the house,
she refused to stand by me when I was locked up." T