Vanity Fair - Page 316/573

The candles lighted up Lord Steyne's shining bald head, which was

fringed with red hair. He had thick bushy eyebrows, with little

twinkling bloodshot eyes, surrounded by a thousand wrinkles. His jaw

was underhung, and when he laughed, two white buck-teeth protruded

themselves and glistened savagely in the midst of the grin. He had been

dining with royal personages, and wore his garter and ribbon. A short

man was his Lordship, broad-chested and bow-legged, but proud of the

fineness of his foot and ankle, and always caressing his garter-knee.

"And so the shepherd is not enough," said he, "to defend his lambkin?"

"The shepherd is too fond of playing at cards and going to his clubs,"

answered Becky, laughing.

"'Gad, what a debauched Corydon!" said my lord--"what a mouth for a

pipe!"

"I take your three to two," here said Rawdon, at the card-table.

"Hark at Meliboeus," snarled the noble marquis; "he's pastorally

occupied too: he's shearing a Southdown. What an innocent mutton, hey?

Damme, what a snowy fleece!"

Rebecca's eyes shot out gleams of scornful humour. "My lord," she said,

"you are a knight of the Order." He had the collar round his neck,

indeed--a gift of the restored princes of Spain.

Lord Steyne in early life had been notorious for his daring and his

success at play. He had sat up two days and two nights with Mr. Fox at

hazard. He had won money of the most august personages of the realm:

he had won his marquisate, it was said, at the gaming-table; but he did

not like an allusion to those bygone fredaines. Rebecca saw the scowl

gathering over his heavy brow.

She rose up from her sofa and went and took his coffee cup out of his

hand with a little curtsey. "Yes," she said, "I must get a watchdog.

But he won't bark at YOU." And, going into the other drawing-room, she

sat down to the piano and began to sing little French songs in such a

charming, thrilling voice that the mollified nobleman speedily followed

her into that chamber, and might be seen nodding his head and bowing

time over her.

Rawdon and his friend meanwhile played ecarte until they had enough.

The Colonel won; but, say that he won ever so much and often, nights

like these, which occurred many times in the week--his wife having all

the talk and all the admiration, and he sitting silent without the

circle, not comprehending a word of the jokes, the allusions, the

mystical language within--must have been rather wearisome to the

ex-dragoon.

"How is Mrs. Crawley's husband?" Lord Steyne used to say to him by way

of a good day when they met; and indeed that was now his avocation in

life. He was Colonel Crawley no more. He was Mrs. Crawley's husband.