Vanity Fair - Page 459/573

Hearing a buzz and a stir below, and indignant at the impudence of

those servants who would not answer her summons, Mrs. Crawley flung her

morning robe round her and descended majestically to the drawing-room,

whence the noise proceeded.

The cook was there with blackened face, seated on the beautiful chintz

sofa by the side of Mrs. Raggles, to whom she was administering

Maraschino. The page with the sugar-loaf buttons, who carried about

Becky's pink notes, and jumped about her little carriage with such

alacrity, was now engaged putting his fingers into a cream dish; the

footman was talking to Raggles, who had a face full of perplexity and

woe--and yet, though the door was open, and Becky had been screaming a

half-dozen of times a few feet off, not one of her attendants had

obeyed her call. "Have a little drop, do'ee now, Mrs. Raggles," the

cook was saying as Becky entered, the white cashmere dressing-gown

flouncing around her.

"Simpson! Trotter!" the mistress of the house cried in great wrath.

"How dare you stay here when you heard me call? How dare you sit down

in my presence? Where's my maid?" The page withdrew his fingers from

his mouth with a momentary terror, but the cook took off a glass of

Maraschino, of which Mrs. Raggles had had enough, staring at Becky over

the little gilt glass as she drained its contents. The liquor appeared

to give the odious rebel courage.

"YOUR sofy, indeed!" Mrs. Cook said. "I'm a settin' on Mrs. Raggles's

sofy. Don't you stir, Mrs. Raggles, Mum. I'm a settin' on Mr. and Mrs.

Raggles's sofy, which they bought with honest money, and very dear it

cost 'em, too. And I'm thinkin' if I set here until I'm paid my wages,

I shall set a precious long time, Mrs. Raggles; and set I will,

too--ha! ha!" and with this she filled herself another glass of the

liquor and drank it with a more hideously satirical air.

"Trotter! Simpson! turn that drunken wretch out," screamed Mrs.

Crawley.

"I shawn't," said Trotter the footman; "turn out yourself. Pay our

selleries, and turn me out too. WE'LL go fast enough."

"Are you all here to insult me?" cried Becky in a fury; "when Colonel

Crawley comes home I'll--"

At this the servants burst into a horse haw-haw, in which, however,

Raggles, who still kept a most melancholy countenance, did not join.

"He ain't a coming back," Mr. Trotter resumed. "He sent for his

things, and I wouldn't let 'em go, although Mr. Raggles would; and I

don't b'lieve he's no more a Colonel than I am. He's hoff, and I

suppose you're a goin' after him. You're no better than swindlers,

both on you. Don't be a bullyin' ME. I won't stand it. Pay us our

selleries, I say. Pay us our selleries." It was evident, from Mr.

Trotter's flushed countenance and defective intonation, that he, too,

had had recourse to vinous stimulus.