Chapter XIX: Miss Crawley at Nurse

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　We have seen how Mrs. Firkin, the lady's maid, as soonas any event of importance to the Crawley family cameto her knowledge, felt bound to communicate it to Mrs.Bute Crawley, at the Rectory; and have beforementioned how particularly kind and attentive that good-natured lady was to Miss Crawley's confidential servant.She had been a gracious friend to Miss Briggs, thecompanion, also; and had secured the latter's good-will by anumber of those attentions and promises, which cost solittle in the making, and are yet so valuable and agreeable tothe recipient. Indeed every good economist andmanager of a household must know how cheap and yethow amiable these professions are, and what a flavourthey give to the most homely dish in life. Who was theblundering idiot who said that "fine words butter noparsnips"? Half the parsnips of society are served andrendered palatable with no other sauce. As the immortalAlexis Soyer can make more delicious soup for a half-penny than an ignorant cook can concoct with pounds ofvegetables and meat, so a skilful artist will make a fewsimple and pleasing phrases go farther than ever so muchsubstantial benefit-stock in the hands of a mere bungler.Nay, we know that substantial benefits often sicken somestomachs; whereas, most will digest any amount of finewords, and be always eager for more of the same food.Mrs. Bute had told Briggs and Firkin so often of thedepth of her affection for them; and what she would do,if she had Miss Crawley's fortune, for friends so excellentand attached, that the ladies in question had the deepestregard for her; and felt as much gratitude andconfidence as if Mrs. Bute had loaded them with the mostexpensive favours.

　　Rawdon Crawley, on the other hand, like a selfishheavy dragoon as he was, never took the least trouble toconciliate his aunt's aides-de-camp, showed his contemptfor the pair with entire frankness--made Firkin pull offhis boots on one occasion--sent her out in the rain onignominious messages--and if he gave her a guinea, flungit to her as if it were a box on the ear. As his aunt, too,made a butt of Briggs, the Captain followed theexample, and levelled his jokes at her--jokes about asdelicate as a kick from his charger. Whereas, Mrs. Buteconsulted her in matters of taste or difficulty, admiredher poetry, and by a thousand acts of kindness andpoliteness, showed her appreciation of Briggs; and if shemade Firkin a twopenny-halfpenny present, accompaniedit with so many compliments, that the twopence-half-penny was transmuted into gold in the heart of the gratefulwaiting-maid, who, besides, was looking forwardsquite contentedly to some prodigious benefit which musthappen to her on the day when Mrs. Bute came into herfortune.

　　The different conduct of these two people is pointedout respectfully to the attention of persons commencingthe world. Praise everybody, I say to such: never besqueamish, but speak out your compliment both point-blank in a man's face, and behind his back, whenyou know there is a reasonable chance of his hearing itagain. Never lose a chance of saying a kind word. AsCollingwood never saw a vacant place in his estate buthe took an acorn out of his pocket and popped it in;so deal with your compliments through life. An acorncosts nothing; but it may sprout into a prodigious bit oftimber.

　　In a word, during Rawdon Crawley's prosperity, he wasonly obeyed with sulky acquiescence; when his disgracecame, there was nobody to help or pity him. Whereas,when Mrs. Bute took the command at Miss Crawley'shouse, the garrison there were charmed to act undersuch a leader, expecting all sorts of promotion from herpromises, her generosity, and her kind words.

　　That he would consider himself beaten, after one defeat,and make no attempt to regain the position he hadlost, Mrs. Bute Crawley never allowed herself to suppose.She knew Rebecca to be too clever and spirited anddesperate a woman to submit without a struggle; and feltthat she must prepare for that combat, and be incessantlywatchful against assault; or mine, or surprise.

　　In the first place, though she held the town, was shesure of the principal inhabitant? Would Miss Crawleyherself hold out; and had she not a secret longing towelcome back the ousted adversary? The old lady likedRawdon, and Rebecca, who amused her. Mrs. Bute couldnot disguise from herself the fact that none of her partycould so contribute to the pleasures of the town-bredlady. "My girls' singing, after that little odious governess's,I know is unbearable," the candid Rector's wifeowned to herself. "She always used to go to sleep whenMartha and Louisa played their duets. Jim's stiffcollege manners and poor dear Bute's talk about his dogsand horses always annoyed her. If I took her to theRectory, she would grow angry with us all, and fly, Iknow she would; and might fall into that horridRawdon's clutches again, and be the victim of that littleviper of a Sharp. Meanwhile, it is clear to me that she isexceedingly unwell, and cannot move for some weeks, atany rate; during which we must think of some plan toprotect her from the arts of those unprincipled people."

　　In the very best-of moments, if anybody told MissCrawley that she was, or looked ill, the trembling oldlady sent off for her doctor; and I daresay she was veryunwell after the sudden family event, which might serveto shake stronger nerves than hers. At least, Mrs. Butethought it was her duty to inform the physician, and theapothecary, and the dame-de-compagnie, and the domestics,that Miss Crawley was in a most critical state, andthat they were to act accordingly. She had the street laidknee-deep with straw; and the knocker put by with Mr.Bowls's plate. She insisted that the Doctor should calltwice a day; and deluged her patient with draughts everytwo hours. When anybody entered the room, she uttereda shshshsh so sibilant and ominous, that it frightened thepoor old lady in her bed, from which she couldnot look without seeing Mrs. Bute's beady eyes eagerlyfixed on her, as the latter sate steadfast in the arm-chairby the bedside. They seemed to lighten in the dark (forshe kept the curtains closed) as she moved about theroom on velvet paws like a cat. There Miss Crawley layfor days--ever so many days--Mr. Bute reading booksof devotion to her: for nights, long nights, during whichshe had to hear the watchman sing, the night-light sputter;visited at midnight, the last thing, by the stealthy apothecary;and then left to look at Mrs. Bute's twinkling eyes,or the flicks of yellow that the rushlight threw on thedreary darkened ceiling. Hygeia herself would havefallen sick under such a regimen; and how much morethis poor old nervous victim? It has been said that whenshe was in health and good spirits, this venerableinhabitant of Vanity Fair had as free notions about religionand morals as Monsieur de Voltaire himself could desire,but when illness overtook her, it was aggravated bythe most dreadful terrors of death, and an utter cowardicetook possession of the prostrate old sinner.

　　Sick-bed homilies and pious reflections are, to be sure,out of place in mere story-books, and we are not going(after the fashion of some novelists of the present day)to cajole the.public into a sermon, when it is only acomedy that the reader pays his money to witness. But,without preaching, the truth may surely be borne in mind,that the bustle, and triumph, and laughter, and gaietywhich Vanity Fair exhibits in public, do not always pursuethe performer into private life, and that the mostdreary depression of spirits and dismal repentancessometimes overcome him. Recollection of the best ordainedbanquets will scarcely cheer sick epicures. Reminiscencesof the most becoming dresses and brilliant ball triumphswill go very little way to console faded beauties. Perhapsstatesmen, at a particular period of existence, arenot much gratified at thinking over the most triumphantdivisions; and the success or the pleasure of yesterdaybecomes of very small account when a certain(albeit uncertain) morrow is in view, about which all ofus must some day or other be speculating. O brotherwearers of motley! Are there not moments when onegrows sick of grinning and tumbling, and the jingling ofcap and bells? This, dear friends and companions, is myamiable object--to walk with you through the Fair, toexamine the shops and the shows there; and that weshould all come home after the flare, and the noise, andthe gaiety, and be perfectly miserable in private.

　　"If that poor man of mine had a head on his shoulders,"Mrs. Bute Crawley thought to herself, "how useful hemight be, under present circumstances, to this unhappyold lady! He might make her repent of her shockingfree-thinking ways; he might urge her to do her duty,and cast off that odious reprobate who has disgracedhimself and his family; and he might induce her to dojustice to my dear girls and the two boys, who requireand deserve, I am sure, every assistance which theirrelatives can give them."

　　And, as the hatred of vice is always a progress towardsvirtue, Mrs. Bute Crawley endeavoured to instilher sister-in-law a proper abhorrence for all RawdonCrawley's manifold sins: of which his uncle's wife broughtforward such a catalogue as indeed would have servedto condemn a whole regiment of young officers. If a manhas committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralistmore anxious to point his errors out to the world thanhis own relations; so Mrs. Bute showed a perfect familyinterest and knowledge of Rawdon's history. She had allthe particulars of that ugly quarrel with Captain Marker,in which Rawdon, wrong from the beginning, ended inshooting the Captain. She knew how the unhappy LordDovedale, whose mamma had taken a house at Oxford,so that he might be educated there, and who had nevertouched a card in his life till he came to London, wasperverted by Rawdon at the Cocoa-Tree, made helplesslytipsy by this abominable seducer and perverter of youth,and fleeced of four thousand pounds. She described withthe most vivid minuteness the agonies of the countryfamilies whom he had ruined--the sons whom he hadplunged into dishonour and poverty--the daughterswhom he had inveigled into perdition. She knew the poortradesmen who were bankrupt by his extravagance--themean shifts and rogueries with which he had ministeredto it--the astounding falsehoods by which he had imposedupon the most generous of aunts, and the ingratitude andridicule by which he had repaid her sacrifices. Sheimparted these stories gradually to Miss Crawley; gave herthe whole benefit of them; felt it to be her bounden dutyas a Christian woman and mother of a family to do so;had not the smallest remorse or compunction for thevictim whom her tongue was immolating; nay, very likelythought her act was quite meritorious, and plumedherself upon her resolute manner of performing it. Yes,if a man's character is to be abused, say what you will,there's nobody like a relation to do the business. And oneis bound to own, regarding this unfortunate wretch of aRawdon Crawley, that the mere truth was enough tocondemn him, and that all inventions of scandal were quitesuperfluous pains on his friends' parts.

　　Rebecca, too, being now a relative, came in for thefullest share of Mrs. Bute's kind inquiries. This indefatigablepursuer of truth (having given strict orders that thedoor was to be denied to all emissaries or lettersfrom Rawdon), took Miss Crawley's carriage, and droveto her old friend Miss Pinkerton, at Minerva House,Chiswick Mall, to whom she announced the dreadfulintelligence of Captain Rawdon's seduction by Miss Sharp,and from whom she got sundry strange particularsregarding the ex-governess's birth and early history. Thefriend of the Lexicographer had plenty of informationto give. Miss Jemima was made to fetch the drawing-master's receipts and letters. This one was from aspunging-house: that entreated an advance: another wasfull of gratitude for Rebecca's reception by the ladies ofChiswick: and the last document from the unlucky artist'spen was that in which, from his dying bed, he recommendedhis orphan child to Miss Pinkerton's protection. Therewere juvenile letters and petitions from Rebecca, too, inthe collection, imploring aid for her father or declaringher own gratitude. Perhaps in Vanity Fair there are nobetter satires than letters. Take a bundle of your dearfriend's of ten years back--your dear friend whom youhate now. Look at a file of your sister's! how you clungto each other till you quarrelled about the twenty-poundlegacy! Get down the round-hand scrawls of your sonwho has half broken your heart with selfish undutifulnesssince; or a parcel of your own, breathing endlessardour and love eternal, which were sent back by yourmistress when she married the Nabob--your mistress forwhom you now care no more than for Queen Elizabeth.Vows, love, promises, confidences, gratitude, how queerlythey read after a while! There ought to be a law inVanity Fair ordering the destruction of every writtendocument (except receipted tradesmen's bills) after acertain brief and proper interval. Those quacks andmisanthropes who advertise indelible Japan ink should bemade to perish along with their wicked discoveries. Thebest ink for Vanity Fair use would be one that fadedutterly in a couple of days, and left the paper clean andblank, so that you might write on it to somebody else.

　　From Miss Pinkerton's the indefatigable Mrs. Butefollowed the track of Sharp and his daughter back to thelodgings in Greek Street, which the defunct painter hadoccupied; and where portraits of the landlady in whitesatin, and of the husband in brass buttons, done by Sharpin lieu of a quarter's rent, still decorated the parlourwalls. Mrs. Stokes was a communicative person, andquickly told all she knew about Mr. Sharp; how dissoluteand poor he was; how good-natured and amusing; how hewas always hunted by bailiffs and duns; how, to the landlady's horror, though she never could abide the woman,he did not marry his wife till a short time before herdeath; and what a queer little wild vixen his daughterwas; how she kept them all laughing with her fun andmimicry; how she used to fetch the gin from the public-house,and was known in all the studios in the quarter--in brief,Mrs. Bute got such a full account of her new niece'sparentage, education, and behaviour as wouldscarcely have pleased Rebecca, had the latter known thatsuch inquiries were being made concerning her.

　　Of all these industrious researches Miss Crawley hadthe full benefit. Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was the daughterof an opera-girl. She had danced herself. She had been amodel to the painters. She was brought up as becameher mother's daughter. She drank gin with her father,&c. &c. It was a lost woman who was married to a lostman; and the moral to be inferred from Mrs. Bute'stale was, that the knavery of the pair was irremediable,and that no properly conducted person should ever noticethem again.

　　These were the materials which prudent Mrs. Butegathered together in Park Lane, the provisions andammunition as it were with which she fortified the houseagainst the siege which she knew that Rawdon and hiswife would lay to Miss Crawley.

　　But if a fault may be found with her arrangements, itis this, that she was too eager: she managed rather toowell; undoubtedly she made Miss Crawley more ill thanwas necessary; and though the old invalid succumbedto her authority, it was so harassing and severe, that thevictim would be inclined to escape at the very first chancewhich fell in her way. Managing women, the ornamentsof their sex--women who order everything for everybody,and know so much better than any person concernedwhat is good for their neighbours, don't sometimesspeculate upon the possibility of a domestic revolt, orupon other extreme consequences resulting from theiroverstrained authority.

　　Thus, for instance, Mrs. Bute, with the best intentionsno doubt in the world, and wearing herself to death asshe did by foregoing sleep, dinner, fresh air, for the sakeof her invalid sister-in-law, carried her conviction of theold lady's illness so far that she almost managed herinto her coffin. She pointed out her sacrifices and theirresults one day to the constant apothecary, Mr. Clump.

　　"I am sure, my dear Mr. Clump," she said, "no effortsof mine have been wanting to restore our dear invalid,whom the ingratitude of her nephew has laid on the bedof sickness. I never shrink from personal discomfort: Inever refuse to sacrifice myself."

　　"Your devotion, it must be confessed, is admirable,"Mr. Clump says, with a low bow; "but--"

　　"I have scarcely closed my eyes since my arrival: Igive up sleep, health, every comfort, to my sense of duty.When my poor James was in the smallpox, did I allow anyhireling to nurse him? No."

　　"You did what became an excellent mother, my dearMadam--the best of mothers; but--~'

　　"As the mother of a family and the wife of an Englishclergyman, I humbly trust that my principles are good,"Mrs. Bute said, with a happy solemnity of conviction;"and, as long as Nature supports me, never, never, Mr.Clump, will I desert the post of duty. Others may bringthat grey head with sorrow to the bed of sickness (hereMrs. Bute, waving her hand, pointed to one of old MissCrawley's coffee-coloured fronts, which was perched ona stand in the dressing-room), but I will never quit it.Ah, Mr. Clump! I fear, I know, that the couch needsspiritual as well as medical consolation."

　　"What I was going to observe, my dear Madam,"--here the resolute Clump once more interposed with abland air--"what I was going to observe when you gaveutterance to sentiments which do you so much honour,was that I think you alarm yourself needlessly about ourkind friend, and sacrifice your own health too prodigallyin her favour."

　　"I would lay down my life for my duty, or for anymember of my husband's family," Mrs. Bute interposed.

　　"Yes, Madam, if need were; but we don't want MrsBute Crawley to be a martyr," Clump said gallantly. "DrSquills and myself have both considered Miss Crawley'scase with every anxiety and care, as you may suppose. Wesee her low-spirited and nervous; family events haveagitated her."

　　"Her nephew will come to perdition," Mrs. Crawleycried.

　　"Have agitated her: and you arrived like a guardianangel, my dear Madam, a positive guardian angel, Iassure you, to soothe her under the pressure of calamity.But Dr. Squills and I were thinking that our amiablefriend is not in such a state as renders confinement to herbed necessary. She is depressed, but this confinementperhaps adds to her depression. She should have change,fresh air, gaiety; the most delightful remedies in thepharmacopoeia," Mr. Clump said, grinning and showinghis handsome teeth. "Persuade her to rise, dear Madam;drag her from her couch and her low spirits; insist uponher taking little drives. They will restore the roses too toyour cheeks, if I may so speak to Mrs. Bute Crawley."

　　"The sight of her horrid nephew casually in the Park,where I am told the wretch drives with the brazen partnerof his crimes," Mrs. Bute said (letting the cat of selfishnessout of the bag of secrecy), "would cause her sucha shock, that we should have to bring her back to bedagain. She must not go out, Mr. Clump. She shall not goout as long as I remain to watch over her; And as for myhealth, what matters it? I give it cheerfully, sir. I sacrificeit at the altar of my duty."

　　"Upon my word, Madam," Mr. Clump now said bluntly,"I won't answer for her life if she remains locked upin that dark room. She is so nervous that we may loseher any day; and if you wish Captain Crawley to be herheir, I warn you frankly, Madam, that you are doingyour very best to serve him."

　　"Gracious mercy! is her life in danger?" Mrs. Butecried. "Why, why, Mr. Clump, did you not inform mesooner?"

　　The night before, Mr. Clump and Dr. Squills had had aconsultation (over a bottle of wine at the house of SirLapin Warren, whose lady was about to present himwith a thirteenth blessing), regarding Miss Crawley andher case.

　　"What a little harpy that woman from Hampshire is,Clump," Squills remarked, "that has seized upon oldTilly Crawley. Devilish good Madeira."

　　"What a fool Rawdon Crawley has been," Clump replied,"to go and marry a governess! There was somethingabout the girl, too."

　　"Green eyes, fair skin, pretty figure, famous frontaldevelopment," Squills remarked. "There is somethingabout her; and Crawley was a fool, Squills."

　　"A d-- fool--always was," the apothecary replied.

　　"Of course the old girl will fling him over," said thephysician, and after a pause added, "She'll cut up well, Isuppose."

　　"Cut up," says Clump with a grin; "I wouldn't have hercut up for two hundred a year."

　　"That Hampshire woman will kill her in two months,Clump, my boy, if she stops about her," Dr. Squills said."Old woman; full feeder; nervous subject; palpitation ofthe heart; pressure on the brain; apoplexy; off she goes.Get her up, Clump; get her out: or I wouldn't give manyweeks' purchase for your two hundred a year." And it wasacting upon this hint that the worthy apothecary spokewith so much candour to Mrs. Bute Crawley.

　　Having the old lady under her hand: in bed: with nobodynear, Mrs. Bute had made more than one assaultupon her, to induce her to alter her will. But Miss Crawley'susual terrors regarding death increased greatly whensuch dismal propositions were made to her, and Mrs.Bute saw that she must get her patient into cheerful spiritsand health before she could hope to attain the pious objectwhich she had in view. Whither to take her was thenext puzzle. The only place where she is not likely tomeet those odious Rawdons is at church, and that won'tamuse her, Mrs. Bute justly felt. "We must go and visitour beautiful suburbs of London," she then thought. "Ihear they are the most picturesque in the world"; and soshe had a sudden interest for Hampstead, and Hornsey,and found that Dulwich had great charms for her, andgetting her victim into her carriage, drove her to thoserustic spots, beguiling the little journeys with conversationsabout Rawdon and his wife, and telling every storyto the old lady which could add to her indignation againstthis pair of reprobates.

　　Perhaps Mrs. Bute pulled the string unnecessarily tight.For though she worked up Miss Crawley to a proper dislikeof her disobedient nephew, the invalid had a greathatred and secret terror of her victimizer, and pantedto escape from her. After a brief space, she rebelledagainst Highgate and Hornsey utterly. She would go intothe Park. Mrs. Bute knew they would meet the abominableRawdon there, and she was right. One day in thering, Rawdon's stanhope came in sight; Rebecca wasseated by him. In the enemy's equipage Miss Crawleyoccupied her usual place, with Mrs. Bute on her left, thepoodle and Miss Briggs on the back seat. It was a nervousmoment, and Rebecca's heart beat quick as she recognized the carriage; and as the two vehicles crossed eachother in a line, she clasped her hands, and looked towardsthe spinster with a face of agonized attachment and devotion. Rawdon himself trembled, and his face grew purplebehind his dyed mustachios. Only old Briggs was movedin the other carriage, and cast her great eyes nervouslytowards her old friends. Miss Crawley's bonnet was resolutelyturned towards the Serpentine. Mrs. Bute happened tobe in ecstasies with the poodle, and was calling him a littledarling, and a sweet little zoggy, and a pretty pet. Thecarriages moved on, each in his line.

　　"Done, by Jove," Rawdon said to his wife.

　　"Try once more, Rawdon," Rebecca answered. "Couldnot you lock your wheels into theirs, dearest?"

　　Rawdon had not the heart for that manoeuvre. Whenthe carriages met again, he stood up in his stanhope; heraised his hand ready to doff his hat; he looked with allhis eyes. But this time Miss Crawley's face was not turnedaway; she and Mrs. Bute looked him full in the face,and cut their nephew pitilessly. He sank back in his seatwith an oath, and striking out of the ring, dashed awaydesperately homewards.

　　It was a gallant and decided triumph for Mrs. Bute.But she felt the danger of many such meetings, as shesaw the evident nervousness of Miss Crawley; and shedetermined that it was most necessary for her dearfriend's health, that they should leave town for a while,and recommended Brighton very strongly.