Vanity Fair - Page 149/573

The different conduct of these two people is pointed out respectfully

to the attention of persons commencing the world. Praise everybody, I

say to such: never be squeamish, but speak out your compliment both

point-blank in a man's face, and behind his back, when you know there

is a reasonable chance of his hearing it again. Never lose a chance of

saying a kind word. As Collingwood never saw a vacant place in his

estate but he took an acorn out of his pocket and popped it in; so deal

with your compliments through life. An acorn costs nothing; but it may

sprout into a prodigious bit of timber.

In a word, during Rawdon Crawley's prosperity, he was only obeyed with

sulky acquiescence; when his disgrace came, there was nobody to help or

pity him. Whereas, when Mrs. Bute took the command at Miss Crawley's

house, the garrison there were charmed to act under such a leader,

expecting all sorts of promotion from her promises, her generosity, and

her kind words.

That he would consider himself beaten, after one defeat, and make no

attempt to regain the position he had lost, Mrs. Bute Crawley never

allowed herself to suppose. She knew Rebecca to be too clever and

spirited and desperate a woman to submit without a struggle; and felt

that she must prepare for that combat, and be incessantly watchful

against assault; or mine, or surprise.

In the first place, though she held the town, was she sure of the

principal inhabitant? Would Miss Crawley herself hold out; and had she

not a secret longing to welcome back the ousted adversary? The old

lady liked Rawdon, and Rebecca, who amused her. Mrs. Bute could not

disguise from herself the fact that none of her party could so

contribute to the pleasures of the town-bred lady. "My girls' singing,

after that little odious governess's, I know is unbearable," the candid

Rector's wife owned to herself. "She always used to go to sleep when

Martha and Louisa played their duets. Jim's stiff college manners and

poor dear Bute's talk about his dogs and horses always annoyed her. If

I took her to the Rectory, she would grow angry with us all, and fly, I

know she would; and might fall into that horrid Rawdon's clutches

again, and be the victim of that little viper of a Sharp. Meanwhile,

it is clear to me that she is exceedingly unwell, and cannot move for

some weeks, at any rate; during which we must think of some plan to

protect her from the arts of those unprincipled people."

In the very best-of moments, if anybody told Miss Crawley that she was,

or looked ill, the trembling old lady sent off for her doctor; and I

daresay she was very unwell after the sudden family event, which might

serve to shake stronger nerves than hers. At least, Mrs. Bute thought

it was her duty to inform the physician, and the apothecary, and the

dame-de-compagnie, and the domestics, that Miss Crawley was in a most

critical state, and that they were to act accordingly. She had the

street laid knee-deep with straw; and the knocker put by with Mr.

Bowls's plate. She insisted that the Doctor should call twice a day;

and deluged her patient with draughts every two hours. When anybody

entered the room, she uttered a shshshsh so sibilant and ominous, that

it frightened the poor old lady in her bed, from which she could not

look without seeing Mrs. Bute's beady eyes eagerly fixed on her, as the

latter sate steadfast in the arm-chair by the bedside. They seemed to

lighten in the dark (for she kept the curtains closed) as she moved

about the room on velvet paws like a cat. There Miss Crawley lay for

days--ever so many days--Mr. Bute reading books of devotion to her: for

nights, long nights, during which she 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 the dreary

darkened ceiling. Hygeia herself would have fallen sick under such a

regimen; and how much more this poor old nervous victim? It has been

said that when she was in health and good spirits, this venerable

inhabitant of Vanity Fair had as free notions about religion and morals

as Monsieur de Voltaire himself could desire, but when illness overtook

her, it was aggravated by the most dreadful terrors of death, and an

utter cowardice took possession of the prostrate old sinner.