We have seen how Mrs. Firkin, the lady's maid, as soon as any event ofimportance to the Crawley family came to her knowledge, felt bound tocommunicate it to Mrs. Bute Crawley, at the Rectory; and have beforementioned how particularly kind and attentive that good-natured ladywas to Miss Crawley's confidential servant. She had been a graciousfriend to Miss Briggs, the companion, also; and had secured thelatter's good-will by a number of those attentions and promises, whichcost so little in the making, and are yet so valuable and agreeable tothe recipient. Indeed every good economist and manager of a householdmust know how cheap and yet how amiable these professions are, and whata flavour they give to the most homely dish in life. Who was theblundering idiot who said that "fine words butter no parsnips"? Halfthe parsnips of society are served and rendered palatable with no othersauce. As the immortal Alexis Soyer can make more delicious soup for ahalf-penny than an ignorant cook can concoct with pounds of vegetablesand meat, so a skilful artist will make a few simple and pleasingphrases go farther than ever so much substantial benefit-stock in thehands of a mere bungler. Nay, we know that substantial benefits oftensicken some stomachs; whereas, most will digest any amount of finewords, and be always eager for more of the same food. Mrs. Bute hadtold Briggs and Firkin so often of the depth of her affection for them;and what she would do, if she had Miss Crawley's fortune, for friendsso excellent and attached, that the ladies in question had the deepestregard for her; and felt as much gratitude and confidence as if Mrs.Bute had loaded them with the most expensive favours.

Rawdon Crawley, on the other hand, like a selfish heavy dragoon as hewas, never took the least trouble to conciliate his aunt's aides-de-camp,showed his contempt for the pair with entire frankness--madeFirkin pull off his boots on one occasion--sent her out in the rain onignominious messages--and if he gave her a guinea, flung it to her asif it were a box on the ear. As his aunt, too, made a butt of Briggs,the Captain followed the example, and levelled his jokes at her--jokesabout as delicate as a kick from his charger. Whereas, Mrs. Buteconsulted her in matters of taste or difficulty, admired her poetry,and by a thousand acts of kindness and politeness, showed herappreciation of Briggs; and if she made Firkin a twopenny-halfpennypresent, accompanied it with so many compliments, that thetwopence-half-penny was transmuted into gold in the heart of thegrateful waiting-maid, who, besides, was looking forwards quitecontentedly to some prodigious benefit which must happen to her on theday when Mrs. Bute came into her fortune.

The different conduct of these two people is pointed out respectfullyto the attention of persons commencing the world. Praise everybody, Isay to such: never be squeamish, but speak out your compliment bothpoint-blank in a man's face, and behind his back, when you know thereis a reasonable chance of his hearing it again. Never lose a chance ofsaying a kind word. As Collingwood never saw a vacant place in hisestate but he took an acorn out of his pocket and popped it in; so dealwith your compliments through life. An acorn costs nothing; but it maysprout into a prodigious bit of timber.

In a word, during Rawdon Crawley's prosperity, he was only obeyed withsulky acquiescence; when his disgrace came, there was nobody to help orpity him. Whereas, when Mrs. Bute took the command at Miss Crawley'shouse, the garrison there were charmed to act under such a leader,expecting all sorts of promotion from her promises, her generosity, andher kind words.

That he would consider himself beaten, after one defeat, and make noattempt to regain the position he had lost, Mrs. Bute Crawley neverallowed herself to suppose. She knew Rebecca to be too clever andspirited and desperate a woman to submit without a struggle; and feltthat she must prepare for that combat, and be incessantly watchfulagainst assault; or mine, or surprise.

In the first place, though she held the town, was she sure of theprincipal inhabitant? Would Miss Crawley herself hold out; and had shenot a secret longing to welcome back the ousted adversary? The oldlady liked Rawdon, and Rebecca, who amused her. Mrs. Bute could notdisguise from herself the fact that none of her party could socontribute to the pleasures of the town-bred lady. "My girls' singing,after that little odious governess's, I know is unbearable," the candidRector's wife owned to herself. "She always used to go to sleep whenMartha and Louisa played their duets. Jim's stiff college manners andpoor dear Bute's talk about his dogs and horses always annoyed her. IfI took her to the Rectory, she would grow angry with us all, and fly, Iknow she would; and might fall into that horrid Rawdon's clutchesagain, 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 forsome weeks, at any 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 Miss Crawley that she was,or looked ill, the trembling old lady sent off for her doctor; and Idaresay she was very unwell after the sudden family event, which mightserve to shake stronger nerves than hers. At least, Mrs. Bute thoughtit was her duty to inform the physician, and the apothecary, and thedame-de-compagnie, and the domestics, that Miss Crawley was in a mostcritical state, and that they were to act accordingly. She had thestreet 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 anybodyentered the room, she uttered a shshshsh so sibilant and ominous, thatit frightened the poor old lady in her bed, from which she could notlook without seeing Mrs. Bute's beady eyes eagerly fixed on her, as thelatter sate steadfast in the arm-chair by the bedside. They seemed tolighten in the dark (for she kept the curtains closed) as she movedabout the room on velvet paws like a cat. There Miss Crawley lay fordays--ever so many days--Mr. Bute reading books of devotion to her: fornights, long nights, during which she had to hear the watchman sing,the night-light sputter; visited at midnight, the last thing, by thestealthy apothecary; and then left to look at Mrs. Bute's twinklingeyes, or the flicks of yellow that the rushlight threw on the drearydarkened ceiling. Hygeia herself would have fallen sick under such aregimen; and how much more this poor old nervous victim? It has beensaid that when she was in health and good spirits, this venerableinhabitant of Vanity Fair had as free notions about religion and moralsas Monsieur de Voltaire himself could desire, but when illness overtookher, it was aggravated by the most dreadful terrors of death, and anutter cowardice took possession of the prostrate old sinner.

Sick-bed homilies and pious reflections are, to be sure, out of placein mere story-books, and we are not going (after the fashion of somenovelists of the present day) to cajole the public into a sermon, whenit is only a comedy that the reader pays his money to witness. But,without preaching, the truth may surely be borne in mind, that thebustle, and triumph, and laughter, and gaiety which Vanity Fairexhibits in public, do not always pursue the performer into privatelife, and that the most dreary depression of spirits and dismalrepentances sometimes overcome him. Recollection of the best ordainedbanquets will scarcely cheer sick epicures. Reminiscences of the mostbecoming dresses and brilliant ball triumphs will go very little way toconsole faded beauties. Perhaps statesmen, at a particular period ofexistence, are not much gratified at thinking over the most triumphantdivisions; and the success or the pleasure of yesterday becomes of verysmall account when a certain (albeit uncertain) morrow is in view,about which all of us must some day or other be speculating. O brotherwearers of motley! Are there not moments when one grows sick ofgrinning and tumbling, and the jingling of cap and bells? This, dearfriends and companions, is my amiable object--to walk with you throughthe Fair, to examine the shops and the shows there; and that we shouldall come home after the flare, and the noise, and the gaiety, and beperfectly miserable in private.

"If that poor man of mine had a head on his shoulders," Mrs. ButeCrawley thought to herself, "how useful he might be, under presentcircumstances, to this unhappy old lady! He might make her repent ofher shocking free-thinking ways; he might urge her to do her duty, andcast off that odious reprobate who has disgraced himself and hisfamily; and he might induce her to do justice to my dear girls and thetwo boys, who require and deserve, I am sure, every assistance whichtheir relatives can give them."

And, as the hatred of vice is always a progress towards virtue, Mrs.Bute Crawley endeavoured to instil her sister-in-law a properabhorrence for all Rawdon Crawley's manifold sins: of which his uncle'swife brought forward such a catalogue as indeed would have served tocondemn a whole regiment of young officers. If a man has committedwrong in life, I don't know any moralist more anxious to point hiserrors out to the world than his own relations; so Mrs. Bute showed aperfect family interest and knowledge of Rawdon's history. She had allthe particulars of that ugly quarrel with Captain Marker, in whichRawdon, wrong from the beginning, ended in shooting the Captain. Sheknew how the unhappy Lord Dovedale, whose mamma had taken a house atOxford, so that he might be educated there, and who had never touched acard in his life till he came to London, was perverted by Rawdon at theCocoa-Tree, made helplessly tipsy by this abominable seducer andperverter of youth, and fleeced of four thousand pounds. She describedwith the most vivid minuteness the agonies of the country families whomhe had ruined--the sons whom he had plunged into dishonour andpoverty--the daughters whom he had inveigled into perdition. She knewthe poor tradesmen who were bankrupt by his extravagance--the meanshifts and rogueries with which he had ministered to it--the astoundingfalsehoods by which he had imposed upon the most generous of aunts, andthe ingratitude and ridicule by which he had repaid her sacrifices.She imparted these stories gradually to Miss Crawley; gave her thewhole benefit of them; felt it to be her bounden duty as a Christianwoman and mother of a family to do so; had not the smallest remorse orcompunction for the victim whom her tongue was immolating; nay, verylikely thought her act was quite meritorious, and plumed herself uponher resolute manner of performing it. Yes, if a man's character is tobe abused, say what you will, there's nobody like a relation to do thebusiness. And one is bound to own, regarding this unfortunate wretchof a Rawdon Crawley, that the mere truth was enough to condemn him, andthat all inventions of scandal were quite superfluous pains on hisfriends' parts.

Rebecca, too, being now a relative, came in for the fullest share ofMrs. Bute's kind inquiries. This indefatigable pursuer of truth(having given strict orders that the door was to be denied to allemissaries or letters from Rawdon), took Miss Crawley's carriage, anddrove to her old friend Miss Pinkerton, at Minerva House, ChiswickMall, to whom she announced the dreadful intelligence of CaptainRawdon's seduction by Miss Sharp, and from whom she got sundry strangeparticulars regarding the ex-governess's birth and early history. Thefriend of the Lexicographer had plenty of information to give. MissJemima was made to fetch the drawing-master's receipts and letters.This one was from a spunging-house: that entreated an advance: anotherwas full of gratitude for Rebecca's reception by the ladies ofChiswick: and the last document from the unlucky artist's pen was thatin which, from his dying bed, he recommended his orphan child to MissPinkerton's protection. There were juvenile letters and petitions fromRebecca, too, in the collection, imploring aid for her father ordeclaring her own gratitude. Perhaps in Vanity Fair there are nobetter satires than letters. Take a bundle of your dear friend's often years back--your dear friend whom you hate now. Look at a file ofyour sister's! how you clung to each other till you quarrelled aboutthe twenty-pound legacy! Get down the round-hand scrawls of your sonwho has half broken your heart with selfish undutifulness since; or aparcel of your own, breathing endless ardour and love eternal, whichwere sent back by your mistress when she married the Nabob--yourmistress for whom you now care no more than for Queen Elizabeth. Vows,love, promises, confidences, gratitude, how queerly they read after awhile! There ought to be a law in Vanity Fair ordering the destructionof every written document (except receipted tradesmen's bills) after acertain brief and proper interval. Those quacks and misanthropes whoadvertise indelible Japan ink should be made to perish along with theirwicked discoveries. The best ink for Vanity Fair use would be one thatfaded utterly in a couple of days, and left the paper clean and blank,so that you might write on it to somebody else.

From Miss Pinkerton's the indefatigable Mrs. Bute followed the track ofSharp and his daughter back to the lodgings in Greek Street, which thedefunct painter had occupied; and where portraits of the landlady inwhite satin, and of the husband in brass buttons, done by Sharp in lieuof a quarter's rent, still decorated the parlour walls. Mrs. Stokeswas a communicative person, and quickly told all she knew about Mr.Sharp; how dissolute and poor he was; how good-natured and amusing;how he was always hunted by bailiffs and duns; how, to the landlady'shorror, though she never could abide the woman, he did not marry hiswife till a short time before her death; and what a queer little wildvixen his daughter was; how she kept them all laughing with her fun andmimicry; how she used to fetch the gin from the public-house, and wasknown in all the studios in the quarter--in brief, Mrs. Bute got such afull account of her new niece's parentage, education, and behaviour aswould scarcely have pleased Rebecca, had the latter known that suchinquiries were being made concerning her.

Of all these industrious researches Miss Crawley had the full benefit.Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was the daughter of an opera-girl. She had dancedherself. She had been a model to the painters. She was brought up asbecame her mother's daughter. She drank gin with her father, &c. &c.It was a lost woman who was married to a lost man; and the moral to beinferred from Mrs. Bute's tale was, that the knavery of the pair wasirremediable, and that no properly conducted person should ever noticethem again.

These were the materials which prudent Mrs. Bute gathered together inPark Lane, the provisions and ammunition as it were with which shefortified the house against the siege which she knew that Rawdon andhis wife would lay to Miss Crawley.

But if a fault may be found with her arrangements, it is this, that shewas too eager: she managed rather too well; undoubtedly she made MissCrawley more ill than was necessary; and though the old invalidsuccumbed to her authority, it was so harassing and severe, that thevictim would be inclined to escape at the very first chance which fellin her way. Managing women, the ornaments of their sex--women whoorder everything for everybody, and know so much better than any personconcerned what is good for their neighbours, don't sometimes speculateupon the possibility of a domestic revolt, or upon other extremeconsequences resulting from their overstrained authority.

Thus, for instance, Mrs. Bute, with the best intentions no doubt in theworld, and wearing herself to death as she did by foregoing sleep,dinner, fresh air, for the sake of her invalid sister-in-law, carriedher conviction of the old lady's illness so far that she almost managedher into her coffin. She pointed out her sacrifices and their resultsone day to the constant apothecary, Mr. Clump.

"I am sure, my dear Mr. Clump," she said, "no efforts of mine have beenwanting to restore our dear invalid, whom the ingratitude of her nephewhas laid on the bed of sickness. I never shrink from personaldiscomfort: I never 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: I give up sleep,health, every comfort, to my sense of duty. When my poor James was inthe smallpox, did I allow any hireling to nurse him? No."

"You did what became an excellent mother, my dear Madam--the best ofmothers; but--"

"As the mother of a family and the wife of an English clergyman, Ihumbly trust that my principles are good," Mrs. Bute said, with a happysolemnity 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 (here Mrs. Bute,waving her hand, pointed to one of old Miss Crawley's coffee-colouredfronts, which was perched on a stand in the dressing-room), but I willnever 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 Clumponce more interposed with a bland air--"what I was going to observewhen you gave utterance to sentiments which do you so much honour, wasthat I think you alarm yourself needlessly about our kind friend, andsacrifice your own health too prodigally in her favour."

"I would lay down my life for my duty, or for any member of myhusband's family," Mrs. Bute interposed.

"Yes, Madam, if need were; but we don't want Mrs Bute Crawley to be amartyr," Clump said gallantly. "Dr Squills and myself have bothconsidered Miss Crawley's case with every anxiety and care, as you maysuppose. We see her low-spirited and nervous; family events haveagitated her."

"Her nephew will come to perdition," Mrs. Crawley cried.

"Have agitated her: and you arrived like a guardian angel, my dearMadam, a positive guardian angel, I assure you, to soothe her under thepressure of calamity. But Dr. Squills and I were thinking that ouramiable friend is not in such a state as renders confinement to her bednecessary. She is depressed, but this confinement perhaps adds to herdepression. She should have change, fresh air, gaiety; the mostdelightful remedies in the pharmacopoeia," Mr. Clump said, grinning andshowing his handsome teeth. "Persuade her to rise, dear Madam; dragher from her couch and her low spirits; insist upon her taking littledrives. They will restore the roses too to your cheeks, if I may sospeak to Mrs. Bute Crawley."

"The sight of her horrid nephew casually in the Park, where I am toldthe wretch drives with the brazen partner of his crimes," Mrs. Butesaid (letting the cat of selfishness out of the bag of secrecy), "wouldcause her such a shock, that we should have to bring her back to bedagain. She must not go out, Mr. Clump. She shall not go out as longas I remain to watch over her; And as for my health, what matters it?I give it cheerfully, sir. I sacrifice it at the altar of my duty."

"Upon my word, Madam," Mr. Clump now said bluntly, "I won't answer forher life if she remains locked up in that dark room. She is so nervousthat we may lose her any day; and if you wish Captain Crawley to be herheir, I warn you frankly, Madam, that you are doing your very best toserve him."

"Gracious mercy! is her life in danger?" Mrs. Bute cried. "Why, why,Mr. Clump, did you not inform me sooner?"

The night before, Mr. Clump and Dr. Squills had had a consultation(over a bottle of wine at the house of Sir Lapin Warren, whose lady wasabout to present him with a thirteenth blessing), regarding MissCrawley and her case.

"What a little harpy that woman from Hampshire is, Clump," Squillsremarked, "that has seized upon old Tilly Crawley. Devilish goodMadeira."

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

"Green eyes, fair skin, pretty figure, famous frontal development,"Squills remarked. "There is something about her; and Crawley was afool, Squills."

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

"Of course the old girl will fling him over," said the physician, andafter a pause added, "She'll cut up well, I suppose."

"Cut up," says Clump with a grin; "I wouldn't have her cut up for twohundred a year."

"That Hampshire woman will kill her in two months, Clump, my boy, ifshe stops about her," Dr. Squills said. "Old woman; full feeder;nervous subject; palpitation of the heart; pressure on the brain;apoplexy; off she goes. Get her up, Clump; get her out: or I wouldn'tgive many weeks' purchase for your two hundred a year." And it wasacting upon this hint that the worthy apothecary spoke with so muchcandour to Mrs. Bute Crawley.

Having the old lady under her hand: in bed: with nobody near, Mrs. Butehad made more than one assault upon her, to induce her to alter herwill. But Miss Crawley's usual terrors regarding death increasedgreatly when such dismal propositions were made to her, and Mrs. Butesaw that she must get her patient into cheerful spirits and healthbefore she could hope to attain the pious object which she had in view.Whither to take her was the next puzzle. The only place where she isnot likely to meet those odious Rawdons is at church, and that won'tamuse her, Mrs. Bute justly felt. "We must go and visit our beautifulsuburbs of London," she then thought. "I hear they are the mostpicturesque in the world"; and so she had a sudden interest forHampstead, and Hornsey, and found that Dulwich had great charms forher, and getting her victim into her carriage, drove her to thoserustic spots, beguiling the little journeys with conversations aboutRawdon and his wife, and telling every story to the old lady whichcould add to her indignation against this pair of reprobates.

Perhaps Mrs. Bute pulled the string unnecessarily tight. For though sheworked up Miss Crawley to a proper dislike of her disobedient nephew,the invalid had a great hatred and secret terror of her victimizer, andpanted to escape from her. After a brief space, she rebelled againstHighgate and Hornsey utterly. She would go into the Park. Mrs. Buteknew they would meet the abominable Rawdon there, and she was right.One day in the ring, Rawdon's stanhope came in sight; Rebecca wasseated by him. In the enemy's equipage Miss Crawley occupied her usualplace, with Mrs. Bute on her left, the poodle and Miss Briggs on theback seat. It was a nervous moment, and Rebecca's heart beat quick asshe recognized the carriage; and as the two vehicles crossed each otherin a line, she clasped her hands, and looked towards the spinster witha face of agonized attachment and devotion. Rawdon himself trembled,and his face grew purple behind his dyed mustachios. Only old Briggswas moved in the other carriage, and cast her great eyes nervouslytowards her old friends. Miss Crawley's bonnet was resolutely turnedtowards the Serpentine. Mrs. Bute happened to be in ecstasies with thepoodle, and was calling him a little darling, and a sweet little zoggy,and a pretty pet. The carriages moved on, each in his line.

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

"Try once more, Rawdon," Rebecca answered. "Could not you lock yourwheels into theirs, dearest?"

Rawdon had not the heart for that manoeuvre. When the carriages metagain, he stood up in his stanhope; he raised his hand ready to doffhis hat; he looked with all his eyes. But this time Miss Crawley'sface was not turned away; she and Mrs. Bute looked him full in theface, and cut their nephew pitilessly. He sank back in his seat withan oath, and striking out of the ring, dashed away desperatelyhomewards.

It was a gallant and decided triumph for Mrs. Bute. But she felt thedanger of many such meetings, as she saw the evident nervousness ofMiss Crawley; and she determined that it was most necessary for herdear friend's health, that they should leave town for a while, andrecommended Brighton very strongly.