blank, so that you might write on it to somebody else.
From Miss Pinkerton's the indefatigable Mrs. Bute
followed the track of Sharp and his daughter back to the
lodgings in Greek Street, which the defunct painter had
occupied; and where portraits of the landlady in white
satin, and of the husband in brass buttons, done by Sharp
in lieu of a quarter's rent, still decorated the parlour
walls. Mrs. Stokes was 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's horror, though she never could abide the woman,
he did not marry his wife till a short time before her
death; and what a queer little wild vixen his daughter
was; how she kept them all laughing with her fun and
mimicry; 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's
parentage, education, and behaviour as would
scarcely have pleased Rebecca, had the latter known that
such inquiries 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 danced herself. She had been a
model to the painters. She was brought up as became
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 be inferred from Mrs. Bute's
tale was, that the knavery of the pair was irremediable,
and that no properly conducted person should ever notice
them again.
These were the materials which prudent Mrs. Bute
gathered together in Park Lane, the provisions and
ammunition as it were with which she fortified the house
against the siege which she knew that Rawdon and his
wife would lay to Miss Crawley.
But if a fault may be found with her arrangements, it
is this, that she was too eager: she managed rather too
well; undoubtedly she made Miss Crawley more ill than
was necessary; and though the old invalid succumbed
to her authority, it was so harassing and severe, that the
victim would be inclined to escape at the very first chance
which fell in her way. Managing women, the ornaments
of their sex--women who order everything for everybody,
and know so much better than any person concerned
what is good for their neighbours, don't sometimes
speculate upon the possibility of a domestic revolt, or
upon other extreme consequences resulting from their
overstrained authority.
Thus, for instance, Mrs. Bute, with the best intentions
no doubt in the world, and wearing herself to death as
she did by foregoing sleep, dinner, fresh air, for the sake
of her invalid sister-in-law, carried her conviction of the
old lady's illness so far that she almost managed her
into her coffin. She pointed out her sacrifices and their
results one day to the constant apothecary, Mr. Clump.
"I am sure, my dear Mr. Clump," she said, "no efforts
of mine have been wanting to restore our dear invalid,
whom the ingratitude of her nephew has laid on the bed
of sickness. I never shrink from personal discomfort: 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 in the smallpox, did I allow any
hireling to nurse him? No."
"You did what became an excellent mother, my dear
Madam--the best of mothers; but--~'
"As the mother of a family and the wife of an English
clergyman, 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 bring
that grey head with sorrow to the bed of sickness (here
Mrs. Bute, waving her hand, pointed to one of old Miss
Crawley's coffee-coloured fronts, which was perched on
a stand in the dressing-room), but I will never quit it.
Ah, Mr. Clump! I fear, I know, that the couch needs
spiritual as well as medical consolation."
"What I was going to observe, my dear Madam,"--
here the resolute Clump once more interposed with a
bland air--"what I was going to observe when you gave
utterance to sentiments which do you so much honour,
was that I think you alarm yourself needlessly about our
kind friend, and sacrifice your own health too prodigally
in her favour."
"I would lay down my life for my duty, or for any
member of my husband's family," Mrs. Bute interposed.
"Yes, Madam, if need were; but we don't want Mrs
Bute Crawley to be a martyr," Clump said gallantly. "Dr
Squills and myself have both considered Miss Crawley's
case with every anxiety and care, as you may suppose. We
see her low-spirited and nervous; family events have
agitated her."
"Her nephew will come to perdition," Mrs. Crawley
cried.
"Have agitated her: and you arrived like a guardian
angel, my dear Madam, a positive guardian angel, I
assure you, to soothe her under the pressure of calamity.
But Dr. Squills and I were thinking that our amiable
friend is not in such a state as renders confinement to her
bed necessary. She is depressed, but this confinement
perhaps adds to her depression. She should have change,
fresh air, gaiety; the most delightful remedies in the
pharmacopoeia," Mr. Clump said, grinning and showing
his handsome teeth. "Persuade her to rise, dear Madam;
drag her from her couch and her low spirits; insist upon
her taking little drives. They will restore the roses too to
your 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 partner
of his crimes," Mrs. Bute said (letting the cat of selfishness
out of the bag of secrecy), "would cause her such
a shock, that we should have to bring her back to bed
again. She must not go out, Mr. Clump. She shall not go
out as long as 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 for her life if she remains locked up
in that dark room. She is so nervous that we may lose
her any day; and if you wish Captain Crawley to be her
heir, I warn you frankly, Madam, that you are doing
your very best to serve 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 was about to present him
with a thirteenth blessing), regarding Miss Crawley and
her case.
"What a little harpy that woman from Hampshire is,
Clump," Squills remarked, "that has seized upon old
Tilly Crawley. Devilish good Madeira."
"What a fool Rawdon Crawley has been," Clump replied,
"to go and marry a 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 a fool, Squills."
"A d-- fool--always was," the apothecary replied.
"Of course the old girl will fling him over," said the
physician, and after 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 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 of
the heart; pressure on the brain; apoplexy; off she goes.
Get her up, Clump; get her out: or I wouldn't give many
weeks' purchase for your two hundred a year." And it was
acting upon this hint that the worthy apothecary spoke
with so much candour to Mrs. Bute Crawley.
Having the old lady under her hand: in bed: with nobody
near, Mrs. Bute had made more than one assault
upon her, to induce her to alter her will. But Miss Crawley's
usual terrors regarding death increased greatly when
such dismal propositions were made to her, and Mrs.
Bute saw that she must get her patient into cheerful spirits
and health before 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 is not likely to
meet those odious Rawdons is at church, and that won't
amuse her, Mrs. Bute justly felt. "We must go and visit
our beautiful suburbs of London," she then thought. "I
hear they are the most picturesque in the world"; and so
she had a sudden interest for Hampstead, and Hornsey,
and found that Dulwich had great charms for her, and
getting her victim into her carriage, drove her to those
rustic spots, beguiling the little journeys with conversations
about Rawdon and his wife, and telling every story
to the old lady which could add to her indignation against
this pair of reprobates.
Perhaps Mrs. Bute pulled the string unnecessarily tight.
For though she worked up Miss Crawley to a proper dislike
of her disobedient nephew, the invalid had a great
hatred and secret terror of her victimizer, and panted
to escape from her. After a brief space, she rebelled
against Highgate and Hornsey utterly. She would go into
the Park. Mrs. Bute knew they would meet the abominable
Rawdon there, and she was right. One day in the
ring, Rawdon's stanhope came in sight; Rebecca was
seated by him. In the enemy's equipage Miss Crawley
occupied her usual place, with Mrs. Bute on her left, the
poodle and Miss Briggs on the back seat. It was a nervous
moment, and Rebecca's heart beat quick as she recognized the
carriage; and as the two vehicles crossed each
other in a line, she clasped her hands, and looked towards
the spinster with a face of agonized attachment and devotion.
Rawdon himself trembled, and his face grew purple
behind his dyed mustachios. Only old Briggs was moved
in the other carriage, and cast her great eyes nervously
towards her old friends. Miss Crawley's bonnet was resolutely
turned towards the Serpentine. Mrs. Bute happened to
be in ecstasies with the poodle, 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 your wheels into theirs, dearest?"
Rawdon had not the heart for that manoeuvre. When
the carriages met again, he stood up in his stanhope; he
raised his hand ready to doff his hat; he looked with all
his eyes. But this time Miss Crawley's face was not turned
away; she and Mrs. Bute looked him full in the face,
and cut their nephew pitilessly. He sank back in his seat
with an oath, and striking out of the ring, dashed away
desperately homewards.
It was a gallant and decided triumph for Mrs. Bute.
But she felt the danger of many such meetings, as she
saw the evident nervousness of Miss Crawley; and she
determined that it was most necessary for her dear
friend's health, that they should leave town for a while,
and recommended Brighton very strongly.
CHAPTER XX
In Which Captain Dobbin Acts as the Messenger of Hymen
Without knowing how, Captain William Dobbin found
himself the great promoter, arranger, and manager of the
match between George Osborne and Amelia. But for him
it never would have taken place: he could not but
confess as much to himself, and smiled rather bitterly as he
thought that he of all men in the world should be the
person upon whom the care of this marriage had fallen.
But though indeed the conducting of this negotiation was
about as painful a task as could be set to him, yet when
he had a duty to perform, Captain Dobbin was accustomed
to go through it without many words or much
hesitation: and, having made up his mind completely,
that if Miss Sedley was balked of her husband she would
die of the disappointment, he was determined to use all
his best endeavours to keep her alive.
I forbear to enter into minute particulars of the interview
between George and Amelia, when the former was
brought back to the feet (or should we venture to say the
arms?) of his young mistress by the intervention of his
friend honest William. A much harder heart than
George's would have melted at the sight of that sweet
face so sadly ravaged by grief and despair, and at the
simple tender accents in which she told her little broken-
hearted story: but as she did not faint when her mother,
trembling, brought Osborne to her; and as she only gave
relief to her overcharged grief, by laying her head on
her lover's shoulder and there weeping for a while the
most tender, copious, and refreshing tears--old Mrs.
Sedley, too greatly relieved, thought it was best to leave
the young persons to themselves; and so quitted Emmy
crying over George's hand, and kissing it humbly, as if he
were her supreme chief and master, and as if she were
quite a guilty and unworthy person needing every favour
and grace from him.
This prostration and sweet unrepining obedience
exquisitely touched and flattered George Osborne. He saw a
slave before him in that simple yielding faithful creature,
