Vanity Fair (31 page)

"George, she's dying," William Dobbin said—and could speak no more.

There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performed all the duties
of the little house where the Sedley family had found refuge: and
this girl had in vain, on many previous days, striven to give Amelia
aid or consolation. Emmy was much too sad to answer, or even to be
aware of the attempts the other was making in her favour.

Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne, this servant-
maid came into Amelia's room, where she sate as usual, brooding
silently over her letters—her little treasures. The girl, smiling,
and looking arch and happy, made many trials to attract poor Emmy's
attention, who, however, took no heed of her.

"Miss Emmy," said the girl.

"I'm coming," Emmy said, not looking round.

"There's a message," the maid went on. "There's something—
somebody—sure, here's a new letter for you—don't be reading them
old ones any more." And she gave her a letter, which Emmy took, and
read.

"I must see you," the letter said. "Dearest Emmy—dearest love—
dearest wife, come to me."

George and her mother were outside, waiting until she had read the
letter.

Miss Crawley at Nurse

We have seen how Mrs. Firkin, the lady's maid, as soon as any event
of importance to the Crawley family came to her knowledge, felt
bound to communicate it to Mrs. Bute Crawley, at the Rectory; and
have before mentioned 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, the companion, also; and had
secured the latter's good-will by a number of those attentions and
promises, which cost so little in the making, and are yet so
valuable and agreeable to the recipient. Indeed every good
economist and manager of a household must know how cheap and yet how
amiable these professions are, and what a flavour they give to the
most homely dish in life. Who was the blundering idiot who said
that "fine words butter no parsnips"? Half the parsnips of society
are served and rendered palatable with no other sauce. As the
immortal Alexis Soyer can make more delicious soup for a half-penny
than an ignorant cook can concoct with pounds of vegetables and
meat, so a skilful artist will make a few simple and pleasing
phrases go farther than ever so much substantial benefit-stock in
the hands of a mere bungler. Nay, we know that substantial benefits
often sicken some stomachs; whereas, most will digest any amount of
fine words, and be always eager for more of the same food. Mrs. Bute
had told 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 friends so excellent and attached, that the ladies in question
had the deepest regard 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
he was, never took the least trouble to conciliate his aunt's aides-
de-camp, showed his contempt for the pair with entire frankness—
made Firkin pull off his boots on one occasion—sent her out in the
rain on ignominious messages—and if he gave her a guinea, flung it
to her as if 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—jokes about as delicate as a kick from his charger.
Whereas, Mrs. Bute consulted her in matters of taste or difficulty,
admired her poetry, and by a thousand acts of kindness and
politeness, showed her appreciation of Briggs; and if she made
Firkin a twopenny-halfpenny present, accompanied it with so many
compliments, that the twopence-half-penny was transmuted into gold
in the heart of the grateful waiting-maid, who, besides, was looking
forwards quite contentedly to some prodigious benefit which must
happen to her on the day when Mrs. Bute came into her fortune.

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.

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 a comedy 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 gaiety which
Vanity Fair exhibits in public, do not always pursue the performer
into private life, and that the most dreary depression of spirits
and dismal repentances sometimes overcome him. Recollection of the
best ordained banquets will scarcely cheer sick epicures.
Reminiscences of the most becoming dresses and brilliant ball
triumphs will go very little way to console faded beauties. Perhaps
statesmen, at a particular period of existence, are not much
gratified at thinking over the most triumphant divisions; and the
success or the pleasure of yesterday becomes of very small account
when a certain (albeit uncertain) morrow is in view, about which all
of us must some day or other be speculating. O brother wearers of
motley! Are there not moments when one grows sick of grinning and
tumbling, and the jingling of cap and bells? This, dear friends and
companions, is my amiable object—to walk with you through the Fair,
to examine the shops and the shows there; and that we should all
come home after the flare, and the noise, and the 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 he might be, under present
circumstances, to this unhappy old lady! He might make her repent
of her shocking free-thinking ways; he might urge her to do her
duty, and cast off that odious reprobate who has disgraced himself
and his family; and he might induce her to do justice to my dear
girls and the two boys, who require and deserve, I am sure, every
assistance which their 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 proper
abhorrence for all Rawdon Crawley's manifold sins: of which his
uncle's wife brought forward such a catalogue as indeed would have
served to condemn a whole regiment of young officers. If a man has
committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralist more anxious to
point his errors out to the world than his own relations; so Mrs.
Bute showed a perfect family interest and knowledge of Rawdon's
history. She had all the particulars of that ugly quarrel with
Captain Marker, in which Rawdon, wrong from the beginning, ended in
shooting the Captain. She knew how the unhappy Lord Dovedale, whose
mamma had taken a house at Oxford, so that he might be educated
there, and who had never touched a card in his life till he came to
London, was perverted by Rawdon at the Cocoa-Tree, made helplessly
tipsy by this abominable seducer and perverter of youth, and fleeced
of four thousand pounds. She described with the most vivid
minuteness the agonies of the country families whom he had ruined—
the sons whom he had plunged into dishonour and poverty—the
daughters whom he had inveigled into perdition. She knew the poor
tradesmen who were bankrupt by his extravagance—the mean shifts and
rogueries with which he had ministered to it—the astounding
falsehoods by which he had imposed upon the most generous of aunts,
and the ingratitude and ridicule by which he had repaid her
sacrifices. She imparted these stories gradually to Miss Crawley;
gave her the whole benefit of them; felt it to be her bounden duty
as a Christian woman and mother of a family to do so; had not the
smallest remorse or compunction for the victim whom her tongue was
immolating; nay, very likely thought her act was quite meritorious,
and plumed herself 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 one is bound to own,
regarding this unfortunate wretch of a Rawdon Crawley, that the mere
truth was enough to condemn him, and that all inventions of scandal
were quite superfluous pains on his friends' parts.

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