 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 small-pox, 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
