Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “A whole half-crown!” said her uncle.

  “Yes; but then that was because it was for the poor, and to reward me for working for the poor. And Amy made, and I made, nice kettle-holders, and” —— But here their uncle, dreading — and not without reason — an interminable flow of kettle-holders, capes, mittens, and mits; slippers, tidies, and things without a name — interrupted her with, “That is enough, Bessy; you know we should not boast of our good deeds.”

  “She only answered the question you asked, my dear uncle,” said Walter, who could not bear anything like an unjust reproach made to another.

  “And you were very hard upon us before, uncle,” said Bessy; “you laughed at us for much-ado-about-nothing works, and called them all love’s-labour-lost.”

  “Did I?” said their uncle laughing; “well, that was cruel.”

  “It was very provoking, uncle; and what was still more provoking, I remember you did not think much of my giving up sweetmeats, and puddings, and everything at second course, to save money for the poor; and mamma paid me for all the sugar and sweet things I gave up; and I had the pence, and whatever my forbearings came to; and then when you saw me counting up what my lumps of sugar came to, and when I saw you smile in that disagreeable way — do you know, uncle, I was ready to cry?”

  And, worked up by the recollection, Bessy was ready to cry again; but her uncle smiled, not the disagreeable smile, and she twinkled away her tears, as he said kindly, “My poor little Bessy, I am sorry I vexed you.”

  Then Bessy, looking anxiously up in his face, said, “Are you really sorry, uncle, or do you only say that to comfort me? I am afraid, uncle, that you still, in the bottom of your heart, think that all we children did or can do for the poor is nothing; and so you despise all our doings, and all our works, and all our little sacrifices.”

  Now Walter took his uncle’s part. “I know my uncle does not despise any of your sacrifices, Bessy, whatever he might have said in joke: I am sure in earnest he did not; for he said to mamma — and she said so too — that however small the sacrifices might be, he liked to see you make them, and go on with them, day after day, because you might then in time do really good and great things. But then my uncle said it would not do to talk of; because once it was praised, it would be spoiled for generosity, and no one was really generous who did it for praise and ostentation.”

  “We have got very far from the play,” said Bessy with a sigh.

  “Not so far as you suppose, my dear little girl,” said her uncle. “I should like to take you all to this play, if your mother has no objection. I was so much pleased by the very things which you fancied I despised, that I must indulge myself in giving you this amusement. You need not calculate, Walter, any more; leave all that to me.” And as he spoke, he put his purse into Walter’s hand, and said, “You shall have the pleasure of managing it all for your mother and sisters, and for me: do not forget me — I must go with you to see the wondrous sight.”

  “Joy — joy — joy!” cried Bessy, springing upon her uncle; and then, as he held her in his arms, she laid her head upon his shoulder in silent gratitude.

  They thought it was all settled, but a small difficulty occurred: they did not know at what hour on Monday the 15th the morning grand exhibition was to commence, and consequently could not say at what hour the post-horses were to be ordered. The playbill, which Walter had so magnanimously flung from him in the hopelessness of affairs, was now found within the fender; and the hour, which had been inserted in writing, was so scorched, as to be illegible. The paper went from hand to hand, and “Perhaps I could,” and “Maybe I can,” and “Let me have one look.” But not one of them could decipher the figures, or decide whether the hour was ten, eleven, or twelve. The bell was rung, and inquiry was made for the man who brought the playbill.

  “Not a man, but a boy, sir,” said Thomas; “and he is gone long since. But he had more bills in his hand, and he is gone, I do suppose, to distribute them in the town.”

  Walter set off to the town in search of the man and the playbills.

  It was market day in this little town. There was a crowd at the door of the post-office; and at the furthest end of the passage, Walter saw an outstretched arm over the people’s heads, and the hand which held the playbills was of a more delicate shape and colour than could have belonged to one of the common country folk. The passage was so filled, that Walter could catch only a glimpse of the person; but from that glimpse he was struck with the face. The countenance was remarkably intelligent and expressive, but its changes so rapid and so violent, that he could not decide whether it was bad or good. It fixed his attention, and excited his curiosity; and instead of making his way up to him, and getting another playbill, he stood aside and listened to what the youth was saying. The voice was agreeable — neither vulgar Irish nor vulgar English — yet not quite English; more like a foreigner; yet not French, though the postmaster designated “this individual” as French, and though some French words were introduced in answering a sort of gentleman farmer, who, pressing the knob of his silver-handled whip against his lips, stood looking at the youth rather earnestly; then asked what countryman he was — what country he came from? The boy said, “Plait il?” as if to gain time; and composing his countenance, which changed at the inquiry, and evading the question, “What countryman are you?” he replied to the query, “We come from England, where our company has been exhibiting in various parts of that country — Tunbridge, Brighton, Cheltenham, Bristol — with great success: succés partout, monsieur.”

  But “monsieur” was not pronounced as a Frenchman would have pronounced it. Silver-whip turned away whistling, took his letters, mounted his horse, which was at the door, and rode off. As he, a big burly man, made his way out, the full-length figure of his object became visible to Walter; and in the first place he saw that the full length was below the middle size of man — scarcely above that of boys of his own age and height. The young stranger had been standing upon some steps, which had raised his head to an equality with tall men’s shoulders; but he was of miniature stature, delicately made, perfectly proportioned, and his motions, as he swayed himself to one side or to the other, offering his handbills, or bowing his acknowledgments, were peculiarly graceful. The postmaster wanted to speak to him, or he to the postmaster; and he stepped down from the stairs upon the floor; and laying the little white hand on the counter which divided the passage from the sanctum of the office, he vaulted over with a perfect agility, alighting, with elastic grace and just aplomb, within the forbidden ground, yet at due distance, nicely calculated, from the dignitary, and with such perfect deference in his air and countenance — such easy assurance, such a winning smile — that for the life of him the man in office could not say to him “Impertinence!” the word which he had at his tongue’s end.

  The self-possession of the boy so surprised and confounded him, that he put his pen behind his ear, and simply stared; at the same time, with habitual caution, he laid hand and arm over the letters sorted on the counter. The youth glanced; and scornfully putting a playbill into the postmaster’s hand, he with his taper finger pointed to the last line, in which the prices of seats were marked, and one word he whispered in his ear, which none of the bystanders heard, but all interpreted to be free of admittance. And lest there should be any doubt, he, producing from his elegant waistcoat pocket a silver pencil-case, slided out the pencil, and wrote a word of promise “from the Child of Performance,” with a nod of assurance doubly sure. Then, taking special care not to disarrange or to approach any of the letters or papers on the table, he placed his hand firm on neutral ground, and vaulted back again. Secure of having engaged at small cost a popular patron, he returned to the distribution of his playbills.

  Walter had no doubt that this was Orlandino himself; and he was so busy watching his graceful leaps, and studying his voice and countenance, that in his absence of mind he did not perceive that he barred the entrance into the office, when a gentle touch, and a res
pectful “By your leave, Master Walter,” made him start out of the way. The person for whom he made room was an elderly woman, of a remarkably prepossessing countenance, her dress suiting her age and condition, yet put on with more than common neatness for her class of life in Ireland. Over her head she had a large coloured shawl or kerchief, with cap underneath, which made a straight band in front, over the gray parted hair, on the smooth forehead, and fell in folds over her shoulders, while a snow-white muslin was pinned across her bosom.

  She inquired from the postmaster whether, “by the blessing of Heaven, there would be a letter for her from her son in America. The Widow Walsh, sir, I am; if you’d be pleasing to look it out for me. Peter never failed me these five years. And you are sensible, sir, yourself, that you had always the luck to find them blessed letters for me. God bless you, that never disappointed me!”

  But this time, though stimulated by the good woman’s gratitude, he could not find the expected letter. “Well, then, I got no right in life nor reason at all to expect it. God bless him anyway. Peter, to a certainty, is not in fault, but the winds or the post that has gone astray; and it will come next time, or in due time, with a miss-sent stamped on it, or too late, as you noticed once-t to me, sir — you mind?”

  The postmaster would not admit that the post could be in fault, though he granted the winds might.

  “I’d thank you anyway, sir, to give the second look over them that’s sorted there. Would not there be a Walsh amongst them? Maybe underneath that there paper, sir; if you could be considerate just to give a second kind look.”

  His hands were full of letters, giving them out to impatient applicants, but with his elbow he shoved out of the way “that there paper.” Under it appeared several letters—”Winters, and Wallaces, and Walshes” — many Walshes.

  “And wouldn’t that be the right one there, sir, under your thumb? God for ever bless it! that’s Peter’s own hand, sir, if you please.”

  The postmaster, as in duty bound, looked carefully at the direction, that he might not make a mistake among the Walshes; and he asked the good woman, whom he did not appear to recognise so well as she knew him, if she was the Widow Walsh of Carrolinan.

  “Of Corlinan that is, sir — the Widow Walsh. I am and have been wife or widow, me and mine, these hundred years, I’ll swear. Lend me my letter, and no more about it.”

  She had had patience; and she had spirit now that the stock of patience which had been given to her was out; and the public sympathised with the mother’s impatience — and even in a remote country post-office the public eye and voice have power.

  “Och give the gintlewoman her letter”—”Och give the craythur her own letter, when it must be plainly hers” — had the desired effect. The postmaster relinquished the letter, at the same time murmuring that not one of those who interfered knew the Widow Walsh of Corlinan from Abraham. He hoped she was the right woman.

  Walter, who knew her, as he had seen her paying rent to his uncle, came forward and satisfied the scrupulous postmaster that she was the right woman; and she thanked him, and drew the letter from her bosom, into which, at the first possession, she had deposited it, and tearing it open, said, “Would you read it for me, Master Walter? You was always good. Read my last from Peter.”

  He took the letter and the mother to the foot of the stairs apart, where he could read it, he thought, so as to be heard only by her.

  “It is easy reading Peter’s writing then; for he got schooling, thanks be to Heaven, early,” the mother said, as she seated herself, prepared for the happiness of hearing.

  “Where would he be now, Master Walter? Does he be in the same good place he got waiter at the grand hotel, Philadelphia? See, will you, sir?” Walter read —

  “United States Hotel, Philadelphia.

  Dear Mother,

  Enclosed you will find a bill of exchange for £5, 5s. 2d. Write immediately on receipt of this, and say what time you can set out; and depend on punctual further remittance for passage, &c.

  “The news from Ireland is of the worst character. I would not have you live another day, if that could be avoided, in my much-beloved but miserable country. I must be brief to perform a promise I made my wife, to ask you all to come to live with us the balance of your days. This request comes from one who will take no excuse, accept no refusal. You will like her and family. The little children are almost crazed at the idea of seeing you, also myself and wife. It is with the greatest feelings of gratitude for the advantages afforded me in my youth I now address you. But I must be brief. I don’t intend you to enter the house of a stranger. You will, from first to last, live with me. When you are under my own eyes, I can tell what you want, and see you don’t want it long. There is no getting out of coming.

  “Dear Mother, and sister Ellen, you will not deny me and my companion the boon of once more beholding you, dear mother, with my own eyes, and you, dearly beloved sister. I know you will have no objection to coming under my humble roof and protection to complete our happiness. Come, and we hope we will make you comfortable completely. The children are all talking of what walks they will take you. My wife, and all the wife’s family, join in love to you. Make my respects to * * * * &c. I shall never forget those who have befriended you as long as I live. Do not on any account disappoint me. Write directly; and whenever you do, please direct to Peter Walsh, United States Hotel, Philadelphia, U. S.

  Believe me to be your most affectionate and devoted Son,

  Peter Walsh.”

  This letter so engrossed Walter whilst he was reading it, that he had never looked up except at the mother, and had not seen any one else, or attended to anything that passed in the office. By the time he had finished, the passage was cleared; there remained none but the postmaster, who was settling the papers in the pigeon-holes of his letter-press, and the young stranger, who was standing at the end of the counter near them: he stood like a statue — motionless; his eyes closed, tears gathered on the long eyelashes, and one had rolled down and stood upon the cheek. Some playbills hung from his hand: it was evident that he was unconscious almost of anything around him. Walter ran to the postmaster and asked for a glass of water.

  “What ails him?” said the mother, still engrossed in her son’s letter. But having folded that, and placed it in her bosom, she turned to the young stranger, took the hand that was next to her, and began chafing the wrist to bring him to; and observing the dead white of that hand, she said, “Gintleman’s son; looks like — not older than my Peter, poor lad; but worn sadly for his young years. Take the water, sir. Wait, dear Master Walter, then, till I sprinkle the forehead. Fine hair. But what signifies!”

  The cold water reviving him, he opened his eyes, and quickly coming to his recollection, seemed instantly to feel a sense of shame. A blush came over his marble face, and regaining his powers of speech, he thanked the mother, and Walter, and the postmaster all in a breath, and stood up, saying he was quite well now. He was subject to such seizures. Recovered from whatever had been the matter with him, he took up his bundle of playbills and walked out of the office.

  Then Walter, bethinking himself of the business on which he came, followed hastily as the youth quitted the house, caught him just in time to ask at what hour the entertainment was to commence on Monday the 15th, and told how the figures had been destroyed in their playbill, and requested to have another. Of course this request was willingly complied with; and in the playbill now produced the figures were very distinct—”twelve o’clock precisely.” The figures and the writing, of which there was a good deal interlined, were beautiful, and Orlandino was proud to say they were all his own; and the composition too was his. In the art of puffing, young as he was, he was esteemed by the manager and his company as an adept; and he was delighted to see how Walter’s imagination had been excited by his performance. They walked together down the village street, Walter more and more interested and curious about this youth: he at every step displaying new talents, and much desire to please,
and more to be admired. He found that Walter’s eagerness to know the hour of commencement arose from his wish to be present at the putting up of the tent in the park. Then he talked of tent-poles and tent-pins or pegs in such a way as to persuade Walter that he understood tent-pitching and tent-striking better than any one living; and, moreover, gave him assurance that if he could but canter his pony over early enough in the morning, so as to be at Castletown Bellevue by six, or half after six, on Monday morning, he should witness the whole operation. Moreover, since Master Walter had such a mechanical turn, such a taste for ingenious contrivance, he would show him how the great amphitheatre was made of two theatres hinged together, and opening into a great semicircle, so as to close at pleasure into an oval or oblong form, according to the most ancient classical models. This he said with an air of no small pretension. Walter was delighted with the idea of seeing this tent put up, and excessively struck with the ingenuity and intelligence of his new companion, in spite of his conceited manner. They reached the cross-roads — one the mail-coach road, and one to Walter’s home — he asked Orlandino to come up to the house, as his mother could then settle about their places for the performance, and his uncle would be so much interested in the ingenious contrivances for the double theatre. But as he spoke, he saw the young man’s face clouding over. The frank, assured, and easy manner changed; he looked confused; he spoke hesitatingly. He was “much honoured, sensible of the advantage, the patronage to the Company in general, and to himself in particular; but he was so circumstanced, so pressed: he was, in fact, waiting for the coach to go to Castletown Bellevue,” he said. “The manager,” he added, “is a very strict man; I must keep time with him; in short, sir, I could not have the honour at this present of going up to the big house.”

  This expression, uttered in a strong Irish brogue, startled Walter; it was in such complete contrast to the former affected half-foreign, half-English tone, and in such contradiction to the assertion of their company having only just arrived in Ireland; and he said with a smile, “You cannot be quite a stranger in this country? Either you must have been now a good while here, or you must have been in Ireland before, to have caught that tone so completely.”