Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “I would not for the world, Orlando, urge you to make a promise that you could not adhere to. I like you the better, I esteem you the more, for taking time to consider.”

  Walter thought perhaps a little better of Orlando at this moment than he deserved; but still there was in him conscientious feeling, and Walter’s good opinion increased the good disposition. If some worldly interest mixed with his higher motives, yet his chief wish was to return to his mother: the hope, however remote that hope might be, of being able at some time to cheer and support her, made him feel almost capable of the renunciation of his darling vice. He said that he thought he could make a vow of temperance, but not of total abstinence. Walter reported this to his uncle. His uncle insisted upon a promise of total abstinence. Nothing less would break the habit. “Tell him nothing else will do. Tell him that Father Mathew tried and found that nothing less will do. Tell him that Dr Johnson tried it, and said to one who was hesitating about giving up wine,’Drink water, sir, and you are sure of yourself. If you drink wine, you never know how far it may carry you. I drink water. I now no more think of drinking wine than a horse does. The wine upon the table is no more for me than for the dog that is under it.’”

  Orlando’s vanity was flattered by being treated as one who knew something about Dr Johnson; but to do him justice, the thoughts of what was right, and his wish to serve his mother, were really his prevailing motives; and he now made the required promise in the most solemn manner.

  Here we must pause, before we go to the chapter of debts or lighter matters.

  Father Mathew’s PLEDGE having been alluded to, I here give a fac-simile of the medal which has in Ireland obtained this appellation. This medal has been given by Father Mathew to multitudes in every part of Ireland, generally after a short exhortation, remarkable for perfect simplicity, for the absence of all attempt at eloquence, the forbearance from all that could touch the imagination, or rouse the passions, excite enthusiasm, or even produce what is called SENSATION. His words were simple and forcible as truth itself. When hundreds of thousands stood around him, listening to what he said, on his first address to the people in Dublin his expressions were calm, unimpassioned, and modest, as if he had not effected one of the mightiest revolutions for good that ever has been accomplished in the annals of the world.

  It has been prophesied by those incredulous of good — it has been feared by those most hopeful — that this reformation cannot be lasting. It has lasted, however, above NINE years; and though instances of broken vows, of recurring intemperance, and of the declining influence of the pledge, are reported to have occurred, yet whatever may be the frailties of individuals, this great consoling fact remains — the vice of intemperance has lost its impudent grace, that jovial permit of conviviality which in this country it formerly enjoyed, and in which it revelled to the destruction of health, domestic happiness, and social order. Now, intemperance is no longer tolerated in good society. In the middle classes it is shamed and discountenanced; and even among the lowest grades of the people in Ireland it is looked upon as a brutal and unfashionable vice. This conquest at once over the sensual propensities and vicious habits of a nation is unparalleled in the history of human nature. This mighty moral reform, this vast step gained in civilisation for this whole country, has been effected by the energy, zeal, and perseverance of one private individual, without the aid of legislation, without appeal to force, without disturbance, danger, or injury to any human being. Since the time of the Crusades, never has one single voice awakened such moral energies; never was the call of one man so universally, so promptly, so long obeyed. Never, since the world began, were countless multitudes so influenced and so successfully directed by one mind to one peaceful purpose. Never were nobler ends by nobler means attained.

  Maria Edgeworth.

  Edgeworth Town, September 1847.

  “Lighter matters!” did you say for this chapter? Lighter matter! — the chapter of debts!

  Yes; of less consequence even bad debts than bad habits; more difficult to break off bad habits than to pay off bad debts; more fatal those, than overwhelming these, to all happiness, character, and virtue. And now, that it may be trusted that this young man’s worst of habits is for ever conquered, we may go on with some hope to the reformation of other faults, and the reparation of other follies.

  “My uncle” saw the mixture of folly and sense, of good and bad, in Orlando; but he generally hoped the best, and now particularly, when he marked the strong feeling of affection for his mother, his remorse for having deserted her, and his awe and reverence for an oath. He had always admired the expression in the Vicar of Wakefield’s sermon to the poor prisoners in the jail—”that there is no mind in which there is not one spark of good left, which may be blown, if kindly, gently blown, to a flame.” And “my uncle,” notwithstanding his grave and rather austere appearance, was just the person who could and who would manage to do this in the most dexterous, the most delicate, the kindest manner.

  Orlando was in much embarrassment, and under great depression, when he first appeared before him with the list of his debts in his hand; but scarcely had his eyes met that benign, though grave look, than his hopes rose — his hopes of himself, and his resolution to be perfectly candid, to throw himself completely on the mercy of him who, as he saw, had mercy. His early education, and his early mixture with the world in different ranks, had given him, young as he was, a quick perception of manners, and penetration into character; he had what might seem an instinct not only for the true gentleman, but for the kind-hearted man. This quick perception was followed by sudden hope and confidence; passing, as he always did, from one extreme to the other — from self-abasement to self-exaltation — he, at the mere idea of his own candour in the list he had made out of his debts, and of the effect this candour would have on his merciful judge, felt at once at ease and in spirits.

  Walter was in astonishment at the rapid change in Orlando’s countenance and whole appearance: in a few instants the sudden transformation almost of figure, as he passed from the dispirited state, the disabling spell of conscious shame, to the free and accepted look, and the assurance of one on perfectly good terms with himself. There he sat at ease; his arm thrown over the back of his chair, his legs crossed, stretched out comfortably, and his eyes reposing upon the face which was looking over the long list of debts.

  “He is certainly less afraid of my uncle than he was of me,” said Walter to himself. And answering Walter’s look of surprise, Orlando whispered —

  “Yes, I see at once into your uncle — hard, dark shell the nut has, but it is not a gall-nut; and I can see, through a little opening, the white nice kernel within.”

  Walter was provoked with this unbecoming levity, so in contrast with his uncle’s gravity, and with his own anxiety. While the uncle ran over that long list, pausing, and putting his finger upon treats, and suppers, and spirits, Orlando braved the slow unmoving finger without changing colour; he only half sighed and half apologised.

  “Shocking that time, sir, I confess! — riotous living I own. I am ashamed to look back to those times — only comfort is — perfectly past — preter-pluperfectly. For the future no fear — since my promise is given!”

  “Impudent enough,” thought my uncle: his finger passed on to another count, and he said —

  “Folly indeed here is — but of the generous kind — going security for — Jack — Who?”

  “Jack Clinton, sir — sad pickle he is; but I could not help it. He was my friend at the time, as I thought, and he would have been cashiered and lost if I had not stepped in. So you know, sir, I could not but do it. I had not ten pounds in the world at the time, if I had been pounded in a mortar; all I could do for him was to go security.”

  “The worst thing you could do, sir.”

  “The best for him, sir,” replied Orlando; “got him out of the scrape; and I paid the piper afterwards when it was very inconvenient to me. — Pinched me terribly! and I had to borrow, and never
paid” ——

  “Do you mean that he never paid you, or that you never paid what you borrowed?”

  “Both, sir; I could not do otherwise, though he could (Jack, I mean), if he had not indulged in a new coat, and some other superfluities. But my next act of folly” —— [He rose to speak to it, and went forward to the table.] “’Tis what you have your finger upon now, sir; that twenty pounds I lent Tom Sacheverel — canting fellow! — who swore upon his conscience he would pay with interest and all at Michaelmas; and he told me his mother was dying, which I found out afterwards was a lie. But I was flush of money at the time. I could not hear of the woman’s dying that way, and the money idle in my pocket. I shelled it out. You would have done the same, Master Walter. Happy for you, you never were in the way to be taken in by reprobates — hypocrites I mean; for not the worst of reprobates would fleece a generous friend, you know, sir.”

  “I wish, sir, you had half as much good sense as you have fine sentiment,” said my uncle with sternness, yet mitigated by a look of sympathy with the generous sentiment.

  “Well, sir, sense, with your help, will come in time, I trust,” said Orlando with an impudent smile, yet with real internal modesty.

  “I hope so, sir. But pray what is this next word in your list, at the head of this column?”

  Walter looked, but did not speak. Orlando looked, and spoke out with all his usual flippancy.

  “Baby-kites, sir, we called them: I called them baby-kites, because they were such little things — not like the great kites men of business fly: and those were all for fines to the manager. And I do assure you, sir, he was scandalously strict, gripping at fines for every little thing. Missing rehearsals, five minutes late at the theatre, losing one’s part-book, and so on; or not taking off one’s hat, as if one had been on board the royal navy, and he master and commander himself. I never took off my hat to him — never touched it. Let him fine me never so, I never would, gentleman-born as I was. To my equals and my superiors I hope I shall never be wanting, especially to the latter.”

  And as he spoke, down Orlando bowed to the ground, with a grace that Topham Beauclerc might have envied! The corners of my uncle’s mouth gave way; but he kept his eyes steadfastly on the list.

  “A long list this, sir, particularly these kites. — Bad practice, bad expedients.”

  “No doubt, sir; but to such paltry expedients I trust I shall never more be driven.” He spoke this with feeling. But the next moment, while my uncle added up the total of the kites, Orlando turned lightly to Walter, and began to repeat an epigram which he could not quite recollect.

  “I can’t make it out exactly; but it was a clever thing of Plunket’s — a couplet he wrote or spoke upon kites: the sense was, that in England the boys’ kites are raised by the wind, while in Ireland kites raise the wind — We find’ — I know is the rhyme.”

  My uncle gravely wrote the sum due for baby-kites, and placed the total in black distinctness before Orlando’s eyes. He reddened, and turned away, saying, “I see, sir — I’d rather not see! It is really in vain to look at it; you know I cannot possibly help it now. Besides, you may think worse of some other things that are coming.”

  My uncle looked on to the next articles with curiosity; and saw them with indignation —

  “Rings, studs, shirt-pins. — Vanity! foppery! nonsense! But what is this?” — and his brow darkened as he looked. “What is all this, sir? — Tortoise-shell comb studded with pearls — gold earrings — bracelet. Who were these for?”

  “The manager’s daughter, sir.”

  “Manager’s daughter! I’ll have nothing to do with it. I will not undertake such concerns.”

  “Oh, it’s not that, sir, at all,” cried Orlando. “The manager’s daughter is ‘as ugly as sin, and as crooked as an ipseand,’ as Sir Pertinax Macsycophant in the play says.”

  “I do not want Sir Pertinax Macsypophant’s sayings, sir: I want the plain facts. Did you get all these things without ever paying for them?”

  “I have not paid yet to be sure —— But, Master Walter, do speak for me, and do not let your uncle ride away upon a notion on the contrary side, that I never meant to pay. I declare I am as honest as any man in debt ever was — honester, too! for I have seen something of this world, and pretty well know how gentlemen, when they get into debt, and are hard pressed, go on with Sheridan’s ‘No faith with creditors.’”

  “Insufferable arrogance! ridiculous conceit!” exclaimed Walter’s uncle, looking to Walter as if reproaching him for having introduced Orlando. “Vulgar folly of imitating a great man’s faults, and fancying yourself thereupon a great man; aping the infirmities of genius, and conceiving yourself a genius.”

  “Alexander the Great and his wry neck you are thinking of, sir, I conceive,” said Orlando.

  “Mr Orlando More, I am not to be trifled with in this manner,” said my uncle. “I cannot give up any more of my time to no purpose. My nephew’s interest in your concerns will, I hope, cease with mine. He cannot think any more than I do, that whatever literature, or talent, or feeling you may have, can make amends for this total want of good sense, and good manners, and proper, I will not say grateful, feeling. Good morning to you, sir.”

  He looked towards the door. Walter understood his look, but did not move, only sighed, and looked, not remonstratingly, yet very sorrowful. Orlando was astounded; he moved a few steps towards the door; but suddenly stopped when he was to pass before the indignant uncle.

  “I am unpardonable, sir! But do pardon me. I am not ungrateful. Heaven bless you, sir, for not calling me ungrateful! It is from the feeling too much I am seeming not to feel any way. ’Twas laughing on the rack I was! If I did not laugh, I must cry — which would be despicable in a man! So what can I do now? Anything that man could do or suffer, only show me — I’d do anything, suffer anything in life, for my mother!”

  My uncle blew his nose. Walter took up the list of debts.

  “I will call you, Orlando, when we have settled anything. Just go into the next room for a moment — will you?”

  “I will, Master Walter; but first let me hope that your uncle may overlook my ill manners.”

  “Come, Mr More,” said my uncle, “shake hands, and learn to use your learning more discreetly another time.”

  Orlando showed his discretion by a silent bow, and left the room.

  “The total is not so bad after all,” said Walter, covering it with his hand as he spoke.

  “Foolish boy!” said his uncle; “show it to me.”

  Walter withdrew his hand.

  “Not a very large sum in itself; but immense for one who has nothing.”

  “I think I can pay it for him,” said Walter.

  “You! Where are you to find the money, Walter?”

  “I know a way, uncle, if you will consent to it. If you will allow me to change my mind as to the yachting party this summer; you were so kind to promise me funds for it next month. Now what was to have been given to me for that — if you and my mother would allow me, I could give to pay off these debts, and free this poor young man, and set him up right in life again.”

  His uncle was so much surprised, that he did not immediately answer. Well as he knew the generous temper of his nephew, he did not think that he could have proposed to make what to him was he knew the greatest possible sacrifice. To every young person the first step into the world is most eagerly looked for. Youth pants for the first fresh air of freedom. Well as they may love their home, the Arviragus spirit is common to every young and ardent mind. Walter, under a cold exterior, had within him a strong fire of ambition. His uncle, aware of this, and of the eager gratitude with which he had thanked him for managing this yachting trip to the Ionian isles; how constantly he had talked of his voyage, and of seeing Greece; of the happy time he should have with his cousin, Captain Cecil, in the Zephyr; and of the figure which such a trip would enable him to make at Oxford when he went there. And now calmly, and without the slightest emotion, coul
d he resign this darling object?

  “Have you considered what you are giving up? And do you really, seriously propose to do this, my dear Walter?” said his uncle.

  “Yes, my dear uncle, I propose it, in earnest to be sure, as I do propose it, if you and my mother will consent and approve.”

  “I am in amazement,” said his uncle, leaning back in his arm-chair, and both his hands stretched out on the arms of his chair.

  “What amazes you so very much, uncle?”

  “I am amazed at your thinking of making such a very great sacrifice.”

  “Why, sir, if you consider, it is not so very great. It is no matter of duty: it was only a party of pleasure, and only put off perhaps; or, if lost, it was a mere fancy. I had set my heart upon it to be sure. But setting one’s heart one way is all nonsense when one can do so much more good another way.”

  “But, my dear Walter, are you sure of the good you can do?”

  “Nobody is sure that they can do good till they really do it,” said Walter; “nor quite sure till it is done. One cannot know till one tries. Will you give me leave to try, sir?”