Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “We may go to bed now, the play is over. Good-night, Walter. Thank you for Aldiboronte-Fosco-Forneo. Come away, Amy; it is eleven o’clock.”

  “Eleven! Can it be eleven?” said Amy.

  “Striking — yes. But what noise is that? Do I not hear a carriage?” cried Bessy.

  “Yes — and it is stopping here.”

  It was the old lady’s coach; she had returned from the play before the evening entertainment was over, and she stopped at this gate, that her footman might deliver a note with which he had been charged for Mr Walter.

  “It must be from Orlando.”

  And so it was. All gathered round Walter to learn what the note could be about. Even my uncle turned back, bedchamber candle in hand; and Bessy now wide awake, though it had struck eleven o’clock, found out that it was “not so shockingly late.” The note, however, contained nothing that gratified public curiosity, though it seemed to satisfy the person to whom it was addressed. It was simply to inform Walter that “in consequence of a sudden turn of humour in the manager, the company had marching orders, and were to leave Castletown-Bellevue by flight of night next morning.” The particular object of the note was to beg the favour of Walter to procure for him an introduction to a certain Dr Calton, a Scotch gentleman, and a man of science, who was now residing at one of the towns to which the company were going. Orlando had a great ambition to be made known to Dr Calton. The perfect simplicity of a few grateful words with which the letter concluded touched Walter very much.

  Somebody has said that he who is ungrateful has no other vice; meaning, we suppose, that all others are nothing in comparison. We wish it could with equal justice be said that those who are most grateful have every other virtue. But, as my uncle observed, this amiable feeling of gratitude is often found in persons of high sensibility with all the virtues of impulse, but destitute of the firmness of principle essential to good character. However, in this young man it now seemed that principle joined with gratitude; and therefore there were the best hopes of him.

  It chanced that Walter’s mother had been this evening reading an account of the very extraordinary influence which gratitude has had over many poor wretches supposed to be incapable of reformation — offenders confined in prison. The person stating this fact concludes with saying,

  “The reluctance the prisoners felt to grieve their benefactor by ill conduct, may appear scarcely a motive of sufficient strength to resist much temptation; but in fact it was found to be. It is difficult for us to conceive or to measure the effect produced on the heart of a poor creature who has gained for the first time a friend commanding respect by his character and social position, and by his benevolence awakening feelings long dormant of affection and gratitude.”

  Walter stayed to hear this read, and so did his uncle — a circumstance almost unprecedented, the clock having struck eleven at least twenty minutes since, and his bedchamber candle bearing a black wick of an inch long, in sign of having been thus long lighted.

  We have omitted to mention the greatest pleasure these young people enjoyed, the fittest reward for their generosity — the pleasure of telling the poor mother that her son lived. Bessy undertook the telling, and Amy the assurances that the son’s never having written to his mother for the ten years he had been away, was from anything but unkindness; and Walter took upon himself the convincing her that he would return some time, well and well-doing. And their young hearts beat with all the exquisite joy of gratified benevolence, as they watched the brightening countenance of the poor woman, from the first faint colour that tinged her pale cheeks, to the radiance of joy that expanded her countenance, and danced in her eyes. With that undoubting trust so peculiarly Irish, she never hesitated in her belief, never questioned the fact or the reasons for her son’s not writing, nor expressed a doubt as to why he did not appear at once. She was clear that he was alive and well: he could not but be, when the young ladies brought her the news. “Heaven above bless them, that brought her the good news, as they always did!”

  Their benevolence was not satisfied by merely bringing good news. Amy and Bessy exerted themselves so effectually with their little hands and heads, and instructed Mary so well in all the mysteries of knitting, and netting, and needlework, that she was soon able to earn enough to be out of want and out of misery.

  But Walter was not quite happy. He had not heard from Orlando. His name appeared in the papers, and his successful appearances were mentioned, and his “engagements,” but not a word from himself! My uncle smiled sarcastically, and sighed regretfully — smiled at the fulfilment of his desponding prophecies, and sighed at the sacrifices that had been made, as he feared, in vain; and at last he was heard to murmur behind the newspaper the words, “Ungrateful scamp.”

  Walter had his own misgivings; but he never breathed a syllable of them. He heard his mother give a deep sigh, which he interpreted into “Poor Walter has lost his trip to Greece, and all for nothing.” He could hardly help sighing himself; but he did not.

  At last one morning a thick and many-headed letter appeared on the breakfast-table, directed to Walter; and Walter reddened as he exclaimed, “From Orlando!”

  My uncle murmured—”Begging for assistance! In some new scrape, I suppose.” Nobody thought proper to hear this surmise; Walter, with an air of dignified reserve, read his letter to himself; and then, with a suppressed smile, hoped his mother and his uncle would let him read it out: his uncle looked at the number of pages: Walter braved the look, and read on.

  By way of motto, at the top of the first page, were these lines of Prior’s: —

  “Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tinman’s shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see—’Tis but by way of simile — A squirrel spend his little rage In jumping round a rolling cage? But up or down, turn wood or wire, It never gets two inches higher.”

  The letter began with —

  “Popping my head into a tinman’s shop one day, my dear Master Walter, I saw a squirrel — Prior’s very identical one it seemed — and the reality of the simile I felt was myself. Round and round for ever the same thing, and never two, nor one inch higher in the world; and with all the applause, and the clappings, and encores, and triumphs — and my triumphs, I may say, have been splendid! — but in spite of them all, never one penny the richer. And it has only been by never ‘treating,’ or ‘being treated,’ I have kept out of debt and difficulty. I have done it, however, though tempted enough, as you may believe: never have I paltered even in thought with my PROMISE. But I would not be the squirrel for ever. I went into a circulating library one morning, and looking over the books on the counter, I opened in Prescott’s Conquest of Mexico upon the Mexican wonder and admiration of the Spanish horses; and the thought struck me — one’s genius is certainly more alive at some moments than at others — the thought struck me that it would do for a stage spectacle — horse, and foot, and show, and altogether: so horse and foot I went to work at it. The Mexicans with their bows and their arrows, and feathers and flowers, contrasting with the European steel corslets, and matchlocks, and morions, I saw would be effective. And I knew I could do Cortes myself, fine style; and by great luck we had the very thing for it. We have a chestnut — like ‘Motilla,’ the famous horse that Cortes rode, with one white foot — a great thing, it seems, this one white foot; and the white star on the forehead was easily painted; and in spite of Jack Clinton, who wanted to put me out of conceit with my plan, and said Montezuma was an old affair on the stage, and ‘Rococo’ now. I knew I could put a new face on him; and I knew that Jack could never ride the chestnut, it regularly threw him; and when he saw how well the piece would go off, he condescended to play Montezuma himself, and sit upon the wall and weep. But the worst stumbling-block we had was the young Mexican prince’s name. The manager could not pronounce it, and the prompter could not read it — to be sure Ixtlilxochitl was a puzzler. So we new-christened him on the spot: and then, Master Walter, you would sympathise with me in the triumph of
my art: there is a triumph in difficulty vanquished that none but the vanquisher can know.

  “The conflagration of the bird-house was to be a grand display; but how to make the birds fly out and scream, and flap their wings, and not be burned — there was a problem! But I solved it. I remembered the Icarus man in Bewick, with his strings and his wedge of mounting birds: and I made mine balloon-fashion, plumped out with whalebone, and far-spread wings, hollowed and air-vesicled, and spiral springs ‘somehow;’ and they rose, and flapped, and flew, and pierced the palpable obscure of night, and, by the aid of ventriloquism, were heard in the far distance with receding screams sublime.”

  “Bravo!” cried my uncle, bursting out into laughter.

  “Bravo! you may well say, uncle,” cried Walter in a triumphant voice, regardless of the insulting laugh. “Look here!” and he laid before his uncle a bank post-bill for twenty pounds.

  “The piece had such a run, sir, Orlando tells me, that the manager was obliged to pay him for it; and he sends the money, he says, just as he received it, to me, to repay myself what I lent him, and to give the rest to his mother.”

  My uncle blew his nose; Amy and Bessy clapped their hands; and their mother smiled fondly, as she looked round upon their happy faces. Walter went on —

  “You may pardon any little vanity and conceit in the letter, when he acts so well and so handsomely. He has paid this debt — never thought of changing the note, or spending one farthing of it upon nonsense for himself, but sent it the moment he had it, to repay me and support his mother. Even you, uncle, may trust him now for the future?”

  My uncle did not say that he would or would not. He only answered, “We shall see.”

  We need hardly add that the whole twenty pounds was given to, or laid out for, Orlando’s mother; who, more comfortable than she had been for years, exclaimed — and it was the truth—”Now I think more of its being my poor boy’s bounty to me, than of all it done for me.”

  “Hurrah! — he is made!-he is settled!” cried Walter as he entered the breakfast-room one morning; and then trying to compose his countenance, and endeavouring to recover his usual quietness of manner, he interrupted himself in his speech, and added calmly, “I have heard from Orlando, uncle; and I think, sir, you have a letter from Dr Calton that will tell you something you will be glad to see.”

  “The first thing I shall be glad to see is my breakfast,” said his uncle, removing from his plate a large packet which lay upon it. “And considering that this is an unopened letter,” continued he, looking at the unbroken seals, “you seem to have a wonderful knowledge of its contents, Master Walter.”

  Walter coloured, and sat down.

  “Dr Calton must have had a great deal to pay for such a thick letter,” said his mother. “It looks like one of the Castle packets of former times.”

  “Yes, in the days of official privilege,” said his uncle, “before Rowland Hill and post-office reform were on earth, when a mysterious name at one corner not only speeded the soft intercourse from soul to soul, but from body to body, wafted — for the reverend the dean, and the honourable the colonel — uniforms, spurs, and boots, or parchment deed or travelling portmanteau. And for ladies, right honourable and others — laces, cambrics, muslins, and whole bales of Irish poplins, patriotic.”

  Walter, secure in his own news, could afford to listen and to smile. He was, however, remarkably zealous in cutting ham for his uncle, and in forwarding his teacup with the least possible delay; and he could not avoid some nervous glances at the newspaper, as it lay temptingly unfolded so near his uncle’s hand. Amy and Bessy looked at it too. “He will read the newspaper first,” thought they. “Perhaps he will? — No he will not.”

  My uncle took up the newspaper — they sighed: he put it down again out of the way of his elbow — they took breath. He took another piece of toast — it was eaten — it is done — his plate is pushed away — the packet is taken up — the seals are broken — it is opened.

  “It is from Dr Calton,” said their uncle calmly, and deliberately he read out as follows: —

  “My dear Sir —

  “I must say that when I first read the letter of introduction you gave to Mr Orlando More, I recollected what Franklin says, and what is, I think you will acknowledge, only too applicable generally to recommendations from and for your countrymen—’You give letters of introduction and recommendation with too much facility to persons of whose real character you know nothing, and sometimes at the request of others of whom you know as little. Frequently, if a man is good for nothing, and burdensome to his friends, they are glad to get rid of him, and for that purpose scruple not to recommend him to those whom they wish to recommend him to others.’

  “This, I confess, was what I considered your letter to be when I first read it — a recommendation of some strolling vagabond that you did not know what to do with; but I met the young man without knowing him, or knowing him to be your protégé. I had heard so many reports of the ingenious contrivances of the newly-arrived theatre, that I went in the evening to see the play ‘Montezuma;’ and after it was over, I went behind the scenes, and was pleased at the enthusiastic thanks of the actor who performed Cortes to the ventriloquist for the admirable manner in which he had executed his part; and then I discovered that this young man was not only the chief character, but was himself the composer of the piece. I expressed my admiration of the manner in which he had worked up his materials, and pointed out one passage which had struck me particularly, both in the composition and in the recitation — a sort of justification of himself from Cortes to Montezuma — rather a nice point; and he took my commendations of his authorship in so gentlemanlike and modest a manner, that I went on to his skill as a mechanic, and he showed me, with genuine delight in my real value for them, all his very ingenious contrivances. While he was explaining to me the manner in which a detent fell and released the drop curtain, there was a little by-play — an aside going on — which he was not aware that I perceived. Some of his comrades came up, and whispered eager requests to him to join some jollification supper that was preparing, and at each refusal renewed their applications as eagerly, and were as steadily refused — all in whispers, not meant for the company to hear; but I could understand that there was some grudge in their minds for former refusals, and at last one of them — he who had acted Montezuma in the play — turned off, saying —

  ‘Well, it is better not to come at all, than to sit by playing sober spy, as you did last time.’

  “I could see that my companion reddened, and looked much annoyed. I took no notice, but went on with the contrivance of the detent, and the house of birds, and the difficulty of attaining in an artificial bird the combination of strength with lightness in a natural one; and finding my young man more eager to learn than to display, I asked him to come and sup with me, adding, that I feared a cold shoulder of mutton would be but a poor exchange for the champagne banquet he had refused. He accepted with delight; and when he came, he brought with him your letter, saying that he had discovered me to be the person to whom it was addressed, and expressed his gratification at my having distinguished him even before he had presented his introduction. Then he, with much feeling, related to me all your nephew’s generous kindness to him. I was so much pleased with, his gratitude, and so much struck by his ingenuity and his eagerness for scientific knowledge, that I took him with me to see the Great Telescope. It was a beautiful starry night; and Orlando more than justified all that you or your nephew said of him, by the sense, feeling, and enthusiasm he showed on beholding for.the first time this great triumph of human invention, revealing the grand sight of the heavens, the grandest spectacle in nature which can be beheld by man.

  —— —— —— — —”We parted with, I believe, a mutual desire to see more of each other. He went across the fields to his lodgings, and I returned to mine; but just before I was preparing to go to bed, I threw open the shutters to look out again upon the beautiful night. All was still; c
louds had come over the moon, and it was very dark. Far off beyond the fields, through which Mr More was to pass, was one light. I knew that it came from the tents of the players. I was trying whether, the eye becoming habituated to the darkness, I could make out the shape of the tents, or the outline of the encampment, when suddenly, where I had seen only a faint flickering gleam, there darted up a bright blaze — a pointed, dazzling burst of light, clear against the sky; and then, as I looked, it deepened to a red and lurid glow. ‘Fire! fire! — the tents on fire!’ — and down I ran, roused the people of the house, and went as fast as I could to the spot. — A crowd was already collected — already all was in confusion — the tents, the theatre, the whole was in a blaze. ‘Are the actors safe?’ was my first inquiry.—’All — all safe! they all rushed out on the first alarm. All safe but the horses sure!’ As the man spoke, I saw Orlando bursting through the smoke, dragging after him one of the horses, and driving the rest before him. I had despatched some men to a pond at the other end of the meadow where the tents were pitched, to bring all the water they could. It was nearly dry, and before they could return, there gushed forth from the centre tent — from the amphitheatre itself — such a cloud of mingled smoke and flame, and such a stench of burning feathers, that all involuntarily started back. The watermen arrived. The sudden dash of wet mud checked the fury of the fire.

  ‘We can save something now!’ exclaimed Orlando, and he ran into the theatre. — I followed. — He endeavoured to tear down the ranges of seats before the flames caught the wood-work. I had before admired his contrivance for making them fast, and yet movable, by iron rods which could readily be drawn out.

  ‘Stop, stop!’ cried I; ‘the iron will burn you!’ I spoke too late — his hand was scorched; but with ready presence of mind he tore the asbestos screen from its frame, and flinging a piece to me, and another to one of the men, he wrapped the rest round his hands, and tore out the rods. But before three rows of benches were unloosed, the smothered flames broke out afresh from every part of the theatre. The last tent was on fire: the men fled. I tried to drag Orlando away with me. ‘One moment,’ cried he, and forced his way to what had been the green-room. He came running out, holding up a small tin box. ‘The manager’s, and worth saving, I’m sure,’ cried he. The crowd gradually retreated from the blazing theatre. The whole was now one mass of flame. The watermen gave up. We all stood still for a moment and gazed, when suddenly, in the very midst of that fiery glow, a human form appeared. A wild shriek, and it sank. ‘It’s Jack! it’s Jack Clinton!’ cried Orlando, rushing at once into the very fury of the flames. Luckily a fresh supply of water had just arrived. It was thrown on the spot where he entered. In a few seconds he reappeared, staggering under his load — his hair on fire, his face blackened with smoke. He seemed to move in flames. He reached me as he sank senseless under the weight and suffocation. A bucketful of water poured upon them quenched the smoke and sparks which clung about them. At the sudden shock Jack Clinton opened his eyes, recognised Orlando, and exclaimed, ‘You! — is it you saving me?’ Orlando had his senses again in a moment; and he, and the people, and all of us, made every possible exertion, by every or any means, to extinguish the fire. It was hopeless. Furious but short was its rage, and all that could be burned was utterly consumed. We could do no more; so leaving the military and police to guard the place, I had Clinton carried to the hospital; and I supported Orlando, who was hardly able to walk, to my lodgings. He told me that just as he was crossing the last field between the town and the tents, he saw that which was called the dressing-room, and where his comrades were holding their revel, all at once lighted up from within, like some great lantern. Before he could think what it meant, the flames burst through the canvas; out rushed the revellers, shouting, screaming, reeling, and roaring; all ran like madmen towards the town. As they ran past, Orlando recollected the horses, picketed in a shed behind. He reached them before the flames had caught the wood, and had just rescued them when I came up. The revellers had, it was plain, in their drunken orgies, set fire to their tent; and Jack, he concluded, had, when the others rushed out, sunk down in a state of intoxication, and been only recalled to life on the very point of losing it, when he gave that scream of agony which brought Orlando to his aid. I asked what had become of the manager. He had gone on a visit in the neighbourhood some miles distant, and would know nothing of his misfortune till his return in the morning. When we reached my lodgings, I perceived that Orlando was terribly burned, his hands and his face especially.