Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  As surely as hope feeds love, gratitude nourishes, increases, and excites generosity to fresh activity. Walter formed new schemes for Orlando’s and his mother’s happiness; and his sisters thought all he proposed charming, if they had but the means to carry his plan into effect.

  No less a scheme was Walter’s than to re-establish the mother in the comfortable home in which she formerly lived at Carrolinan before she had been ejected by her husband’s elder brother in his wrath. The house had been let of late years to a sort of half-gentleman, or quarter-gentleman, or whatever fraction of a broken gentleman he might be. This individual had at first setting out spent a great deal of his ready cash upon the premises, turning a good comfortable farm-house into what he chose to call his hunting or his shooting lodge; it had all been done in a careless, squandering way, at double the cost it needed. In due course he ceased to pay rent, because he required to be remunerated for his improvements and additions. The agent refused to make allowance for additions which he did not think improvements, and which nobody had asked the tenant to make. But all that concerns us in the business is, that the half-quarter gentleman being wholly ruined, decamped one morning before sunrise, having packed upon his cars all the furniture or movables that he had time or means to carry off. There was a great arrear of rent, and nothing to answer for it; and it was at a time of year when nobody would think of taking house or land, especially in the condition in which the premises were left. The under-agent was much perplexed and alarmed, this broken gentleman being a connexion of his own, and, moreover, having been recommended by him, and accepted by his employer upon his sole recommendation, if not on his absolute security. To let the house again as soon as possible to some substantial tenant, who might be able and willing to pay part of the arrears as a fine, as it is called, at coming in, was the only resource which the Sub had to save himself with his employer. He looked about him privately for a substantial tenant, without daring publicly to advertise. He had some hopes that a remarkably good-natured woman, who had no adverse interest to his, as she was about to leave the country, might contrive to find him a tenant. The good-natured person in whom the Sub’s fainting hopes centered was the happy mother, Mrs Walsh, who received that memorable day at the post-office the delightful letter from her son which Walter read to her. She and her family were now on the eve of their departure for Philadelphia; and it was after her having settled to her own willing loss, and to the agent’s roguish satisfaction, all rent accounts, and taken receipt in full, that he urged her to unsay the word she had given to the man, who had all but a lease, with the agent’s consent, of their surrendered house and farm.

  “Do not you let that house of yours, but make him come over to me and propose for the lodge, and fine down the rent handsomely, and I’ll give it him a bargain.”

  This bargain could not be: Mrs Walsh, with all her good-nature, would never oblige one at the expense of another. She, however, seeing the agent’s despair, and that he was really in what her American Peter would call a fix, bethought herself of mentioning the matter to Walter. She had heard that he and his sisters, and his uncle and mother, took an interest about the poor Widow More. Walter had made some inquiries from Mrs Walsh about her, and about the way and cause of her having been turned out of this house; and it occurred to her that he had a wish to get her back again: so she took the opportunity of going to pay her farewell thanks and respects to Master Walter and all the family, who had ever been so good to her, and to whom her Peter had charged her to present his cordial duty and gratitude. So she, nicely kerchiefed and shawled, and with her bright affectionate countenance, went up to the house to speak to him; and she took the liberty to mention in a whisper to Master Walter how matters stood, “and how Carrolinan Cottage was circumstanced, and the sub-agent in a mind to let it for next to nothing, if he could get something by it.” She had no need to say anything touching the widow or Mary, as before half a word was uttered, the idea had suggested itself to Walter. He thanked her; he shook hands with her; he wished her a good journey, a good voyage, all manner of happiness; scarcely sensible that he was speeding rather too much the parting guest, as he opened the door for her, in his own haste to make his way to his uncle’s study to open the case to him.

  His uncle turned as he came into the room, and said, with a look of sarcastic benevolence, “Now, Master Walter, here you come with some premeditated folly in your face.”

  Walter declared that, on the contrary, what he was going to say was eminently wise; and he repeated what he had heard from the Widow Walsh, and how he thought he could turn it to advantage for the Widow More; and his uncle heard, and his mother listened, and they agreed that it could do no harm to go to Carrolinan and look at the house, and send to the agent to meet them, and try to make — what Amy so much despised—”a good bargain” for the house, as Orlando would now be well able to pay any reasonable rent for it. And whatever repairs and furnishing Walter and his sisters could themselves provide for the widow, they might execute as soon as they pleased — if the house could be had. Walter would gladly have set off that instant; but it was too late: they were, however, to go next day.

  One of the finest days that ever was seen — carriage, open carriage at the door — and in he jumped, having first hoisted in Bessy and Amy, who were to be of the party — as well they deserved, from their long kindness to Mary, and their present, and their ever-ready sympathy with their brother, and with all his generous fancies: fancies or wishes, no matter which; still good — good! and happy — happy! The carriage rolled on. There are days when every place looks well, especially to young eyes, and every new place particularly; and Carrolinan was a new place to them. They never had seen it: only knew it was in the mountains somewhere, and were surprised when they came to—”nothing so very wild” — a good enough road, however, up hill and down hill, and through a pretty glen.

  “With a river!” cried Bessy.

  “A rivulet!” said Amy.

  “A wood!” cried Bessy.

  “Trees!” said Amy.

  “Nothing very extraordinary,” said sober Walter — keeping himself to himself. “I wonder what the house will be?”

  It was not a thatched cottage, to Amy’s and Bessy’s unspeakable disappointment.

  “I told you, girls, Mrs Walsh said it had been turned into a lodge,” said Walter.

  “Lodge!” said Bessy; “not half so pretty as a cottage.”

  “It is neither one thing nor the other,” said Amy.

  “That great cut stone portico — or whatever you call it — is frightful,” said Bessy; “stuck on where I expected a woodbine porch; and staring great panes in those windows in front, instead of the pretty latticed windows above.”

  “Here we are,” cried Walter, jumping out before the carriage had stopped, and handing out his mother and sisters. They were in the house before the poor woman left in care of it could well open the door. And up stairs, and down stairs, and into every hole and corner the young folk flew; Bessy admiring or deploring, and Amy planning or despairing, and Walter looking at everything with the eye of a man of business.

  This, and that, he observed, were too fine for a cottage, and if sold, would bring in something for the widow. And though so many panes of glass were broken in the new sashes, still the glass would more than do for the latticed window-frames, which were found under oats in the garret. Walter looked to everything; and his mother smiled and approved of all his suggestions, and his sisters more than agreed, admired, and applauded. Then to the garden — if garden it could be called — they ran. Nettles throughout! — Pigs had been — and one yet grunted there! Walter kicked him out, bidding him go to his sty; which was unjust, and, besides, impossible; for the pig had no sty to go into.

  “But it does not signify,” cried Walter; “we can build a sty in the corner.”

  In the corner there stood, or there leaned, the very woodbine porch of which Bessy had a beau ideal. It had been transplanted from the front of the house to the b
ack of the garden, and there had formed something which looked like an arbour at first view, but which, on near approach, and on entrance, could only be called a tabagie — in plain English, a smoking place, a beer-drinking place. Marks of the tankard or the punch-bowl, and of the wine or the whisky glasses, were over the dirtiest of dirty tables — and broken pipes and strewed cigars told the rest.

  Amy, who was nice of smell, could not enter the tabagie; but Bessy encountered it, and running round the crooked table, pronounced that Walter could make it straight by two new legs — could plane the top, as he had planed the top of a table last week for her; and that the whole trellis and arbour could be — as Amy wished and Walter hoped — safely transplanted in all its honeysuckle beauty to its original place, and be again a pretty porch to the hall-door. And to the hall-door Bessy repaired to see it, with the prophetic eye of taste — in childhood most happily clear-sighted.

  They were all standing before the hall-door, considering how that “horror of the heavy, out-of-place cut-stone portico” could be most speedily removed, also what could be got for cut-stone Walter was calculating, when his uncle, who had gone into the village, came back with the agent, who had at his button-hole a paper, and in hand pen and inkhorn.

  He requested the lady’s presence in the parlour, or wherever she pleased, just to put her name to the agreement which now wanted only her signature. She gave it — not without reading, as Walter wisely observed. His uncle said that all was settled to his satisfaction. The agent was fully empowered by the head landlord to let the house and land; and in the agreement there was a special clause permitting the under-letting to whoever they thought proper — they of course answering for the rent. The agent had been most eager to conclude the business on the spot, as ready money, or a draft at sight for the fine, that would clear off the heaviest part of the arrear, was offered and paid; and he was cleared from the scrape which otherwise he must have been in with his principal.

  While Walter’s mother was reading, and signing, and sealing, and his uncle explaining, Walter looked at the agent, and recognised in him Silver-whip — the man he had met at the post-office — ages ago — who had so stared at Orlandino! The agent had no recollection of having ever seen Walter before, and it never occurred to him that he could have any connection with Orlando. Nor did he seem to know anything about the widow or Mary. Not the least notion had he that the house was taken with a view to their reinstalment. His idea, if he had any, was, that the lady and gentleman meant to make a compliment of it to Master Walter, and that they intended to fix it for a hunting, shooting, or fishing lodge for him. Accordingly, he went on puffing it as “incomparable,” and giving him joy of the capital bargain it was. Possession was given — possession taken; and Bessy was amused by the ceremony of the key, and the twig, and bit of thatch given and received. The carriage was at the door, and in they were, and off they bowled.

  A delightful evening! — and everything was delicious! Though they had had no dinner, they had plenty of sandwiches in the carriage; and everybody knows how much better sandwiches in the carriage are than dinner on the table. While they were eating from mamma’s bountiful basket and lap, with cambric handkerchief outspread, uncle sat back in the corner, and began to talk business with Walter.

  “Pray, Walter, have you the least idea who our head landlord is? What think you of his being Orlando’s uncle?”

  “Orlando’s uncle!” — Walter was alarmed — afraid that the landlord, who had ejected the widow, would be angry, and object to her coming back again. But then no one could prevent her being brought back again, as the agreement was signed and sealed, and there was the special permission to underlet. This agreement must be adhered to.

  Walter still had his fears, though he said, or endeavoured to say, “No matter.” But “No matter” stuck in his throat till his kind uncle relieved him by—”Very true, Walter.” And something more he added, which excited Bessy’s curiosity, and raised Amy’s hopes, that there would be no difficulties whatever, and that this head landlord might turn out not to be so very cruel a man after all. “Hear both sides,” her uncle’s favourite maxim, was now particularly well-timed. He told them what he had heard while he was away from them in the village of Carrolinan. He had there met with a medical gentleman who was visiting a sick family in one of the cabins.

  This gentleman — Dr Clifford — was Mr More of More-Court’s family physician; had known him for years; knew all the circumstances of his life, and all the changes of his humours; old More he described to be a good-natured, and what you may call good-hearted man, though passionate, and self-willed, and fond of power, and piquing himself particularly upon his right to rule as head of the house. He had been very fond of his only brother, Orlando’s father, who was some years younger than himself, and of whom he had considered himself as the guardian. He had been very much displeased by his brother’s marrying under age, without his consent, and a woman of low rank, and no birth; but still more he was offended, and most naturally and justly, by their keeping the marriage a secret from him. Consequently, he never would see the wife nor acknowledge the marriage — that is to say, countenance it — for he did admit that it was a regular marriage. His brother lived but a few years afterwards. At his death, More senior’s heart was softened, but not sufficiently to induce him to receive or even to see the widow. However, he made her immediately a handsome allowance for the education of her son as a gentleman; and when he afterwards heard of the boy’s progress, and of his distinguishing himself at school, he was pleased and proud of his nephew. The more was he disappointed, and, as Dr Clifford described, enraged, by his running away from school just when he was hoping that he would be in time an honour to his name. Above all, incensed he was against the mother, believing that she had spoiled the boy, and that by her foolish fondness she was the cause of his ruin. It was under this impression — and you cannot much wonder at it — that he in anger withdrew the annuity he had granted for the boy’s education. But in his first fury he went further: he ordered that the widow — the mother — should be turned out of her house, and ejected from his land. He not only would never let her come into his sight while he lived, but he swore she should remain no longer on his estate. Dr Clifford was with him at the time when the news was brought to him by the agent, and when, in his paroxysm of rage and gout, he issued the fatal order—”Eject her — eject her! Eject her instantly!” It is the curse of Irish landlords as of English kings — the curse of all who are in power — to have about them some who serve them too promptly—”slaves that take humours for a warrant” — and More’s agent was one of these. “Had he but shook his head, or made a pause,” or “turned an eye of doubt” upon the landlord’s face, the widow and the orphan would have been saved. But the agent wanted the farm for a friend of his own, and his wife had some grudge against the widow. The order was executed instantly — the notice to quit served that hour. This is the truth, as told by Dr Clifford, whose truth cannot be doubted. But he was also witness to the uncle’s remorse. The doctor was standing by his patient’s gouty chair, feeling his pulse, when the agent brought him word that his orders had been executed, and that the widow and her daughter were gone.

  “Gone!” — the pulse fluttered and stopped — then beat with furious velocity.—”Gone! How? Where? Why?” The agent coolly answered that she took herself off at the first warning. She fled in her fright, or her pride, or her ignorance, he said: the foolish woman did not know the law allowed her six months, so took herself off bag and baggage — nobody knew how, and nobody knew where; and “so best,” the hard-hearted agent said.

  Mr More shrunk with a double pang of gout and conscience. Clenching his hand, he bade the agent begone, and never mention the widow’s name to him again at his peril.

  From this remorse even my uncle augured well. And hoping the best, the young people set to work at their repairs and improvements. Very happy they were, portioning out their parts in this labour of love. At all events not “Love’s
labour lost,” for it was all for dear Walter — so to each their voluntary tasks. Their mother promised to supply them with good common household stuff, enough for all their purposes, if they could calculate exactly how much they wanted; and she would help in the cutting out, provided she was not to be asked above a million of questions as to the rest. Amy undertook the pinning and putting together, and engaged to refer to her mother only a dozen times a day. Walter, in the midst of this “sempstress-talk,” was dead silent; but he took his turn, and had his share when it came to the carpentry. Besides tables and chairs innumerable to be mended, there was the cuckoo clock to be made to cuckoo, and to be made to go. It was at this moment without a pendulum.

  While thus they laid out their difficult works, they were all happy in the thought that they could be really useful, and triumph over all difficulties. But Rome was not built in a day, and we must not expect that Carrolinan Lodge can in a day be transmuted or transmogrified into Carrolinan Cottage. There must be time.

  Time and Industry,

  “The mighty two

  That bring our wishes nearer to our view,”

  brought in due time to view the accomplishment of Amy’s and Bessy’s and Walter’s wishes. The fitting and furnishing of Carrolinan Cottage was accomplished. Carrolinan Cottage — Lodge no more — a cottage being a home more suitable and more comfortable for the destined occupier. Not without pains and care had this change been completely effected. In truth nothing ever is well done without more difficulty and more care than we are at first aware is necessary. Amy’s mismeasurement of the bed furniture cost them a whole day’s work, and the patched resource of an added valance. And Bessy’s lack of half a breadth more in the window curtains gave them, it may be feared, at last rather a skimpy appearance. Walter’s troubles with the clock, difficulties of wheels with broken teeth, and centres worn out, were trying to the clock-mender’s temper, and required not only his utmost skill, but utmost patience; and then all the rattling doors and the windows! The work seemed endless, the difficulties insuperable. Yet they were all conquered at last; and curtains would draw and undraw — and the doors did open, and the windows did shut — and the cuckoo clock did cuckoo — and the broken knocker was sold to the tinker for twopence-halfpenny or thereabouts. The stone-pedimented portico was gone to the agent’s own house gratis — the tabagie table was planed, and had now its proper complement of legs — and there was the woodbined porch, reinstated with the flaunting eglantine, flaunting and flourishing as well as ever. By the by, Bessy acknowledged that she had never till this day known what eglantine meant. She always thought it was honeysuckle, and lo! it is sweetbrier.