Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “If you’ll give me leave, sir,” said the poor Bristol lad, “I shall have plenty of time; and I’ll run down to the Well Walk after the young gentleman, and take him his bow and arrows.”

  “Will you? I shall be much obliged to you,” said Ben; and away went the boy with the bow that was ornamented with green ribands.

  The public walk leading to the Wells was full of company. The windows of all the houses in St. Vincent’s Parade were crowded with well dressed ladies, who were looking out in expectation of the archery procession. Parties of gentlemen and ladies, and a motley crowd of spectators, were seen moving backwards and forwards, under the rocks, on the opposite side of the water. A barge, with coloured streamers flying, was waiting to take up a party who were going upon the water. The bargemen rested upon their oars, and gazed with broad faces of curiosity upon the busy scene that appeared upon the public walk.

  The archers and archeresses were now drawn up on the flags under the semicircular piazza just before Mrs. Yearsley’s library. A little band of children, who had been mustered by Lady Diana Sweepstakes’ SPIRITED EXERTIONS, closed the procession. They were now all in readiness. The drummer only waited for her ladyship’s signal; and the archers’ corps only waited for her ladyship’s word of command to march.

  “Where are your bow and arrows, my little man?” said her ladyship to Hal, as she reviewed her Lilliputian regiment. “You can’t march, man, without your arms?”

  Hal had despatched a messenger for his forgotten bow, but the messenger returned not. He looked from side to side in great distress—”Oh, there’s my bow coming, I declare!” cried he; “look, I see the bow and the ribands. Look now, between the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, on the Hotwell Walk; it is coming!”

  “But you’ve kept us all waiting a confounded time,” said his impatient friend.

  “It is that good-natured poor fellow from Bristol, I protest, that has brought it me; I’m sure I don’t deserve it from him,” said Hal, to himself, when he saw the lad with the black patch on his eye running, quite out of breath, towards him, with his bow and arrows.

  “Fall back, my good friend — fall back,” said the military lady, as soon as he had delivered the bow to Hal; “I mean, stand out of the way, for your great patch cuts no figure amongst us. Don’t follow so close, now, as if you belonged to us, pray.”

  The poor boy had no ambition to partake the triumph; he FELL BACK as soon as he understood the meaning of the lady’s words. The drum beat, the fife played, the archers marched, the spectators admired. Hal stepped proudly, and felt as if the eyes of the whole universe were upon his epaulettes, or upon the facings of his uniform; whilst all the time he was considered only as part of a show.

  The walk appeared much shorter than usual, and he was extremely sorry that Lady Diana, when they were half-way up the hill leading to Prince’s Place, mounted her horse, because the road was dirty, and all the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied her followed her example.

  “We can leave the children to walk, you know,” said she to the gentleman who helped her to mount her horse. “I must call to some of them, though, and leave orders where they are to join.”

  She beckoned: and Hal, who was foremost, and proud to show his alacrity, ran on to receive her ladyship’s orders. Now, as we have before observed, it was a sharp and windy day; and though Lady Diana Sweepstakes was actually speaking to him, and looking at him, he could not prevent his nose from wanting to be blowed: he pulled out his handkerchief and out rolled the new ball which had been given to him just before he left home, and which, according to his usual careless habits, he had stuffed into his pockets in his hurry. “Oh, my new ball!” cried he, as he ran after it. As he stopped to pick it up, he let go his hat, which he had hitherto held on with anxious care; for the hat, though it had a fine green and white cockade, had no band or string round it. The string, as we may recollect, our wasteful hero had used in spinning his top. The hat was too large for his head without this band; a sudden gust of wind blew it off. Lady Diana’s horse started and reared. She was a FAMOUS horse woman, and sat him to the admiration of all beholders; but there was a puddle of red clay and water in this spot, and her ladyship’s uniform habit was a sufferer by the accident. “Careless brat!” said she, “why can’t he keep his hat upon his head?” In the meantime, the wind blew the hat down the hill, and Hal ran after it amidst the laughter of his kind friends, the young Sweepstakes, and the rest of the little regiment. The hat was lodged, at length, upon a bank. Hal pursued it: he thought this bank was hard, but, alas! the moment he set his foot upon it the foot sank. He tried to draw it back; his other foot slipped, and he fell prostrate, in his green and white uniform, into the treacherous bed of red mud. His companions, who had halted upon the top of the hill, stood laughing, spectators of his misfortune.

  It happened that the poor boy with the black patch upon his eye, who had been ordered by Lady Diana to “fall back” and to “keep at a distance,” was now coming up the hill; and the moment he saw our fallen hero, he hastened to his assistance. He dragged poor Hal, who was a deplorable spectacle, out of the red mud. The obliging mistress of a lodging house, as soon as she understood that the young gentleman was nephew to Mr. Gresham, to whom she had formerly let her house, received Hal, covered as he was with dirt.

  The poor Bristol lad hastened to Mr. Gresham’s for clean stockings and shoes for Hal. He was unwilling to give up his uniform: it was rubbed and rubbed, and a spot here and there was washed out; and he kept continually repeating,—”When it’s dry it will all brush off — when it’s dry it will all brush off, won’t it?” But soon the fear of being too late at the archery meeting began to balance the dread of appearing in his stained habiliments; and he now as anxiously repeated, whilst the woman held the wet coat to the fire, “Oh, I shall be too late; indeed, I shall be too late; make haste; it will never dry; hold it nearer — nearer to the fire. I shall lose my turn to shoot; oh, give me the coat; I don’t mind how it is, if I can but get it on.”

  Holding it nearer and nearer to the fire dried it quickly, to be sure; but it shrunk it also, so that it was no easy matter to get the coat on again. However, Hal, who did not see the red splashes, which, in spite of all these operations, were too visible upon his shoulders, and upon the skirts of his white coat behind, was pretty well satisfied to observe that there was not one spot upon the facings. “Nobody,” said he, “will take notice of my coat behind, I daresay. I think it looks as smart almost as ever!” — and under this persuasion our young archer resumed his bow — his bow with green ribands, now no more! — and he pursued his way to the Downs.

  All his companions were far out of sight. “I suppose,” said he to his friend with the black patch—”I suppose my uncle and Ben had left home before you went for the shoes and stockings for me?”

  “Oh, yes, sir; the butler said they had been gone to the Downs a matter of a good half-hour or more.”

  Hal trudged on as fast as he possibly could. When he got upon the Downs, he saw numbers of carriages, and crowds of people, all going towards the place of meeting at the Ostrich. He pressed forwards. He was at first so much afraid of being late, that he did not take notice of the mirth his motley appearance excited in all beholders. At length he reached the appointed spot. There was a great crowd of people. In the midst he heard Lady Diana’s loud voice betting upon someone who was just going to shoot at the mark.

  “So then the shooting is begun, is it?” said Hal. “Oh, let me in! pray let me into the circle! I’m one of the archers — I am, indeed; don’t you see my green and white uniform?”

  “Your red and white uniform, you mean,” said the man to whom he addressed himself; and the people, as they opened a passage for him, could not refrain laughing at the mixture of dirt and finery which it exhibited. In vain, when he got into the midst of the formidable circle, he looked to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, for their countenance and support. They were amongst the most unmerciful of the laughers. Lady Diana also
seemed more to enjoy than to pity his confusion.

  “Why could you not keep your hat upon your head, man?” said she, in her masculine tone. “You have been almost the ruin of my poor uniform habit; but I’ve escaped rather better than you have. Don’t stand there, in the middle of the circle, or you’ll have an arrow in your eyes just now, I’ve a notion.”

  Hal looked round in search of better friends. “Oh, where’s my uncle? — where’s Ben?” said he. He was in such confusion, that, amongst the number of faces, he could scarcely distinguish one from another; but he felt somebody at this moment pull his elbow, and, to his great relief, he heard the friendly voice, and saw the good natured face of his Cousin Ben.

  “Come back; come behind these people,” said Ben, “and put on my great- coat; here it is for you.”

  Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uniform with the rough great- coat which he had formerly despised. He pulled the stained, drooping cockade out of his unfortunate hat; and he was now sufficiently recovered from his vexation to give an intelligible account of his accident to his uncle and Patty, who anxiously inquired what had detained him so long, and what had been the matter. In the midst of the history of his disaster, he was just proving to Patty that his taking the hatband to spin his top had nothing to do with his misfortune, and he was at the same time endeavouring to refute his uncle’s opinion that the waste of the whipcord that tied the parcel was the original cause of all his evils, when he was summoned to try his skill with his FAMOUS bow.

  “My hands are benumbed; I can scarcely feel,” said he, rubbing them, and blowing upon the ends of his fingers.

  “Come, come,” cried young Sweepstakes, “I’m within one inch of the mark; who’ll go nearer? I shall like to see. Shoot away, Hal; but first understand our laws; we settled them before you came upon the green. You are to have three shots, with your own bow and your own arrows; and nobody’s to borrow or lend under pretence of other’s bows being better or worse, or under any pretence. Do you hear, Hal?”

  This young gentleman had good reasons for being so strict in these laws, as he had observed that none of his companions had such an excellent bow as he had provided for himself. Some of the boys had forgotten to bring more than one arrow with them, and by his cunning regulation that each person should shoot with their own arrows, many had lost one or two of their shots.

  “You are a lucky fellow; you have your three arrows,” said young Sweepstakes. “Come, we can’t wait whilst you rub your fingers, man — shoot away.”

  Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his friend spoke. He little knew how easily acquaintance who call themselves friends can change when their interest comes in the slightest degree in competition with their friendship. Hurried by his impatient rival, and with his hands so much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how to fix the arrow in the string, he drew the bow. The arrow was within a quarter of an inch of Master Sweepstakes’ mark, which was the nearest that had yet been hit. Hal seized his second arrow. “If I have any luck—” said he. But just as he pronounced the word LUCK, and as he bent his bow, the string broke in two, and the bow fell from his hands.

  “There, it’s all over with you!” cried Master Sweepstakes, with a triumphant laugh.

  “Here’s my bow for him, and welcome,” said Ben.

  “No, no, sir,” said Master Sweepstakes, “that is not fair; that’s against the regulation. You may shoot with your own bow, if you choose it, or you may not, just as you think proper; but you must not lend it, sir.”

  It was now Ben’s turn to make his trial. His first arrow was not successful. His second was exactly as near as Hal’s first. “You have but one more,” said Master Sweepstakes—”now for it!” Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, prudently examined the string of his bow; and, as he pulled it to try its strength, it cracked. Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands with loud exultations and insulting laughter. But his laughter ceased when our provident hero calmly drew from his pocket an excellent piece of whip cord.

  “The everlasting whip cord, I declare!” exclaimed Hal, when he saw that it was the very same that had tied up the parcel. “Yes,” said Ben, as he fastened it to his bow, “I put it into my pocket, to-day, on purpose, because I thought I might happen to want it.” He drew his bow the third and last time.

  “Oh, papa!” cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark, “it’s the nearest; is it not the nearest?”

  Master Sweepstakes, with anxiety, examined the hit. There could be no doubt. Ben was victorious! The bow, the prize bow, was now delivered to him; and Hal, as he looked at the whip-cord exclaimed, “How LUCKY this whip-cord has been to you, Ben!”

  “It is LUCKY, perhaps you mean, that he took care of it,” said Mr.

  Gresham.

  “Ay,” said Hal, “very true; he might well say, ‘Waste not, want not.’ It is a good thing to have two strings to one’s bow.”

  OLD POZ.

  LUCY, daughter to the Justice.

  MRS. BUSTLE, landlady of the “Saracen’s Head.”

  JUSTICE HEADSTRONG.

  OLD MAN.

  WILLIAM, a Servant.

  SCENE I.

  The House of Justice Headstrong — a hall — Lucy watering some myrtles — A servant behind the scenes is heard to say —

  I tell you my master is not up. You can’t see him, so go about your business, I say.

  Lucy. To whom are you speaking, William? Who’s that?

  Will. Only an old man, miss, with a complaint for my master.

  Lucy. Oh, then, don’t send him away — don’t send him away.

  Will. But master has not had his chocolate, ma’am. He won’t ever see anybody before he drinks his chocolate, you know, ma’am.

  Lucy. But let the old man, then, come in here. Perhaps he can wait a little while. Call him. (Exit Servant.)

  (Lucy sings, and goes on watering her myrtles; the servant shows in the

  Old Man.)

  Will. You can’t see my master this hour; but miss will let you stay here.

  Lucy (aside). Poor old man! how he trembles as he walks. (Aloud.) Sit down, sit down. My father will see you soon; pray sit down.

  (He hesitates; she pushes a chair towards him.)

  Lucy. Pray sit down. (He sits down.)

  Old Man. You are very good, miss; very good. (Lucy goes to her myrtles again.)

  Lucy. Ah! I’m afraid this poor myrtle is quite dead — quite dead.

  (The Old Man sighs, and she turns round.)

  Lucy (aside). I wonder what can make him sigh so! (Aloud.) My father won’t make you wait long.

  Old M. Oh, ma’am, as long as he pleases. I’m in no haste — no haste.

  It’s only a small matter.

  Lucy. But does a small matter make you sigh so?

  Old M. Ah, miss; because, though it is a small matter in itself, it is not a small matter to me (sighing again); it was my all, and I’ve lost it.

  Lucy. What do you mean? What have you lost?

  Old M. Why, miss — but I won’t trouble you about it.

  Lucy. But it won’t trouble me at all — I mean, I wish to hear it; so tell it me.

  Old M. Why, miss, I slept last night at the inn here, in town — the

  “Saracen’s Head” —

  Lucy (interrupts him). Hark! there is my father coming downstairs; follow me. You may tell me your story as we go along.

  Old M. I slept at the “Saracen’s Head,” miss, and —

  (Exit, talking.)

  SCENE II.

  Justice Headstrong’s Study.

  (He appears in his nightgown and cap, with his gouty foot upon a stool — a table and chocolate beside him — Lucy is leaning on the arm of his chair.)

  Just. Well, well, my darling, presently; I’ll see him presently.

  Lucy. Whilst you are drinking your chocolate, papa?

  Just. No, no, no — I never see anybody till I have done my chocolate, darling. (He tastes his chocolate.) There’s no sugar in this, ch
ild.

  Lucy. Yes, indeed, papa.

  Just. No, child — there’s NO sugar, I tell you; that poz!

  Lucy. Oh, but, papa, I assure you I put in two lumps myself.

  Just. There’s NO sugar, I say; why will you contradict me, child, for ever? There’s no sugar, I say.

  (Lucy leans over him playfully, and with his teaspoon pulls out two lumps of sugar.)

  Lucy. What’s this, papa?

  Just. Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw! — it is not melted, child — it is the same as no sugar!. — Oh, my foot, girl, my foot! — you kill me. Go, go, I’m busy. I’ve business to do. Go and send William to me; do you hear, love?

  Lucy. And the old man, papa?

  Just. What old man? I tell you what, I’ve been plagued ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that old man. If he can’t wait, let him go about his business. Don’t you know, child, I never see anybody till I’ve drunk my chocolate; and I never will, if it were a duke — that’s poz! Why, it has but just struck twelve; if he can’t wait, he can go about his business, can’t he?

  Lucy. Oh, sir, he can wait. It was not he who was impatient. (She comes back playfully.) It was only I, papa; don’t be angry.

  Just. Well, well, well (finishing his cup of chocolate, and pushing his dish away); and at anyrate there was not sugar enough. Send William, send William, child; and I’ll finish my own business, and then — (Exit Lucy, dancing, “And then! — and then!”)

  JUSTICE, alone.

  Just. Oh, this foot of mine! — (twinges) — Oh, this foot! Ay, if Dr. Sparerib could cure one of the gout, then, indeed, I should think something of him; but, as to my leaving off my bottle of port, it’s nonsense; it’s all nonsense; I can’t do it; I can’t, and won’t, for all the Dr. Spareribs in Christendom; that’s poz!

  Enter WILLIAM.

  Just. William — oh! ay! hey! what answer, pray, did you bring from the

  “Saracen’s Head”? Did you see Mrs. Bustle herself, as I bid you?