“Yes, step down, do; and, Christopher, bring up the cowslip-wine, and some more macaroons for my little Marianne.”
Marianne withdrew rather coldly from a kiss which Mrs. Tattle was going to give her; for she was somewhat surprised at the familiarity with which this lady talked to her footman. She had not been accustomed to these familiarities in her father and mother, and she did not like them.
“Well,” said Mrs. Tattle to Christopher, who was now returned, “what is the news?”
“Ma’am, the little fellow with the squeaking voice has been telling me the whole story. The other morning, ma’am, early, he and the other were down the hill sweeping in Paradise Row. Those chimneys, they say, are difficult; and the square fellow, ma’am, the biggest of the two boys, got wedged in the chimney. The other little fellow was up at the top at the time, and he heard the cry; but in his fright, and all, he did not know what to do, ma’am; for he looked about from the top of the chimney, and not a soul could he see stirring, but a few that he could not make attend to his screech; the boy within almost stifling too. So he screeched, and screeched, all he could; and by the greatest chance in life, ma’am, old Mr. Eden was just going down the hill to fetch his morning walk.”
“Ay,” interrupted Mrs. Theresa, “friend Ephraim is one of your early risers.”
“Well,” said Marianne, impatiently.
“So, ma’am, hearing the screech, he turns and sees the sweep; and at once he understands the matter—”
“I’m sure he must have taken some time to understand it,” interposed Mrs. Tattle, “for he’s the slowest creature breathing, and the deafest in company. Go on, Christopher. So the sweep did make him hear.”
“So he says, ma’am; and so the old gentleman went in and pulled the boy out of the chimney, with much ado, ma’am.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa; “but did old Eden go up the chimney himself after the boy, wig and all?
“Why, ma’am,” said Christopher, with a look of great delight, “that was all as one, as the very ‘dentical words I put to the boy myself, when he telled me his story. But, ma’am, that was what I couldn’t get out of him, neither, rightly, for he is a churl — the big boy that was stuck in the chimney, I mean; for when I put the question to him about the wig, laughing like, he wouldn’t take it laughing like at all; but would only make answer to us like a bear, ‘He saved my life, that’s all I know’; and this over again, ma’am, to all the kitchen round, that cross-questioned him. But I finds him stupid and ill-mannered like, for I offered him a shilling, ma’am, myself, to tell about the wig; but he put it back in a way that did not become such as he, to no lady’s butler, ma’am; whereupon I turns to the slim fellow (and he’s smarterer, and more mannerly, ma’am, with a tongue in his head for his betters), but he could not resolve me my question either; for he was up at the top of the chimney the best part o’ the time: and when he came down Mr. Eden had his wig on, but had his arm all bare and bloody, ma’am.”
“Poor Mr. Eden!” exclaimed Marianne.
“Oh, miss,” continued the servant, “and the chimney-sweep himself was so bruised, and must have been killed.”
“Well, well! but he’s alive now; go on with your story, Christopher,” said Mrs. T. “Chimney-sweepers get wedged in chimneys every day; it’s part of their trade, and it’s a happy thing when they come off with a few bruises.* To be sure,” added she, observing that both Frederick and Marianne looked displeased at this speech, “to be sure, if one may believe this story, there was some real danger.”
*This atrocious practice is now happily superseded by the use of sweeping machines.
“Real danger! yes, indeed,” said Marianne; “and I’m sure I think Mr. Eden was very good.”
“Certainly it was a most commendable action, and quite providential. So I shall take an opportunity of saying, when I tell the story in all companies; and the boy may thank his kind stars, I’m sure, to the end of his days, for such an escape — But pray, Christopher,” said she, persisting in her conversation with Christopher, who was now laying the cloth for supper, “pray, which house was it in Paradise Row? where the Eagles or the Miss Ropers lodge? or which?”
“It was at my Lady Battersby’s, ma’am.”
“Ha! ha!” cried Mrs. Theresa, “I thought we should get to the bottom of the affair at last. This is excellent! This will make an admirable story for my Lady Battersby the next time I see her. These Quakers are so sly! Old Eden, I know, has long wanted to obtain an introduction into that house; and a charming charitable expedient hit upon! My Lady Battersby will enjoy this, of all things.”
CHAPTER III.
“Now,” continued Mrs. Theresa, turning to Frederick, as soon as the servant had left the room, “now, Mr. Frederick Montague, I have a favour- -such a favour — to ask of you; it’s a favour which only you can grant; you have such talents, and would do the thing so admirably; and my Lady Battersby would quite adore you for it. She will do me the honour to be here to spend an evening to-morrow. I’m convinced Mr. and Mrs. Montague will find themselves obliged to stay out another day, and I so long to show you off to her ladyship; and your Doctor Carbuncle, and your Counsellor Puff, and your Miss Croker, and all your charming characters. You must let me introduce you to her ladyship to-morrow evening. Promise me.”
“Oh, ma’am,” said Frederick, “I cannot promise you any such thing, indeed. I am much obliged to you; but indeed I cannot come.”
“Why not, my dear sir? why not? You don’t think I mean you should promise, if you are certain your papa and mamma will be home.”
“If they do come home, I will ask them about it,” said Frederick, hesitating; for though he by no means wished to accept the invitation, he had not yet acquired the necessary power of decidedly saying No.
“Ask them!” repeated Mrs. Theresa. “My dear sir, at your age, must you ask your papa and mamma about such things?”
“Must! no, ma’am,” said Frederick; “but I said I would. I know I need not, because my father and mother always let me judge for myself almost about everything.”
“And about this, I am sure,” cried Marianne. “Papa and mamma, you know, just as they were going away, said, ‘If Mrs. Theresa asks you to come, do as you think best’”
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Theresa, “you know it rests with yourselves, if you may do as you please.”
“To be sure I may, madam,” said Frederick, colouring from that species of emotion which is justly called false shame, and which often conquers real shame; “to be sure, ma’am, I may do as I please.”
“Then I may make sure of you,” said Mrs. Theresa; “for now it would be downright rudeness to tell a lady you won’t do as she pleases. Mr. Frederick Montague, I’m sure, is too wellbred a young gentleman to do so unpolite, so ungallant a thing!”
The jargon of politeness and gallantry is frequently brought by the silly acquaintance of young people to confuse their simple morality and clear good sense. A new and unintelligible system is presented to them, in a language foreign to their understanding, and contradictory to their feelings. They hesitate between new motives and old principles. From the fear of being thought ignorant, they become affected; and from the dread of being thought to be children act like fools. But all this they feel only when they are in the company of such people as Mrs. Theresa Tattle.
“Ma’am,” Frederick began, “I don’t mean to be rude; but I hope you’ll excuse me from coming to drink tea with you to-morrow, because my father and mother are not acquainted with Lady Battersby, and maybe they might not like—”
“Take care, take care,” said Mrs. Theresa, laughing at his perplexity: “you want to get off from obliging me, and you don’t know how. You had very nearly made a most shocking blunder in putting it all upon poor Lady Battersby. Now you know it’s impossible that Mr. and Mrs. Montague could have in nature the slightest objection to introducing you to my Lady Battersby at my own house; for, don’t you know, that, besides her ladyship’s many un
questionable qualities, which one need not talk of, she is cousin, but once removed, to the Trotters of Lancashire — your mother’s great favourites? And there is not a person at the Wells, I’ll venture to say, could be of more advantage to your sister Sophy, in the way of partners, when she comes to go the balls, which it’s to be supposed she will, some time or other; and as you are so good a brother, that’s a thing to be looked to, you know. Besides, as to yourself, there’s nothing her ladyship delights in so much as in a good mimic; and she’ll quite adore you!”
“But I don’t want her to adore me, ma’am,” said Frederick, bluntly; then, correcting himself, added, “I mean for being a mimic.”
“Why not, my love? Between friends, can there be any harm in showing one’s talents? You that have such talents to show. She’ll keep your secret, I’ll answer for her; and,” added she, “you needn’t be afraid of her criticism; for, between you and me, she’s no great critic; so you’ll come. Well, thank you, that’s settled. How you have made me beg and pray! but you know your own value, I see; as you entertaining people always do. One must ask a wit, like a fine singer, so often. Well, but now for the favour I was going to ask you.”
Frederick looked surprised; for he thought that the favour of his company was what she meant: but she explained herself farther.
“As to the old Quaker who lodges above, old Ephraim Eden — my Lady Battersby and I have so much diversion about him. He is the best character, the oddest creature! If you were but to see him come into the rooms with those stiff skirts, or walking with his eternal sister Bertha, and his everlasting broad-brimmed hat! One knows him a mile off! But then his voice and way, and altogether, if one could get them to the life, they’d be better than anything on the stage; better even than anything I’ve seen to-night; and I think you’d make a capital Quaker for my Lady Battersby; but then the thing is, one can never get to hear the old quiz talk. Now you, who have so much invention and cleverness — I have no invention myself; but could you not hit upon some way of seeing him, so that you might get him by heart? I’m sure you, who are so quick, would only want to see him, and hear him, for half a minute, to be able to take him off, so as to kill one with laughing. But I have no invention.”
“Oh, as to the invention,” said Frederick, “I know an admirable way of doing the thing, if that is all; but then remember, I don’t say I will do the thing, for I will not. But I know a way of getting up into his room, and seeing him, without his knowing me to be there.”
“Oh, tell it me, you charming, clever creature!”
“But, remember, I do not say I will do it.”
“Well, well, let us hear it; and you shall do as you please afterwards. Merciful goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, “do my ears deceive me? I declare I looked round, and thought I heard the squeaking chimney-sweeper was in the room!”
“So did I, Frederick, I declare,” cried Marianne, laughing, “I never heard anything so like his voice in my life.”
Frederick imitated the squeaking voice of this chimney-sweeper to great perfection.
“Now,” continued he, “this fellow is just my height. The old Quaker, if my face were blackened, and if I were to change clothes with the chimney- sweeper, I’ll answer for it, would never know me.”
“Oh, it’s an admirable invention! I give you infinite credit for it!” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. “It shall, it must be done. I’ll ring, and have the fellow up this minute.”
“Oh, no; do not ring,” said Frederick, stopping her hand, “I don’t mean to do it. You know you promised that I should do as I pleased. I only told you my invention.”
“Well, well; but only let me ring, and ask whether the chimney-sweepers are below. You shall do as you please afterwards.”
“Christopher, shut the door. Christopher,” said she to the servant who came up when she rang, “pray are the sweeps gone yet?”
“No, ma’am.”
“But have they been up to old Eden yet?”
“Oh, no, ma’am; nor be not to go till the bell rings; for Miss Bertha, ma’am, was asleep a-lying down, and her brother wouldn’t have her wakened on no account whatsomever. He came down hisself to the kitchen to the sweeps, though; but wouldn’t have, as I heard him say, his sister waked for no account. But Miss Bertha’s bell will ring when she wakens for the sweeps, ma’am. ’Twas she wanted to see the boy as her brother saved, and I suppose sent for him to give him something charitable, ma’am.”
“Well, never mind your suppositions,” said Mrs. Theresa; “run down this very minute to the little squeaking chimney-sweep, and send him up to me. Quick, but don’t let the other bear come up with him.”
Christopher, who had curiosity, as well as his mistress, when he returned with the chimney-sweeper, prolonged his own stay in the room by sweeping the hearth, throwing down the tongs and shovel, and picking them up again.
“That will do, Christopher! Christopher, that will do, I say,” Mrs. Theresa repeated in vain. She was obliged to say, “Christopher, you may go,” before he would depart.
“Now,” said she to Frederick, “step in here to the next room with this candle, and you’ll be equipped in an instant. Only just change clothes with the boy; only just let me see what a charming chimney-sweeper you’d make. You shall do as you please afterwards.”
“Well, I’ll only change clothes with him, just to show you for one minute.”
“But,” said Marianne to Mrs. Theresa whilst Frederick was changing his clothes, “I think Frederick is right about—”
“About what, love?”
“I think he is in the right not to go up, though he can do it so easily, to see that gentleman; I mean on purpose to mimic and laugh at him afterwards. I don’t think that would be quite right.”
“Why, pray, Miss Marianne?”
“Why, because he is so good-natured to his sister. He would not let her be wakened.”
“Dear, it’s easy to be good in such little things; and he won’t have long to be good to her neither; for I don’t think she will trouble him long in this world, anyhow.”
“What do you mean?” said Marianne.
“That she’ll die, child.”
“Die! die with that beautiful colour in her cheeks! How sorry her poor, poor brother will be! But she will not die, I’m sure, for she walks about and runs upstairs so lightly! Oh, you must be quite mistaken, I hope.”
“If I’m mistaken, Dr. Panado Cardamum’s mistaken too, then, that’s my comfort. He says, unless the waters work a miracle, she stands a bad chance; and she won’t follow my advice, and consult the doctor for her health.”
“He would frighten her to death, perhaps,” said Marianne. “I hope
Frederick won’t go up to disturb her.”
“Lud, child, you are turned simpleton all of a sudden; how can your brother disturb her more than the real chimney-sweeper?”
“But I don’t think it’s right,” persisted Marianne, “and I shall tell him so.”
“Nay, Miss Marianne, I don’t commend you now. Young ladies should not be so forward to give opinions and advice to their elder brothers unasked; and I presume that Mr. Frederick and I must know what’s right as well as Miss Marianne. Hush! here he is. Oh, the capital figure!” cried Mrs. Theresa. “Bravo, bravo!” cried she, as Frederick entered in the chimney- sweeper’s dress; and as he spoke, saying, “I’m afraid, please your ladyship, to dirt your ladyship’s carpet,” she broke out into immoderate raptures, calling him “her charming chimney-sweeper!” and repeating that she knew beforehand the character would do for him.
Mrs. Theresa instantly rang the bell, in spite of all expostulation — ordered Christopher to send up the other chimney-sweeper — triumphed in observing that Christopher did not know Frederick when he came into the room; and offered to lay any wager that the other chimney-sweeper would mistake him for his companion. And so he did; and when Frederick spoke, the voice was so very like, that it was scarcely possible that he should have perceived the difference.
“That’s the lady’s bell, and we must go,” said the blunt chimney-sweeper.
“Go, then, about your business,” said Mrs. Theresa, “and here’s a shilling for you, to drink, my honest fellow. I did not know you were so much bruised when I first saw you. I won’t detain you. Go,” said she, pushing Frederick towards the door. Marianne sprang forward to speak to him; but Mrs. Theresa kept her off; and, though Frederick resisted, the lady shut the door upon him by superior force, and, having locked it, there was no retreat. Mrs. Tattle and Marianne waited impatiently for Frederick’s return.
“I hear them,” cried Marianne, “I hear them coming downstairs.” They listened again, and all was silent. At length they suddenly heard a great noise of many steps in the hall.
“Merciful!” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, “it must be your father and mother come back.” Marianne ran to unlock the room door, and Mrs. Theresa followed her into the hall. The hall was rather dark, but under the lamp a crowd of people, all the servants in the house having gathered together.
As Mrs. Theresa approached, the crowd opened in silence, and in the midst she beheld Frederick, with blood streaming from his face. His head was held by Christopher; and the chimney-sweeper was holding a basin for him. “Merciful! what will become of me?” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. “Bleeding! he’ll bleed to death! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? A key, a large key down his back — a key — has nobody a key? Mr. and Mrs. Montague will be here before he has done bleeding. A key! cobwebs! a puff ball! for mercy’s sake! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? Gracious me! he’ll bleed to death, I believe.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 322