“He’ll bleed to death! Oh, my brother!” cried Marianne, catching hold of the words; and terrified, she ran upstairs, crying, “Sophy, oh, Sophy! come down this minute, or he’ll be dead! My brother’s bleeding to death! Sophy! Sophy! come down, or he’ll be dead!”
“Let go the basin, you,” said Christopher, pulling the basin out of the chimney-sweeper’s hand, who had all this time stood in silence; “you are not fit to hold the basin for a gentleman.”
“Let him hold it,” said Frederick; “he did not mean to hurt me.”
“That’s more than he deserves. I’m certain sure he might have known well enough it was Mr. Frederick all the time, and he’d no business to go to fight — such a one as he — with a gentleman.”
“I did not know he was a gentleman!” said the chimney-sweeper, “how could
I?”
“How could he, indeed!” said Frederick; “he shall hold the basin.”
“Gracious me! I’m glad to hear him speak like himself again, at anyrate,” cried Mrs. Theresa. “And here comes Miss Sophy, too.”
“Sophy!” cried Frederick. “Oh, Sophy, don’t you come — don’t look at me; you’ll despise me.”
“My brother! where? where?” said Sophy, looking, as she thought, at the two chimney-sweepers.
“It’s Frederick,” said Marianne: “that’s my brother.”
“Miss Sophy, don’t be alarmed,” Mrs. Theresa began; “but gracious goodness! I wish Miss Bertha—”
At this instant a female figure in white appeared upon the stairs; she passed swiftly on, whilst everyone gave way before her. “Oh, Miss Bertha!” cried Mrs. Theresa, catching hold of her gown to stop her, as she came near Frederick. “Oh, Miss Eden, your beautiful India muslin! take care of the chimney sweeper, for heaven’s sake.” But she pressed forward.
“It’s my brother, will he die?” cried Marianne, throwing her arms round her, and looking up as if to a being of a superior order. “Will he bleed to death?”
“No, my love!” answered a sweet voice: “do not frighten thyself.”
“I’ve done bleeding,” said Frederick.
“Dear me, Miss Marianne, if you would not make such a rout,” cried Mrs. Tattle. “Miss Bertha, it’s nothing but a frolic. You see Mr. Frederick Montague only in a masquerade dress. Nothing in the world but a frolic, ma’am. You see he’s stopped bleeding. I was frightened out of my wits at first. I thought it was his eye, but I see it’s only his nose. All’s well that ends well. Mr. Frederick, we’ll keep your counsel. Pray, ma’am, let us ask no questions; it’s only a boyish frolic. Come, Mr. Frederick, this way, into my room, and I’ll give you a towel and some clean water, and you can get rid of this masquerade dress. Make haste, for fear your father and mother should drop in upon us.”
“Do not be afraid of thy father and mother. They are surely thy best friends,” said a voice. It was the voice of an elderly gentleman, who now stood behind Frederick.
“Oh, sir, oh, Mr. Eden,” said Frederick, turning to him.
“Don’t betray me! for goodness’ sake!” whispered Mrs. Tattle, “say nothing about me.”
“I’m not thinking about you. Let me speak,” cried he, pushing away her hand, which stopped his mouth. “I shall say nothing about you, I promise you,” said Frederick, with a look of contempt.
“No, but for your own sake, my dear sir, your papa and mamma. Bless me! is not that Mrs. Montague’s carriage?”
“My brother, ma’am,” said Sophy, “is not afraid of my father and mother’s coming back. Let him speak; he was going to speak the truth.”
“To be sure, Miss Sophia, I wouldn’t hinder him from speaking the truth; but it’s not proper, I presume, ma’am, to speak truth at all times, and in all places, and before everybody, servants and all. I only wanted, ma’am, to hinder your brother from exposing himself. A hall, I apprehend, is not a proper place for explanation.”
“Here,” said Mr. Eden, opening the door of his room, which was on the opposite side of the hall to Mrs. Tattle’s. “Here is a place,” said he to Frederick, “where thou mayst speak the truth at all times, and before everybody.”
“Nay, my room’s at Mr. Frederick Montague’s service, and my door’s open too. This way, pray,” said she, pulling his arm. But Frederick broke from her, and followed Mr. Eden.
“Oh, sir, will you forgive me?” cried he.
“Forgive thee! — and what have I to forgive!”
“Forgive, brother, without asking what,” said Bertha, smiling.
“He shall know all!” cried Frederick; “all that concerns myself, I mean. Sir, I disguised myself in this dress; I came up to your room to-night on purpose to see you, without your knowing it, that I might mimic you. The chimney-sweeper, where is he?” said Frederick, looking round; and he ran into the hall to see for him. “May he come in? he may — he is a brave, an honest, good, grateful boy. He never guessed who I was. After we left you we went down to the kitchen together, and there, fool as I was, for the pleasure of making Mr. Christopher and the servants laugh, began to mimic you. This boy said he would not stand by and hear you laughed at; that you had saved his life; that I ought to be ashamed of myself; that you had just given me half a crown; and so you had; but I went on, and told him I’d knock him down if he said another word. He did; I gave the first blow; we fought; I came to the ground; the servants pulled me up again. They found out, I don’t know how, that I was not a chimney- sweeper. The rest you saw. And now can you forgive me, sir?” said Frederick to Mr. Eden, seizing hold of his hand.
“The other hand, friend,” said the Quaker, gently withdrawing his right hand, which everybody now observed was much swelled, and putting it into his bosom again. “This, and welcome,” offering his other hand to Frederick, and shaking his with a smile.
“Oh, that other hand!” said Frederick, “that was hurt, I remember. How ill I have behaved — extremely ill! But this is a lesson that I shall never forget as long as I live. I hope for the future I shall behave like a gentleman.”
“And like a man — and like a good man, I am sure thou wilt,” said the good Quaker, shaking Frederick’s hand affectionately; “or I am much mistaken, friend, in that black countenance.”
“You are not mistaken,” cried Marianne. “Frederick will never be persuaded again by anybody to do what he does not think right: and now, brother, you may wash your black countenance.”
Just when Frederick had got rid of half his black countenance, a double knock was heard at the door. It was Mr. and Mrs. Montague. “What will you do now?” whispered Mrs. Theresa to Frederick, as his father and mother came into the room.
“A chimney-sweeper covered with blood!” exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Montague.
“Father, I am Frederick,” said he, stepping forward towards them, as they stood in astonishment.
“Frederick! my son!”
“Yes, mother, I’m not hurt half so much as I deserve; I’ll tell you—”
“Nay,” interrupted Bertha, “let my brother tell the story this time. Thou hast told it once, and told it well; no one but my brother could tell it better.”
“A story never tells so well the second time, to be sure,” said Mrs.
Theresa; “but Mr. Eden will certainly make the best of it.”
Without taking any notice of Mrs. Tattle, or her apprehensive looks, Mr. Eden explained all he knew of the affair in a few words. “Your son,” concluded he, “will quickly put off his dirty dress. The dress hath not stained the mind; that is fair and honourable. When he found himself in the wrong, he said so; nor was he in haste to conceal his adventure from his father; this made me think well of both father and son. I speak plainly, friend, for that is best. But what is become of the other chimney-sweeper? He will want to go home,” said Mr. Eden, turning to Mrs. Theresa. Without making any reply, she hurried out of the room as fast as possible, and returned in a few moments, with a look of extreme consternation.
“Here is a catastrophe indeed! Now, indeed, Mr. Frede
rick, your papa and mamma have reason to be angry. A new suit of clothes! — the bare faced villain! gone! no sign of them in my closet, or anywhere. The door was locked; he must have gone up the chimney, out upon the leads, and so escaped; but Christopher is after him. I protest, Mrs. Montague, you take it too quietly. The wretch! — a new suit of clothes, blue coat and buff waistcoat. I never heard of such a thing! I declare, Mr. Montague, you are vastly good, not to be in a passion,” added Mrs. Theresa.
“Madam,” replied Mr. Montague, with a look of much civil contempt, “I think the loss of a suit of clothes, and even the disgrace that my son has been brought to this evening, fortunate circumstances in his education. He will, I am persuaded, judge and act for himself more wisely in future. Nor will he be tempted to offend against humanity, for the sake of being called ‘The best mimic in the world.’”
THE BARRING OUT; OR, PARTY SPIRIT.
“The mother of mischief,” says an old proverb, “is no bigger than a midge’s wing.”
At Doctor Middleton’s school, there was a great tall dunce of the name of Fisher, who never could be taught how to look out a word in the dictionary. He used to torment everybody with—”Do pray help me! I can’t make out this one word.” The person who usually helped him in his distress was a very clever, good natured boy, of the name of De Grey, who had been many years under Dr. Middleton’s care, and who, by his abilities and good conduct, did him great credit. The doctor certainly was both proud and fond of him; but he was so well beloved, or so much esteemed by his companions, that nobody had ever called him by the odious name of favourite, until the arrival of a new scholar of the name of Archer.
Till Archer came, the ideas of FAVOURITES and PARTIES were almost unknown at Dr. Middleton’s; but he brought all these ideas fresh from a great public school, at which he had been educated — at which he had acquired a sufficient quantity of Greek and Latin, and a superabundant quantity of party spirit. His aim, the moment he came to a new school, was to get to the head of it, or at least to form the strongest party. His influence, for he was a boy of considerable abilities, was quickly felt, though he had a powerful rival, as he thought proper to call him, in De Grey; and, with HIM, a rival was always an enemy. De Grey, so far from giving him any cause of hatred, treated him with a degree of cordiality, which would probably have had an effect upon Archer’s mind, if it had not been for the artifices of Fisher.
It may seem surprising, that a GREAT DUNCE should be able to work upon a boy like an Archer, who was called a great genius; but when genius is joined to a violent temper, instead of being united to good sense, it is at the mercy even of dunces.
Fisher was mortally offended one morning by De Grey’s refusing to translate his whole lesson for him. He went over to Archer, who, considering him as a partisan deserting from the enemy, received him with open arms, and translated his whole lesson without expressing MUCH contempt for his stupidity. From this moment Fisher forgot all De Grey’s former kindness, and considered only how he could in his turn mortify the person whom he felt to be so much his superior.
De Grey and Archer were now reading for a premium, which was to be given in their class. Fisher betted on Archer’s head, who had not sense enough to despise the bet of a blockhead. On the contrary he suffered him to excite the spirit of rivalship in its utmost fury by collecting the bets of all the school. So that this premium now became a matter of the greatest consequence, and Archer, instead of taking the means to secure a judgment in his favour, was listening to the opinions of all his companions. It was a prize which was to be won by his own exertions; but he suffered himself to consider it as an affair of chance. The consequence was, that he trusted to chance — his partisans lost their wagers, and he the premium — and his temper.
“Mr. Archer,” said Dr. Middleton, after the grand affair was decided, “you have done all that genius alone could do; but you, De Grey, have done all that genius and industry united could do.”
“Well!” cried Archer, with affected gaiety, as soon as the doctor had left the room—”Well, I’m content with MY sentence. Genius alone! for me — industry for those who WANT it,” added he, with a significant look at De Grey.
Fisher applauded this as a very spirited speech; and, by insinuations that Dr. Middleton “always gave the premium to De Grey,” and that “those who had lost their bets might thank themselves for it, for being such simpletons as to bet against the favourite,” he raised a murmur highly flattering to Archer, amongst some of the most credulous boys; whilst others loudly proclaimed their belief in Dr. Middleton’s impartiality. These warmly congratulated De Grey. At this Archer grew more and more angry, and when Fisher was proceeding to speak nonsense FOR him, pushed forward into the circle to De Grey, crying, “I wish, Mr. Fisher, you would let me fight my own battles!”
“And I wish,” said young Townsend, who was fonder of diversions than of premiums, or battles, or of anything else—”I wish, that we were not to have any battles; after having worked like horses, don’t set about to fight like dogs. Come,” said he, tapping De Grey’s shoulder, “let us see your new playhouse, do — it’s a holiday, and let us make the most of it. Let us have the ‘School for Scandal,’ do; and I’ll play Charles for you, and you, De Grey, shall be MY LITTLE PREMIUM. Come, do open this new playhouse of yours to-night.”
“Come then!” said De Grey, and he ran across the playground to a waste building at the farthest end of it, in which, at the earnest request of the whole community, and with the permission of Dr. Middleton, he had with much pain and ingenuity erected a theatre.
“The new theatre is going to be opened! Follow the manager! Follow the manager!” echoed a multitude of voices.
“FOLLOW THE MANAGER!” echoed very disagreeably in Archer’s ear; but as he could not be LEFT ALONE, he was also obliged to follow the manager. The moment that the door was unlocked, the crowd rushed in: the delight and wonder expressed at the sight was great, and the applause and thanks which were bestowed upon the manager were long and loud.
Archer at least thought them long, for he was impatient till his voice could be heard. When at length the acclamations had spent themselves, he walked across the stage with a knowing air, and looking round contemptuously.
“And is THIS your famous playhouse?” cried he. “I wish you had, any of you, seen the playhouse I have been used to?”
These words made a great and visible change in the feelings and opinions of the public. “Who would be a servant of the public? or who would toil for popular applause?” A few words spoken in a decisive tone by a new voice operated as a charm, and the playhouse was in an instant metamorphosed in the eyes of the spectators. All gratitude for the past was forgotten, and the expectation of something better justified to the capricious multitude their disdain of what they had so lately pronounced to be excellent.
Everyone now began to criticise. One observed, “that the green curtain was full of holes, and would not draw up.” Another attacked the scenes; “Scenes! they were not like real scenes — Archer must know best, because he was used to these things.” So everybody crowded to hear something of the OTHER playhouse. They gathered round Archer to hear the description of his playhouse, and at every sentence insulting comparisons were made. When he had done, his auditors looked round, sighed and wished that Archer had been their manager. They turned from De Grey as from a person who had done them an injury. Some of his friends — for he had friends who were not swayed by the popular opinion — felt indignation at this ingratitude, and were going to express their feelings; but De Grey stopped them, and begged that he might speak for himself.
“Gentlemen,” said he, coming forward, as soon as he felt that he had sufficient command of himself. “My friends, I see you are discontented with me and my playhouse. I have done my best to please you; but if anybody else can please you better, I shall be glad of it. I did not work so hard for the glory of being your manager. You have my free leave to tear down—” Here his voice faltered, but he hurried on�
�”You have my free leave to tear down all my work as fast as you please. Archer, shake hands first, however, to show that there’s no malice in the case.”
Archer, who was touched by what his rival said, and, stopping the hand of his new partisan, Fisher, cried, “No, Fisher! no! — no pulling down. We can alter it. There is a great deal of ingenuity in it, considering.”
In vain Archer would now have recalled the public to reason, — the time for reason was passed: enthusiasm had taken hold of their minds. “Down with it! Down with it! Archer for ever!” cried Fisher, and tore down the curtain. The riot once begun, nothing could stop the little mob, till the whole theatre was demolished. The love of power prevailed in the mind of Archer; he was secretly flattered by the zeal of his PARTY, and he mistook their love of mischief for attachment to himself. De Grey looked on superior. “I said I could bear to see all this, and I can,” said he; “now it is all over.” And now it was all over, there was silence. The rioters stood still to take breath, and to look at what they had done. There was a blank space before them.
In this moment of silence there was heard something like a voice. “Hush! What strange voice is that?” said Archer. Fisher caught fast hold of his arm. Everybody looked round to see where the voice came from. It was dusk. Two window-shutters at the farthest end of the building were seen to move slowly inwards. De Grey, and in the same instant Archer, went forward; and, as the shutters opened, there appeared through the hole the dark face and shrivelled hands of a very old gipsy. She did not speak; but she looked first at one and then at another. At length she fixed her eyes on De Grey. “Well, woman,” said he, “what do you want with me?”
“Want! — nothing — with YOU,” said the old woman; “do you want nothing with
ME?”
“Nothing,” said De Grey. Her eye immediately turned upon Archer,—”YOU want something with me,” said she, with emphasis.
“I — what do I want?” replied Archer.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 323