Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Thus speculated the chief of a party upon his sleeping friends. And how did it happen that he should be so ambitious to please and govern this set, when, for each individual of which it was composed, he felt such supreme contempt? He had formed them into a PARTY, had given them a name, and he was at their head. If these be not good reasons, none better can be assigned for Archer’s conduct.

  “I wish ye could all sleep on,” said he; “but I must waken ye, though you will be only in my way. The sound of my hammering must waken them; so I may as well do the thing handsomely, and flatter some of them by pretending to ask their advice.”

  Accordingly, he pulled two or three to waken them. “Come, Townsend, waken, my boy! Here’s some diversion for you — up! up!”

  “Diversion!” cried Townsend; “I’m your man! I’m up — UP TO ANYTHING.”

  So, under the name of DIVERSION, Archer set Townsend to work at four o’clock in the morning. They had nails, a few tools, and several spars, still left from the wreck of the playhouse. These, by Archer’s directions, they sharpened at one end, and nailed them to the ends of several forms.

  All hands were now called to clear away the supper things, to erect these forms perpendicularly under the trap-door; and with the assistance of a few braces, a chevaux-de-frise was formed, upon which nobody could venture to descend. At the farthest end of the room they likewise formed a penthouse of the tables, under which they proposed to breakfast, secure from the pelting storm, if it should again assail them through the trap- door. They crowded under the penthouse as soon as it was ready, and their admiration of its ingenuity paid the workmen for the job.

  “Lord! I shall like to see the gardener’s phiz through the trap-door, when he beholds the spikes under him!” cried Townsend. “Now for breakfast!”

  “Ay, now for breakfast,” said Archer, looking at his watch; “past eight o’clock, and my town boys not come! I don’t understand this!”

  Archer had expected a constant supply of provisions from two boys who lived in the town, who were cousins of his, and who had promised to come every day, and put food in at a certain hole in the wall, in which a ventilator usually turned. This ventilator Archer had taken down, and had contrived it so that it could be easily removed and replaced at pleasure; but, upon examination, it was now perceived that the hole had been newly stopped up by an iron back, which it was impossible to penetrate or remove.

  “It never came into my head that anybody would ever have thought of the ventilator but myself!” exclaimed Archer, in great perplexity. He listened and waited for his cousins; but no cousins came, and at a late hour the company were obliged to breakfast upon the scattered fragments of the last night’s feast. That feast had been spread with such imprudent profusion, that little now remained to satisfy the hungry guests.

  Archer, who well knew the effect which the apprehension of a scarcity would have upon his associates, did everything that could be done by a bold countenance and reiterated assertions to persuade them that his cousins would certainly come at last and that the supplies were only delayed. The delay, however, was alarming.

  Fisher alone heard the manager’s calculations and saw the public fears unmoved. Secretly rejoicing in his own wisdom, he walked from window to window, slily listening for the gipsy’s signal. “There it is!” cried he with more joy sparkling in his eyes than had ever enlightened them before. “Come this way, Archer; but don’t tell anybody. Hark! do ye hear those three taps at the window? This is the old woman with twelve buns for me. I’ll give you one whole one for yourself, if you will unbar the window for me.”

  “Unbar the window!” interrupted Archer; “no, that I won’t, for you or the gipsy either; but I have heard enough to get your buns without that. But stay; there is something of more consequence than your twelve buns. I must think for ye all, I see, regularly.”

  So he summoned a council, and proposed that everyone should subscribe, and trust the subscription to the gipsy, to purchase a fresh supply of provisions. Archer laid down a guinea of his own money for his subscription; at which sight all the company clapped their hands, and his popularity rose to a high pitch with their renewed hopes of plenty. Now, having made a list of their wants, they folded the money in the paper, put it into a bag, which Archer tied to a long string, and, having broken the pane of glass behind the round hole in the window-shutter, he let down the bag to the gipsy. She promised to be punctual, and having filled the bag with Fisher’s twelve buns, they were drawn up in triumph, and everybody anticipated the pleasure with which they should see the same bag drawn up at dinner-time. The buns were a little squeezed in being drawn through the hole in the window-shutter; but Archer immediately sawed out a piece of the shutter, and broke the corresponding panes in each of the other windows, to prevent suspicion, and to make it appear that they had all been broken to admit air.

  What a pity that so much ingenuity should have been employed to no purpose!

  It may have surprised the intelligent reader that the gipsy was so punctual to her promise to Fisher, but we must recollect that her apparent integrity was only cunning; she was punctual that she might be employed again, that she might be intrusted with the contribution which, she foresaw, must be raised amongst the famishing garrison. No sooner had she received the money than her end was gained.

  Dinner-time came; it struck three, four, five, six. They listened with hungry ears, but no signal was heard. The morning had been very long, and Archer had in vain tried to dissuade them from devouring the remainder of the provisions before they were sure of a fresh supply. And now those who had been the most confident were the most impatient of their disappointment.

  Archer, in the division of the food, had attempted, by the most scrupulous exactness, to content the public, and he was both astonished and provoked to perceive that his impartiality was impeached. So differently do people judge in different situations! He was the first person to accuse his master of injustice, and the least capable of bearing such an imputation upon himself from others. He now experienced some of the joys of power, and the delight of managing unreasonable numbers.

  “Have not I done everything I could to please you? Have not I spent my money to buy you food? Have not I divided the last morsel with you? I have not tasted one mouthful today! Did not I set to work for you at sunrise? Did not I lie awake all night for you? Have not I had all the labour, and all the anxiety? Look round and see MY contrivances, MY work, MY generosity! And, after all, you think me a tyrant, because I want you to have common sense. Is not this bun which I hold in my hand my own? Did not I earn it by my own ingenuity from that selfish dunce” (pointing to Fisher), “who could never have gotten one of his twelve buns, if I had not shown him how? Eleven of them he has eaten since morning for his own share, without offering anyone a morsel; but I scorn to eat even what is justly my own, when I see so many hungry creatures longing for it. I was not going to touch this last morsel myself. I only begged you to keep it till supper-time, when perhaps you’ll want it more, and Townsend, who can’t bear the slightest thing that crosses his own whims, and who thinks there’s nothing in this world to be minded but his own diversion, calls me a TYRANT. You all of you promised to obey me. The first thing I ask you to do for your own good, and when, if you had common sense, you must know I can want nothing but your good, you rebel against me. Traitors! fools! ungrateful fools!”

  Archer walked up and down, unable to command his emotion, whilst, for the moment, the discontented multitude was silenced.

  “Here,” said he, striking his hand upon the little boy’s shoulder, “here’s the only one amongst you who has not uttered one word of reproach or complaint, and he has had but one bit of bread — a bit that I gave him myself this day. Here!” said he, snatching the bun, which nobody had dared to touch, “take it — it’s mine — I give it to you, though you are a Greybeard; you deserve it. Eat it, and be an Archer. You shall be my captain; will you?” said he, lifting him up in his arm above the rest.

  “I
like you now,” said the little boy, courageously; “but I love De Grey better; he has always been my friend, and he advised me never to call myself any of those names, Archer or Greybeard; so I won’t. Though I am shut in here, I have nothing to do with it. I love Dr. Middleton; he was never unjust to ME, and I daresay that he has very good reasons, as De Grey said, for forbidding us to go into that house. Besides, it’s his own.”

  Instead of admiring the good sense and steadiness of this little lad, Archer suffered Townsend to snatch the untasted bun out of his hands. He flung it at a hole in the window, but it fell back. The Archers scrambled for it, and Fisher ate it.

  Archer saw this, and was sensible that he had not done handsomely in suffering it. A few moments ago he had admired his own generosity, and though he had felt the injustice of others, he had not accused himself of any. He turned away from the little boy, and sitting down at one end of the table, hid his face in his hands. He continued immovable in this posture for some time.

  “Lord!” said Townsend; “it was an excellent joke!”

  “Pooh!” said Fisher; “what a fool, to think so much about a bun!”

  “Never mind, Mr. Archer, if you are thinking about me,” said the little boy, trying gently to pull his hands from his face.

  Archer stooped down, and lifted him up upon the table, at which sight the partisans set up a general hiss. “He has forsaken us! He deserts his party! He wants to be a Greybeard! After he has got us all into this scrape, he will leave us!”

  “I am not going to leave you,” cried Archer. “No one shall ever accuse me of deserting my party. I’ll stick by the Archers, right or wrong, I tell you, to the last moment. But this little fellow — take it as you please, mutiny if you will, and throw me out of the window. Call me traitor! coward! Greybeard! — this little fellow is worth you all put together, and I’ll stand by him against anyone who dares to lay a finger upon him; and the next morsel of food that I see shall be his. Touch him who dares!”

  The commanding air with which Archer spoke and looked, and the belief that the little boy deserved his protection, silenced the crowd. But the storm was only hushed.

  No sound of merriment was now to be heard — no battledore and shuttlecock- -no ball, no marbles. Some sat in a corner, whispering their wishes that Archer would unbar the doors, and give up. Others, stretching their arms, and gaping as they sauntered up and down the room, wished for air, or food, or water. Fisher and his nine, who had such firm dependence upon the gipsy, now gave themselves up to utter despair. It was eight o’clock, growing darker and darker every minute, and no candles, no light could they have. The prospect of another long dark night made them still more discontented.

  Townsend, at the head of the yawners, and Fisher, at the head of the hungry malcontents, gathered round Archer and the few yet unconquered spirits, demanding “How long he meant to keep them in this dark dungeon? and whether he expected that they should starve themselves for his sake?”

  The idea of GIVING UP was more intolerable to Archer than all the rest. He saw that the majority, his own convincing argument, was against him. He was therefore obliged to condescend to the arts of persuasion. He flattered some with hopes of food from the town boys. Some he reminded of their promises; others he praised for former prowess; and others he shamed by the repetition of their high vaunts in the beginning of the business.

  It was at length resolved that at all events they WOULD HOLD OUT. With this determination they stretched themselves again to sleep, for the second night, in weak and weary obstinacy.

  Archer slept longer and more soundly than usual the next morning, and when he awoke, he found his hands tied behind him! Three or four boys had just got hold of his feet, which they pressed down, whilst the trembling hands of Fisher were fastening the cord round them.

  With all the force which rage could inspire, Archer struggled and roared to “HIS ARCHERS!” — his friends, his party — for help against the traitors. But all kept aloof. Townsend, in particular, stood laughing and looking on. “I beg your pardon, Archer, but really you look so droll. All alive and kicking! Don’t be angry. I’m so weak, I cannot help laughing today.”

  The packthread cracked. “His hands are free! He’s loose!” cried the least of the boys, and ran away, whilst Archer leaped up, and seizing hold of Fisher with a powerful grasp, sternly demanded “What he meant by this?”

  “Ask my party,” said Fisher, terrified; “they set me on; ask my party.”

  “Your party!” cried Archer, with a look of ineffable contempt; “you reptile! — YOUR party? Can such a thing as YOU have a party?”

  “To be sure!” said Fisher, settling his collar, which Archer in his surprise had let go; “to be sure! Why not? Any man who chooses it may have a party as well as yourself, I suppose. I have nine Fishermen.”

  At these words, spoken with much sullen importance, Archer, in spite of his vexation, could not help laughing. “Fishermen!” cried he, “FISHERMEN!”

  “And why not Fishermen as well as Archers?” cried they. “One party is just as good as another; it is only a question which can get the upper hand; and we had your hands tied just now.”

  “That’s right, Townsend,” said Archer, “laugh on, my boy! Friend or foe, it’s all the same to you. I know how to value your friendship now. You are a mighty good fellow when the sun shines; but let a storm come, and how you slink away!”

  At this instant, Archer felt the difference between A GOOD COMPANION and a good friend, a difference which some people do not discover till late in life.

  “Have I no friend? — no real friend amongst you all? And could ye stand by, and see my hands tied behind me like a thief’s? What signifies such a party — all mute?”

  “We want something to eat,” answered the Fishermen. “What signifies SUCH a party, indeed? and SUCH a manager, who can do nothing for one?”

  “And have I done nothing?”

  “Don’t let’s hear any more prosing,” said Fisher; “we are too many for you. I’ve advised my party, if they’ve a mind not to be starved, to give you up for the ringleader, as you were; and Dr. Middleton will not let us all off, I daresay.” So, depending upon the sullen silence of the assembly, he again approached Archer with a cord. A cry of “No, no, no! Don’t tie him,” was feebly raised.

  Archer stood still, but the moment Fisher touched him he knocked him down to the ground, and turning to the rest, with eyes sparkling with indignation, “Archers!” cried he. A voice at this instant was heard at the door. It was De Grey’s voice. “I have got a large basket of provisions for your breakfast.” A general shout of joy was sent forth by the voracious public. “Breakfast! Provisions! A large basket! De Grey for ever! Huzza!”

  De Grey promised, upon his honour, that if he would unbar the door nobody should come in with him, and no advantage should be taken of them. This promise was enough even for Archer. “I will let him in,” said he, “myself; for I’m sure he’ll never break his word.” He pulled away the bar; the door opened, and having bargained for the liberty of Melson, the little boy, who had been shut in by mistake, De Grey entered with his basket of provisions, when he locked and barred the door instantly.

  Joy and gratitude sparkled in every face when he unpacked his basket, and spread the table with a plentiful breakfast. A hundred questions were asked him at once. “Eat first,” said he, “and we will talk afterwards.” This business was quickly despatched by those who had not tasted food for a long while. Their curiosity increased as their hunger diminished. “Who sent us breakfast? Does Dr. Middleton know?” were questions reiterated from every mouth.

  “He does know,” answered De Grey; “and the first thing I have to tell you is, that I am your fellow-prisoner. I am to stay here till you give up. This was the only condition on which Dr. Middleton would allow me to bring you food, and he will allow no more.”

  Everyone looked at the empty basket. But Archer, in whom half vanquished party spirit revived with the strength he had got from hi
s breakfast, broke into exclamations in praise of De Grey’s magnanimity, as he now imagined that De Grey had become one of themselves.

  “And you will join us, will you? That’s a noble fellow!”

  “No,” answered De Grey, calmly; “but I hope to persuade, or rather to convince you, that you ought to join me.”

  “You would have found it no hard task to have persuaded or convinced us, whichever you pleased,” said Townsend, “if you had appealed to Archers fasting; but Archers feasting are quite other animals. Even Caesar himself, after breakfast, is quite another thing!” added he, pointing to Archer.

  “You may speak for yourself, Mr. Townsend,” replied the insulted hero, “but not for me, or for Archers in general, if you please. We unbarred the door upon the faith of De Grey’s promise — THAT was not giving up. And it would have been just as difficult, I promise you, to persuade or convince me either that I should give up against my honour before breakfast as after.”