Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Be my friend!” said Howard, taking Oliver in his arms, with emotion which prevented him from articulating any other words. The word friend went to the little Creole’s heart, and he clung to Howard in silence. To complete his happiness, little Oliver this day obtained permission to board at Mrs. Howard’s, so that he was now constantly to be with his protector. Howard’s friendship was not merely the sudden enthusiasm of a moment; it was the steady persevering choice of a manly mind, not the caprice of a school-boy. Regularly, every evening, Oliver brought his books to his friend, who never was too busy to attend to him. Oliver was delighted to find that he understood Howard’s manner of explaining: his own opinion of himself rose with the opinion which he saw his instructor had of his abilities. He was convinced that he was not doomed to be a dunce for life; his ambition was rekindled; his industry was encouraged by hope, and rewarded by success. He no longer expected daily punishment, and that worst of all punishments, disgrace. His heart was light, his spirits rose, his countenance brightened with intelligence, and resumed its natural vivacity: to his masters and his companions he appeared a new creature. “What has inspired you?” said one of his masters to him one day, surprised at the rapid development of his understanding—”what has inspired you?”

  “My good genius,” said the little boy, pointing to Howard. Howard had some merit in giving up a good deal of his time to Oliver, because he knew the value of time, and he had not quite so much as he wished for himself. The day was always too short for him; every moment was employed; his active mind went from one thing to another as if it did not know the possibility of idleness, and as if he had no idea of any recreation but in a change of employment. Not that he was always poring over books, but his mind was active, let him be about what he would; and, as his exertions were always voluntary, there was not that opposition in his opinion between the ideas of play and work, which exists so strongly in the imaginations of those school-boys who are driven to their tasks by fear, and who escape from them to that delicious exercise of their free-will which they call play.

  “Constraint, that sweetens liberty,”

  often gives a false value to its charms, or rather a false idea to its nature. Idleness, ennui, noise, mischief, riot, and a nameless train of mistaken notions of pleasure, are often classed, in a young man’s mind, under the general head of liberty.

  Mr. Augustus Holloway, who is necessarily recalled to our notice, when we want to personify an ill-educated young man, was, in the strictest sense of the word, a school-boy — a clever school-boy — a good scholar — a good historian: he wrote a good hand — read with fluency — declaimed at a public exhibition of Westminster orators with no bad grace and emphasis, and had always extempore words, if not extempore sense, at command. But still he was but a school-boy. His father thought him a man, and more than a man. Alderman Holloway prophesied to his friends that his son Augustus would be one of the first orators in England. He was in a hurry to have him ready to enter college, and had a borough secure for him at the proper age. The proper age, he regretted, that parliament had fixed to twenty-one; for the alderman was impatient to introduce his young statesman to the house, especially as he saw honours, perhaps a title, in the distant perspective of his son’s advancement.

  Whilst this vision occupied the father’s imagination, a vision of another sort played upon the juvenile fancy of his son — a vision of a gig; for, though Augustus was but a school-boy, he had very manly ideas — if those ideas be manly which most young men have. Lord Rawson, the son of the Earl of Marryborough, had lately appeared to Augustus in a gig. The young Lord Rawson had lately been a school-boy at Westminster like Augustus: he was now master of himself and three horses at College. Alderman Holloway had lent the Earl of Marryborough certain monies, the interest of which the earl scrupulously paid in civility. The alderman valued himself upon being a shrewd man; he looked to one of the earl’s boroughs as a security for his principal, and, from long-sighted political motives, encouraged an intimacy between the young nobleman and his son. It was one of those useful friendships, one of those fortunate connexions, which some parents consider as the peculiar advantage of a public school. Lord Rawson’s example already powerfully operated upon his young friend’s mind, and this intimacy was most likely to have a decisive influence upon the future destiny of Augustus. Augustus was the son of an alderman. Lord Rawson was two years older than Holloway — had left school — had been at college — had driven both a curricle and a barouche, and had gone through all the gradations of coachmanship — was a man, and had seen the world. How many things to excite the ambition of a schoolboy! Augustus was impatient for the moment when he might “be what he admired.” The drudgery of Westminster, the confinement, the ignominious appellation of a boy, were all insupportable to this young man. He had obtained from his father a promise, that he should leave school in a few months; but these months appeared to him an age. It was rather a misfortune to Holloway that he was so far advanced in his Latin and Greek studies, for he had the less to do at school; his school business quickly despatched, his time hung upon his hands. He never thought of literature as an amusement for his leisure hours; he had no idea of improving himself further in general science and knowledge. He was told that his education was nearly at an end; he believed it was quite finished, and he was glad of it, and glad it was so well over. In the idle time that hung upon his hands, during this intermediate state at Westminster, he heartily regretted that he could not commence his manly career by learning to drive — to drive a curricle. Lord Rawson had carried him down to the country, the last summer vacation, in his dog-cart, driven randem-tandem. The reins had touched his fingers. The whip had been committed to his hand, and he longed for a repetition of these pleasures. From the windows of the house in Westminster, where he boarded, Holloway at every idle moment lolled, to enjoy a view of every carriage, and of every coachman that passed.

  Mr. Supine, Mr. Holloway’s tutor, used, at these leisure moments, to employ himself with practising upon the German flute, and was not sorry to be relieved from his pupil’s conversation. Sometimes it was provoking to the amateur in music to be interrupted by the exclamations of his pupil; but he kept his eyes steadily upon his music-book, and contented himself with recommending a difficult passage, when Mr. Holloway’s raptures about horses, and coachmanship, and driving well in hand, offended his musical ear. Mr. Supine was, both from nature and fashion, indolent; the trouble of reproving or of guiding his pupil was too much for him; besides, he was sensible that the task of watching, contradicting, and thwarting a young gentleman, at Mr. Holloway’s time of life, would have been productive of the most disagreeable scenes of altercation, and could possibly have no effect upon the gentleman’s character, which he presumed was perfectly well formed at this time. Mr. and Mrs. Holloway were well satisfied with his improvements. Mr. Supine was on the best terms imaginable with the whole family, and thought it his business to keep himself well with his pupil; especially as he had some secret hope that, through Mr. Holloway’s interest with Lord Rawson, and through Lord Rawson’s influence with a young nobleman, who was just going abroad, he might be invited as a travelling companion in a tour upon the continent. His taste for music and painting had almost raised him to the rank of a connoisseur: an amateur he modestly professed himself, and he was frequently stretched, in elegant ease, upon a sofa, already in reverie in Italy, whilst his pupil was conversing out of the window, in no very elegant dialect, with the driver of a stagecoach in the neighbourhood. Young Holloway was almost as familiar with this coachman as with his father’s groom, who, during his visits at home, supplied the place of Mr. Supine, in advancing his education. The stage-coachman so effectually wrought upon the ambition of Augustus, that his desire to learn to drive became uncontrollable. The coachman, partly by entreaties, and partly by the mute eloquence of a crown, was prevailed upon to promise, that, if Holloway could manage it without his tutor’s knowledge, he should ascend to the honours of the box, and at least
have the satisfaction of seeing some good driving.

  Mr. Supine was soon invited to a private concert, at which Mrs. Holloway was expected, and at which her daughter, Miss Angelina Holloway, was engaged to perform. Mr. Supine’s judicious applause of this young lady’s execution was one of his greatest recommendations to the whole family, at least to the female part of it; he could not, therefore, decline an invitation to this concert. Holloway complained of a sore throat, and desired to be excused from accompanying his tutor, adding, with his usual politeness, that “music was the greatest bore in nature, and especially Angelina’s music.” For the night of the concert Holloway had arranged his plan with the stage-coachman. Mr. Supine dressed, and then practised upon the German flute, till towards nine o’clock in the evening. Holloway heard the stage-coach rattling through the street, whilst his tutor was yet in the middle of a long concerto: the coachman was to stop at the public-house, about ten doors off, to take up parcels and passengers, and there he was to wait for Holloway; but he had given him notice that he could not wait many minutes.

  “You may practise the rest without book, in the chair, as you are going to —— street, quite at your ease, Mr. Supine,” said Holloway to his tutor.

  “Faith, so I can, and I’ll adopt your idea, for it’s quite a novel thing, and may take, if the fellows will only carry one steady. Good night: I’ll mention your sore throat properly to Mrs. Holloway.”

  No sooner were the tutor and his German flute safely raised upon the chairmen’s shoulders, than his pupil recovered from his sore throat, ran down to the place where the stage was waiting, seized the stage-coachman’s down-stretched hand, sprang up, and seated himself triumphantly upon the coach-box.

  “Never saw a cleverer fellow,” said the coachman: “now we are off.”

  “Give me the reins, then,” said Holloway.

  “Not till we are out o’town,” said the coachman: “when we get off the stones, we’ll see a little of your driving.”

  When they got on the turnpike road, Holloway impatiently seized the reins, and was as much gratified by this coachman’s praises of his driving as ever he had been by the applauses he had received for his Latin verses. A taste for vulgar praise is the most dangerous taste a young man can have; it not only leads him into vulgar company, but it puts him entirely in the power of his companions, whoever they may happen to be. Augustus Holloway, seated beside a coachman, became, to all intents and purposes, a coachman himself; he caught, and gloried in catching, all his companion’s slang, and with his language caught all his ideas. The coachman talked with rapture of some young gentleman’s horses which he had lately seen; and said that, if he was a gentleman, there was nothing he should pride himself so much upon as his horses. Holloway, as he was a gentleman, determined to have the finest horses that could be had for money, as soon as he should become his own master.

  “And then,” continued the coachman, “if I was a gentleman born, I’d never be shabby in the matters of wages and perquisites to them that be to look after my horses, seeing that horses can’t be properly looked after for nothing.”

  “Certainly not,” agreed the young gentleman:—”my friend, lord Rawson, I know, has a prodigious smart groom, and so will I, all in good time.”

  “To be sure,” said the coachman; “but it was not in regard to grooms I was meaning, so much as in regard to a coachman, which, I take it, is one of the first persons to be considered in a really grand family, seeing how great a trust is placed in him — (mind, sir, if you please, the turn at the corner, it’s rather sharp) — seeing how great a trust is placed in him, as I was observing, a good coachman is worth his weight in gold.”

  Holloway had not leisure to weigh the solidity of this observation, for the conversation was now interrupted by the sound of a postchaise, which drove rapidly by.

  “The job and four!” exclaimed the coachman, with as many oaths “as the occasion required.”

  “Why did you let it pass us?” And with enthusiasm which forgot all ceremony, he snatched the whip from his young companion, and, seizing the reins, drove at a furious rate. One of the chaise postilions luckily dropped his whip. They passed the job and four; and the coachman, having redeemed his honour, resigned once more the reins to Holloway, upon his promising not to let the job and four get a head of them. The postilions were not without ambition: the men called to each other, and to their horses; the horses caught some portion of their masters’ spirit, and began to gain upon the coach. The passengers in the coach put out their heads, and female voices screamed in vain. All these terrors increased the sport; till at length, at a narrow part of the road, the rival coachman and postilions hazarded every thing for precedency. Holloway was desperate in proportion to his ignorance. The coachman attempted to snatch the reins, but, missing his grasp, he shortened those of the off-hand horse, and drew them the wrong way: the coach ran upon a bank, and was overturned. Holloway was dismayed and silent; the coachman poured forth a torrent of abuse, sparing neither friend nor foe; the complaints of the female passengers were so incoherent, and their fears operated so much upon their imagination, that in the first moments of confusion, each asserted that she had broken either an arm or a leg, or fractured her skull.

  The moon, which had shone bright in the beginning of the evening, was now under a cloud, and the darkness increased the impatience of the various complainers; at length a lantern was brought from the turnpike-house, which was near the spot where the accident happened. As soon as the light came, the ladies looked at each other, and after they had satisfied themselves that no material injury had been done to their clothes, and that their faces were in no way disfigured, they began to recover from their terrors, and were brought to allow that all their limbs were in good preservation, and that they had been too hasty in declaring that their skulls were fractured. Holloway laughed loudly at all this, and joined in all the wit of the coachman upon the occasion. The coach was lifted up; the passengers got in; the coachman and Holloway mounted the box, when, just as they were setting off, the coachman heard a voice crying to him to stop. He listened, and the voice, which seemed to be that of a person in great pain, again called for assistance.

  “It’s the mulatto woman,” said the coachman: “we forgot her in the bustle. Lend me hold of the lantern, and stand at the horses’ heads, whilst I see after her,” added the coachman, addressing himself to the man who had come from the turnpike-house.

  “I shan’t stir for a mulatto, I promise you,” said Holloway, brutally: “she was on the top of the coach, wasn’t she? She must have had a fine hoist!”

  The poor woman was found to be much hurt: she had been thrown from the top of the coach into a ditch, which had stones at the bottom of it. She had not been able to make herself heard by any body, whilst the ladies’ loud complaints continued; nor had she been able long to call for any assistance, for she had been stunned by her fall, and had not recovered her senses for many minutes. She was not able to stand; but when the coachman held her up, she put her hand to her head, and, in broken English, said she felt too ill to travel farther that night.

  “You shall have an inside place, if you’ll pluck up your heart; and you’ll find yourself better with the motion of the coach.”

  “What, is she hurt — the mulatto woman? — I say, coachy, make haste,” cried Holloway; “I want to be off.”

  “So do I,” said the coachman; “but we are not likely to be off yet: here’s this here poor woman can’t stand, and is all over bruises, and won’t get into the inside of the coach, though I offered her a place.”

  Holloway, who imagined that the sufferings of all who were not so rich as himself could be bought off for money, pulled out a handful of silver, and leaning from the coach-box, held it towards the fainting woman:—”Here’s a shilling for every bruise at least, my good woman:” — but the woman did not hear him, for she was very faint. The coachman was forced to carry her to the turnpike-house, where he left her, telling the people of the house that a r
eturn chaise would call for her in an hour’s time, and would carry her either to the next stage, or back to town, whichever she pleased. Holloway’s diversion for the rest of the night was spoiled, not because he had too much sympathy with the poor woman that was hurt, but because he had been delayed so long by the accident, that he lost the pleasure of driving into the town of —— . He had intended to have gone the whole stage, and to have returned in the job and four. This scheme had been arranged before he set out by his friend the coachman; but the postilions in the job and four having won the race, and made the best of their way, had now returned, and met the coach about two miles from the turnpike-house. “So,” said Holloway, “I must descend, and get home before Mr. Supine wakens from his first sleep.”

  Holloway called at the turnpike-house, to inquire after the mulatto; or, rather, one of the postilions stopped as he had been desired by the coachman, to take her up to town, if she was able to go that night.

  The postilion, after he had spoken to the woman, came to the chaise-door, and told Holloway “that he could hardly understand what she said, she talked such outlandish English; and that he could not make out where she wanted to be carried to.”

  “Ask the name of some of her friends in town,” cried Holloway, “and don’t let her keep us here all night.”

  “She has no friends, as I can find,” replied the postilion, “nor acquaintance neither.”

  “Well, whom does she belong to, then?”

  “She belongs to nobody — she’s quite a stranger in these parts, and doesn’t know no more than a child where to go in all London; she only knows the Christian name of an old gardener, where she lodged, she says.”