Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Wouldn’t you be pleased to ‘light, ma’am?” said Jesse.

  “We don’t bring things to the door.”

  “Who have we here?” cried Mrs. Puffit; “who have we here?”

  “Only some folks out of a hack, that was kept waiting, and couldn’t draw up whilst my Lady Di.’s carriage was at the door,” said Jesse.

  “A good pretty girl, the foremost,” said Mrs. Puffit. “But, in the name of wonder, what’s that odd fish coming behind her?”

  “A queer-looking pair, in good truth!” said Jesse.

  Angelina seated herself, and gave a deep sigh. “Ribands, if you please, ma’am,” said she to Mrs. Puffit. “I must,” thought she, “ask for something before I ask for my Araminta.”

  “Ribands — yes, ma’am — what sort? Keep an eye upon the glass,” whispered the milliner to her shop girl, as she stooped behind the counter for a drawer of ribands—”keep an eye on the glass, Jesse — a girl of the town, I take it. What colour, ma’am?”

  “Blue—’cerulean blue.’ Here, child,” said Angelina, turning to Betty Williams, “here’s a riband for you.”

  Betty Williams did not hear, for Betty was fascinated by the eyes of the great doll, opposite to which she stood fixed.

  “Lord, what a fine lady! and how hur stares at Betty Williams!” thought she: “I wish hur would take her eyes off me.”

  “Betty! Betty Williams! — a riband for you,” cried Angelina, in a louder tone.

  Betty started—”Miss! — a riband!” She ran forward, and, in pushing by the doll, threw it backward: Mrs. Puffit caught it in her arms, and Betty, stopping short, curtsied, and said to the doll—”Peg pardon, miss — peg pardon, miss — tit I hurt you? — peg pardon. Pless us! ’tis a toll, and no woman, I teclare.”

  The milliner and Jesse now burst into uncontrollable, and, as Angelina feared, “unextinguishable laughter.” Nothing is so distressing to a sentimental heroine as ridicule: Miss Warwick perceived that she had her share of that which Betty Williams excited; and she who imagined herself to be capable of “combating, in all its Proteus forms, the system of social slavery,” was unable to withstand the laughter of a milliner and her ‘prentice.

  “Do you please to want any thing else, ma’am?” said Mrs. Puffit, in a saucy tone—”Rouge, perhaps?”

  “I wish to know, madam,” said Angelina, “whether a lady of the name of Hodges does not lodge here?”

  “A lady of the name of Hodges! — no, ma’am — I’m very particular about lodgers — no such lady ever lodged with me. — Jesse! to the door — quick! — Lady Mary Tasselton’s carriage.”

  Angelina hastily rose and departed. Whilst Jesse ran to the door, and whilst Mrs. Puffit’s attention was fixed upon Lady Mary Tasselton’s carriage, Betty Williams twitched from off the doll’s shoulders the remainder of the piece of Valenciennes lace which had been left there. “Since hur’s only wood, I’ll make free,” said she to herself, and she carried off the lace unobserved.

  Angelina’s impatience to find her Araminta was increased, by the dread of meeting Lady Di. Chillingworth in every carriage that passed, and in every shop where she might call. At the next house at which the coachman stopped, the words, Dinah Plait, relict of Jonas Plait, cheesemonger, were written in large letters over the shop-door. Angelina thought she was in no danger of meeting her ladyship here, and she alighted. There was no one in the shop but a child of seven years old; he could not understand well what Angelina or Betty said, but he ran to call his aunt. Dinah Plait was at dinner; and when the child opened the door of the parlour, there came forth such a savoury smell, that Betty Williams, who was extremely hungry, could not forbear putting her head in, to see what was upon the table.

  “Pless hur! heggs and pacon and toasted cheese — Cot pless hur!” exclaimed Betty.

  “Aunt Dinah,” said the child, “here are two women in some great distress, they told me — and astray and hungry.”

  “In some great distress, and astray and hungry? — then let them in here, child, this minute.”

  There was seated at a small table, in a perfectly neat parlour, a quaker, whose benevolent countenance charmed Angelina the moment she entered the room.

  “Pardon this intrusion,” said she.

  “Friend, thou art welcome,” said Dinah Plait, and her looks said so more expressively than her words. An elderly man rose, and leaving the cork-screw in the half-drawn cork of a bottle of cider, he set a chair for Angelina, and withdrew to the window.

  “Be seated, and eat, for verily thou seemest to be hungry,” said Mrs. Plait to Betty Williams, who instantly obeyed, and began to eat like one that had been half famished.

  “And now, friend, thy business, thy distress — what is it?” said Dinah, turning to Angelina: “so young to have sorrows.”

  “I had best take myself away,” said the elderly gentleman, who stood at the window—”I had best take myself away, for miss may not like to speak before me — though she might, for that matter.”

  “Where is the gentleman going?” said Miss Warwick; “I have but one short question to ask, and I have nothing to say that need—”

  “I dare say, young lady, you can have nothing to say that you need be ashamed of, only people in distress don’t like so well to speak before third folks, I guess — though, to say the truth, I have never known, by my own experience, what it was to be in much distress since I came into the world — but I hope I am not the more hard-hearted for that — for I can guess, I say, pretty well, how those in distress feel when they come to speak. Do as you would be done by is my maxim till I can find a better — so I take myself away, leaving my better part behind me, if it will be of any service to you, madam.”

  As he passed by Miss Warwick, he dropped his purse into her lap, and he was gone before she could recover from her surprise.

  “Sir! — madam!” cried she, rising hastily, “here has been some strange mistake — I am not a beggar — I am much, very much obliged to you, but—”

  “Nay, keep it, friend, keep it,” said Dinah Plait, pressing the purse upon Angelina; “John Barker is as rich as a Jew, and as generous as a prince. Keep it, friend, and you’ll oblige both him and me—’tis dangerous in this world for one so young and so pretty as you are to be in great distress; so be not proud.”

  “I am not proud,” said Miss Warwick, drawing her purse from her pocket; “but my distress is not of a pecuniary nature — Convince yourself — I am in distress only for a friend, an unknown friend.”

  “Touched in her brain, I doubt,” thought Dinah.

  “Coot ale!” exclaimed Betty Williams—”Coot heggs and pacon.”

  “Does a lady of the name of Araminta — Miss Hodges, I mean — lodge here?” said Miss Warwick.

  “Friend, I do not let lodgings; and I know of no such person as Miss Hodges.”

  “Well, I swear hur name, the coachman told me, did begin with a p, and end with a t,” cried Betty Williams, “or I would never have let him knock at hur toor.”

  “Oh, my Araminta! my Araminta!” exclaimed Angelina, turning up her eyes towards heaven—”when, oh when shall I find thee? I am the most unfortunate person upon earth.”

  “Had not hur petter eat a hegg, and a pit of pacon? here’s one pit left,” said Betty: “hur must be hungry, for ’tis two o’clock past, and we preakfasted at nine — hur must be hungry;” and Betty pressed her to try the pacon; but Angelina put it away, or, in the proper style, motioned the bacon from her.

  “I am in no want of food,” cried she, rising: “happy they who have no conception of any but corporeal sufferings. Farewell, madam! — may the sensibility, of which your countenance is so strongly expressive, never be a source of misery to you!” — and with that depth of sigh which suited the close of such a speech, Angelina withdrew.

  “If I could but have felt her pulse,” said Dinah Plait to herself, “I could have prescribed something that, maybe, would have done her good, poor distracted thing! Now it was well do
ne of John Barker to leave this purse for her — but how is this? — poor thing! she’s not fit to be trusted with money — here she has left her own purse full of guineas.”

  Dinah ran immediately to the house-door, in hopes of being able to catch Angelina; but the coach had turned down into another street, and was out of sight. Mrs. Plait sent for her constant counsellor, John Barker, to deliberate on the means of returning the purse. It should be mentioned, to the credit of Dinah’s benevolence, that, at the moment when she was interrupted by the entrance of Betty Williams and Angelina, she was hearing the most flattering things from a person who was not disagreeable to her: her friend, John Barker, was a rich hosier, who had retired from business; and who, without any ostentation, had a great deal of real feeling and generosity. But the fastidious taste of fine, or sentimental readers, will probably be disgusted by our talking of the feelings and generosity of a hosier and a cheesemonger’s widow. It belongs to a certain class of people to indulge in the luxury of sentiment: we shall follow our heroine, therefore, who, both from her birth and education, is properly qualified to have—”exquisite feelings.”

  The next house at which Angelina stopped, to search for her amiable Araminta, was at Mrs. Porett’s academy for young ladies.

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Hodges is here — Pray walk into this room, and you shall see the young lady immediately.” Angelina burst into the room instantly, exclaiming —

  “Oh, my Araminta! have I found you at last?”

  She stopped short, a little confounded at finding herself in a large room full of young ladies, who were dancing reels, and who all stood still at one and the same instant, and fixed their eyes upon her, struck with astonishment at her theatrical entrée and exclamation.

  “Miss Hodges!” said Mrs. Porett — and a little girl of seven years old came forward:—”Here, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porett to Angelina, “here is Miss Hodges.”

  “Not my Miss Hodges! not my Araminta! alas!”

  “No, ma’am,” said the little girl; “I am only Letty Hodges.”

  Several of her companions now began to titter.

  “These girls,” said Angelina to herself, “take me for a fool;” and, turning to Mrs. Porett, she apologized for the trouble she had given, in language as little romantic as she could condescend to use.

  “Tid you bid me, miss, wait in the coach, or the passage?” cried Betty Williams, forcing her way in at the door, so as almost to push down the dancing-master, who stood with his back to it. Betty stared round, and dropped curtsy after curtsy, whilst the young ladies laughed and whispered, and whispered and laughed; and the words, odd — vulgar — strange — who is she? — what is she? — reached Miss Warwick.

  “This Welsh girl,” thought she, “is my torment. Wherever I go she makes me share the ridicule of her folly.”

  Clara Hope, one of the young ladies, saw and pitied Angelina’s confusion.

  “Gif over, an ye have any gude nature — gif over your whispering and laughing,” said Clara to her companions: “ken ye not ye make her so bashful, she’d fain hide her face wi’ her twa hands.”

  But it was in vain that the good-natured Clara Hope remonstrated: her companions could not forbear tittering, as Betty Williams, upon Miss Warwick’s laying the blame of the mistake on her, replied in a strong Welsh accent—”I will swear almost the name was Porett or Plait, where our Miss Hodges tid always lodge in Pristol. Porett, or Plait, or Puffit, or some of her names that pekin with a p and ent with at.”

  Angelina, quite overpowered, shrunk back, as Betty bawled out her vindication, and she was yet more confused, when Monsieur Richelet, the dancing-master, at this unlucky instant, came up to her, and with an elegant bow, said, “It is not difficult to see by her air, that mademoiselle dances superiorly. Mademoiselle vould she do me de plaisir — de honneur to dance one minuet?”

  “Oh, if she would but dance!” whispered some of the group of young ladies.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Miss Warwick.

  “Not a minuet? — den a minuet de la cour, a cotillon, or contredanse, or reel; vatever mademoiselle please vill do us honneur.”

  Angelina, with a mixture of impatience and confusion, repeated, “Excuse me, sir — I am going — I interrupt — I beg I may not interrupt.”

  “A coot morrow to you all, creat and small,” said Betty Williams, curtsying awkwardly at the door as she went out before Miss Warwick.

  The young ladies were now diverted so much beyond the bounds of decorum, that Mrs. Porett was obliged to call them to order.

  “Oh, my Araminta, what scenes have I gone through! to what derision have I exposed myself for your sake!” said our heroine to herself.

  Just as she was leaving the dancing-room, she was stopped short by Betty Williams, who, with a face of terror, exclaimed, “’Tis a poy in the hall, that I tare not pass for my lifes; he has a pasket full of pees in his hand, and I cannot apide pees, ever since one tay when I was a chilt, and was stung on the nose by a pee. The poy in the hall has a pasketful of pees, ma’am,” said Betty, with an imploring accent, to Mrs. Porett.

  “A basketful of bees!” said Mrs. Porett, laughing: “Oh, you are mistaken: I know what the boy has in his basket — they are only flowers; they are not bees: you may safely go by them.”

  “Put I saw pees with my own eyes,” persisted Betty.

  “Only a basketful of the bee orchis, which I commissioned a little boy to bring from St. Vincent’s rocks for my young botanists,” said Mrs. Porett to Angelina: “you know the flower is so like a bee, that at first sight you might easily mistake it.” Mrs. Porett, to convince Betty Williams that she had no cause for fear, went on before her into the hall; but Betty still hung back, crying —

  “It is a pasket full of pees! I saw the pees with my own eyes.”

  The noise she made excited the curiosity of the young ladies in the dancing-room: they looked out to see what was the matter.

  “Oh, ’tis the wee-wee French prisoner boy, with the bee orchises for us — there, I see him standing in the hall,” cried Clara Hope, and instantly she ran, followed by several of her companions, into the hall.

  “You see that they are not bees,” said Mrs. Porett to Betty Williams, as she took several of the flowers in her hand. Betty, half convinced, yet half afraid, moved a few steps into the hall.

  “You have no cause for dread,” said Clara Hope; “poor boy, he has nought in his basket that can hurt any body.”

  Betty Williams’s heavy foot was now set upon the train of Clara’s gown, and, as the young lady sprang forwards, her gown, which was of thin muslin, was torn so as to excite the commiseration of all her young companions.

  “What a terrible rent! and her best gown!” said they. “Poor Clara Hope!”

  “Pless us! peg pardon, miss!” cried the awkward, terrified Betty; “peg pardon, miss!”

  “Pardon’s granted,” said Clara; and whilst her companions stretched out her train, deploring the length and breadth of her misfortune, she went on speaking to the little French boy. “Poor wee boy! ’tis a sad thing to be in a strange country, far away from one’s ane ane kin and happy hame — poor wee thing,” said she, slipping some money into his hand.

  “What a heavenly countenance!” thought Angelina, as she looked at Clara Hope: “Oh, that my Araminta may resemble her!”

  “Plait il — take vat you vant — tank you,” said the little boy, offering to Clara Hope his basket of flowers, and a small box of trinkets, which he held in his hand.

  “Here’s a many pretty toys — who’ll buy?” cried Clara, turning to her companions.

  The young ladies crowded round the box and the basket.

  “Is he in distress?” said Angelina; “perhaps I can be of some use to him!” and she put her hand into her pocket, to feel for her purse.

  “He’s a very honest, industrious little boy,” said Mrs. Porett, “and he supports his parents by his active ingenuity.”

  “And, Louis, is your father sick still?�
�� continued Clara Hope to the poor boy.

  “Bien malade! bien malade! very sick! very sick!” said he. The unaffected language of real feeling and benevolence is easily understood, and is never ridiculous; even in the broken English of little Louis, and the broad Scotch tone of Clara, it was both intelligible and agreeable.

  Angelina had been for some time past feeling in her pocket for her purse.

  “’Tis gone — certainly gone!” she exclaimed: “I’ve lost it! lost my purse! Betty, do you know any thing of it? I had it at Mrs. Plait’s! — What shall I do for this poor little fellow? — This trinket is of gold!” said she, taking from her neck a locket—”Here, my little fellow, I have no money to give you, take this — nay, you must, indeed.”

  “Tanks! tanks! bread for my poor fader! joy! joy! — too much joy! too much!”

  “You see you were wrong to laugh at her,” whispered Clara Hope to her companions: “I liked her lukes from the first.”

  Natural feeling, at this moment, so entirely occupied and satisfied Angelina, that she forgot her sensibility for her unknown friend; and it was not till one of the children observed the lock of hair in her locket that she recollected her accustomed cant of—”Oh, my Araminta! my amiable Araminta! could I part with that hair, more precious than gold?”

  “Pless us!” said Betty; “put, if she has lost her purse, who shall pay for the coach, and what will become of our tinners?”

  Angelina silenced Betty Williams with peremptory dignity.

  Mrs. Porett, who was a good and sensible woman, and who had been interested for our heroine, by her good-nature to the little French boy, followed Miss Warwick as she left the room. “Let me detain you but for a few minutes,” said she, opening the door of a little study. “You have nothing to fear from any impertinent curiosity on my part; but, perhaps, I may be of some assistance to you.” — Miss Warwick could not refuse to be detained a few minutes by so friendly a voice.

  “Madam, you have mentioned the name of Araminta several times since you came into this house,” said Mrs. Porett, with something of embarrassment in her manner, for she was afraid of appearing impertinent. “I know, or at least I knew, a lady who writes under that name, and whose real name is Hodges.”