Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Without listening to one word more, Mr. Hopkins hastily withdrew: for he had no small apprehensions that Paddy, whose threats he had overheard, and whose eyes sparkled with rage, might execute upon him that species of prompt justice which no quibbling can evade.

  “Do not be disheartened, my dear boys,” said farmer Gray to his sons, who were watching with mournful earnestness the slackened motion of their water-wheel. “Saddle my horse for me, John; and get yourselves ready, both of you, to come with me to Counsellor Molyneux.”

  “Oh! father,” said John, “there is no use in going to him; for he is one of the candidates, you know, and Mr. Hopkins has a great many votes.”

  “No matter for that,” said Gray: “Mr. Molyneux will do justice; that is my opinion of him. If he was another sort of man, I would not trouble myself to go near him, nor stoop to ask his advice: but my opinion of him is, that he is above doing a dirty action, for votes or any thing else; and I am convinced his own interest will not weigh a grain of dust in the balance against justice. Saddle the horses, boy.”

  His sons saddled the horses; and all the way the farmer was riding he continued trying to keep up the spirits of his sons, by assurances that if Counsellor Molyneux would take their affair in hand, there would be an end of all difficulty.

  “He is not one of those justices of the peace,” continued he, “who will huddle half a dozen poor fellows into jail without law or equity. He is not a man who goes into parliament, saying one thing, and who comes out saying another. He is not, like, our friend Sir Hyacinth O’Brien, forced to sell tongue, and brains, and conscience, to keep his head above water. In short, he is a man who dares to be the same, and can moreover afford to be the same, at election time as at any other time; for which reason, I dare to go to him now in this our distress, although, I have to complain of a man who has forty-six votes, which is the number, they say, Mr. Hopkins can command.”

  Whilst farmer Gray was thus pronouncing a panegyric on Counsellor Molyneux, for the comfort of John and Robin, Stafford was trying to console Rose and her mother, who were struck with sorrow and dismay, at the news of the mill’s being stopped. Stafford had himself almost as much need of consolation as they; for he foresaw it was impossible he should at present be united to his dear Rose. All that her generous brothers had to offer was a share in the mill. The father had his farm, but this must serve for the support of the whole family; and how could Stafford become a burden to them, now that they would be poor, when he could not bring himself to be dependent upon them, even when they were, comparatively speaking, rich?

  CHAPTER V.

  With anxious hearts the little party at the cottage expected the return of the father and his sons. Rose sat at the window watching for them: her mother laid down her knitting, and sighed: and Stafford was silent, for he had exhausted all his consolatory eloquence, and saw and felt it had no effect.

  “Here they come! But they ride so slow, that I am sure they bring us no good news.”

  No: there was not any good news. Counsellor Molyneux had indeed behaved as well as man could do: he had declared that he would undertake to manage and plead their cause in any court of justice on earth; and had expressed the strongest indignation against the villany of Hopkins; but, at the same time, he had fairly told the Grays that this litigious man, if they commenced a suit, might ruin them, by law, before they could recover their rights.

  “So we may go to bed this night melancholy enough,” said Robin; “with the certainty that our mill is stopped, and that we have a long lawsuit to go through, before we can see it going again — if ever we do.”

  Rose and Stafford looked at one another, and sighed.

  “We had better not go to law, to lose the little we have left, at any rate,” said Mrs. Gray.

  “Wife, I am determined my boys shall have justice,” said the father, firmly. “I am not fond of law, God knows! I never had a lawsuit in my life; nobody dreads such things more than I do; but I dread nothing in defence of my sons and justice. Whilst I have a penny left in the world, I’ll spend it to obtain them justice. The labour of their lives shall not be in vain; they shall not be robbed of all they have: they shall not be trampled upon by any one living, let him be ever so rich, or ever so litigious. I fear neither his money nor his quirks of law. Plain sense is the same for him and for me; and justice my boys shall have. Mr. Molyneux will plead our cause himself — desire no more. If we fail and are ruined, our ruin be upon the head of him who works it! I shall die content, when I have done all I can to obtain justice for my children.”

  As soon as these facts were known, every body in the neighbourhood felt extreme indignation against Hopkins; and all joined in pitying the two brothers, and applauding the spirit of their father. There was not an individual who did not wish that Hopkins might be punished; but he had been engaged in so many lawsuits, and had been so successful in screening himself from justice, and in ruining his opponents, that every body feared the Grays, though they were so much in the right, would never be able to make this appear, according to the forms of law: many, therefore, advised that it might not be brought to trial. But farmer Gray persisted, and Counsellor Molyneux steadily abided by his word, and declared he would plead the cause himself.

  Mr. Hopkins sent the counsellor a private hint, that if he directly or indirectly protected the Grays, he must give up all hopes of the forty-six votes which, as the county was now nearly balanced, must turn the election. Mr. Molyneux paid no attention to this hint; but, the very day on which he received it, visited farmer Gray in his cottage, walked with him to Rosanna-mill, and settled how the suit should be carried on.

  Hopkins swore he would spare no expense to humble the pride both of the Grays and their protector: an unexpected circumstance, however, occurred. It had often been prophesied by Mr. Molyneux, who knew the species of bargains which Hopkins drove with all manner of people by whose distresses he could make money, that he would sooner or later overshoot his mark, as cunning persons often do. Mr. Molyneux predicted that, amongst the medley of his fraudulent purchases, he would at length be the dupe of some unsound title; and that, amongst the multitudes whom he ruined, he would at last meet with some one who would ruin him. The person who was the means of accomplishing this prophecy was indeed the last that would have been guessed — soft Simon O’Dougherty! In dealing with him, Mr. Hopkins, who thoroughly despised indolent honesty, was quite off his guard; and, in truth, poor Simon had no design to cheat him: but it happened that the lease, which he made over to Hopkins, as his title to the field that he sold, was a lease renewable for ever; with a strict clause, binding the lessee to renew, within a certain time after the failure of each life, under penalty of forfeiting the lease. From the natural laziness of easy Simon, he had neglected to renew, and had even forgotten that the life was dropped: he assigned his lease over a bottle to Mr. Hopkins, who seized it with avidity, lest he should lose the lucky moment to conclude a bargain in which, he thought, he had at once over-reached Simon, and had secured to himself the means of wreaking his vengeance upon the Grays. This lease was of the field adjoining to Rosanna-mill; and by the testimony of some old people in the neighbourhood, he fancied he could prove that this meadow was anciently flooded, and that the mill-course had gone into disuse. In all his subsequent operations, he had carefully kept himself, as he thought, upon his own lands; but, now that a suit against him was instituted, it was necessary to look to his own title, into which he knew Mr. Molyneux would examine.

  Upon reading over the lease assigned to him by Simon, he noticed the strict clause, binding the tenant to renew within a certain time. A qualm came over him! He was astonished at himself for not having more carefully perused the lease before he concluded the bargain. Had it been with any one but soft Simon, this could not have happened. He hastened in search of Simon with the utmost anxiety, to inquire whether all the lives were in being. Simon at first said he had such a mist over his memory that he could not exactly recollect who the lives were; but at
last he made out that one of them had been dead beyond the time for renewal. The gentleman, his landlord, he said, was in Dublin; and he had neglected, sure enough, to write to him from post to post.

  The rage of Mr. Hopkins was excessive: he grew white with anger! Easy Simon yawned, and begged him not to take the thing so to heart: “for, after all,” said he, “you know the loss must be mine. I can’t make good the sale of this field to you, as I have lost it by my own carelessness: but that’s nothing to you; for you know, as well as I do, that to make good the deficiency, you will, somehow or other, get a better piece of ground out of the small remains of patrimony I have left, God help me!”

  “God help you, indeed!” cried Hopkins, with a look and accent of mingled rage and contempt. “I tell you, man, the loss is mine; and no other land you have, to sell or give, can make me any amends. I shall lose my lawsuit.”

  “Wheugh! wheugh! Why, so much the better. Where’s the use of having lawsuits? The loss of such bad things can never be great.”

  “No trifling, pray,” said Hopkins, with impatience, as he walked up and down the room, and repeatedly struck his forehead.

  “Ho! ho! ho! I begin to comprehend. I know whereabouts you are now,” cried Simon. “Is not it the Grays you are thinking of? Ah, that’s the suit you are talking about. But now, Mr. Hopkins, you ought to rejoice, as I do, instead of grieving, that it is out of your power to ruin that family; for, in truth, they are good people, and have the voice of the country with them against you; and if you were to win your suit twenty times over, that would still be the same. You would never be able to show your face; and, for my own part, my conscience would never forgive me for being instrumental, unknown to myself, in giving you the power to do this mischief. And, after all, what put it into your head to stop Rosanna-mill, when its going gave you no trouble in life?”

  Hopkins, who had not listened to one syllable Simon was saying, at this instant suddenly stopped walking; and, in a soft insinuating voice, addressed him in these words:

  “Mr. O’Dougherty, you know I have a great regard for you.”

  “May be so,” said Simon; “though that is more than I ever knew you to have for any body.”

  “Pray be serious. I tell you I have, and will prove it.”

  “That is more and more surprising, Mr. Hopkins.”

  “And which is more surprising still, I will make your fortune, if you will do a trifling kindness for me.”

  “Any thing in nature, that won’t give me an unreasonable deal of trouble.”

  “Oh, this will give you no sort of trouble,” said Hopkins. “I will get you, before this day se’nnight, that place in the revenue that you have been wishing for so long, and that Sir Hyacinth O’Brien will never get for you. I say I will insure it to you under my hand, this minute, if you will do what I want of you.”

  “To be sure I will, if it’s no trouble. What is it?”

  “Only just,” said Hopkins, hesitating; “only just — You must remember — you cannot but recollect that you wrote to your landlord, to offer to renew?”

  “I remember to recollect no such thing,” said Simon, surprised.

  “Yes, yes,” said Hopkins; “but he gave you no answer, you know.”

  “But, I tell you, I never wrote to him at all.”

  “Pshaw! You have a bad memory, Simon; and your letter might have miscarried. There’s nothing simpler than that; nothing more easily said.”

  “If it were but true,” said Simon.

  “True or not, it may be said, you know.”

  “Not by Simon O’Dougherty, Mr. Hopkins.”,

  “Look you, Mr. O’Dougherty, I have a great regard for you,” continued Hopkins, holding him fast, and producing a pocket-book full of bank notes. I must, thought he, come up to this scoundrel’s price, for he has me now. He is more knave than fool, I see. “Let us understand one another, my good friend Simon. Name your sum, and make me but a short affidavit, purporting that you did apply for this renewal, and you have your place in the revenue snug besides.”

  “You don’t know whom you are speaking to, Mr. Hopkins,” said Simon, looking over his shoulder, with cool and easy contempt. “The O’Doughertys are not accustomed to perjuring themselves; and it’s a trouble I would not take for any man, if he were my own father even; no, not for all the places in the revenue that ever were created, nor for all the bank notes ever you cheated mankind out of, Mr. Hopkins, into the bargain. No offence. I never talked of cheating, till you named perjury to me; for which I do not kick you down stairs, in the first place, because there are no stairs, I believe, to my house; next, because, if there were ever so many, it would be beneath me to make use of them upon any such occasion; and, lastly, it would be quite too much trouble. Now we comprehend one another perfectly, I hope, Mr. Hopkins.”

  Cursing himself, and overwhelmed with confusion, Mr. Hopkins withdrew. Proud of himself, and having a story to tell, Simon O’Dougherty hastened to Rosanna, to relate all that had happened to the Grays, and to congratulate them, as he said, upon his own carelessness.

  The joy with which they listened to Simon’s story was great, and in proportion to the anxiety they had suffered. In less than half an hour’s time, they received a mean, supplicating letter from Hopkins, entreating they would not ruin his reputation, and all his prospects in life, by divulging what had passed; and promising that the mill-stream of Rosanna should be returned to its proper channel, without any expense to them, and that he would make a suitable compensation in money, if they would bind themselves to secrecy.

  It will easily be guessed that they rejected all his offers with disdain: the whole affair was told by them to Mr. Molyneux, and the next day all the neighbourhood knew it, and triumphed in the detection of a villain, who had long been the oppressor of the poor. The neighbours all joined in restoring the water to the mill-course; and when Rosanna-mill was once more at work, the village houses were illuminated, and even the children showed their sympathy for the family of the Grays, by huge bonfires and loud huzzas.

  Simon O’Dougherty’s landlord was so much pleased by the honesty he had shown in this affair, that he renewed the lease of the meadow, instead of insisting upon the forfeiture; and farmer Gray delighted poor Simon still more, by promising to overlook for him the management of the land, which still remained in his possession.

  In the mean time, Mr. Hopkins, who could not go out of his own house without being insulted, or without fearing to be insulted, prepared to quit the country. “But before I go,” said he, “I shall have the pleasure and triumph, at least, of making Mr. Molyneux lose his election.”

  The Grays feared Mr. Molyneux would indeed be a sufferer for the generous protection he had afforded them in their distress. The votes were nearly balanced in the county, and the forty-six votes which Hopkins could command would decide the contest. There are often in real life instances of what is called poetical justice. The day before the election, Sir Hyacinth was arrested at the suit of Stafford, who chose his opportunity so well, that the sheriff, though he was a fast friend of the baronet’s, could not refuse to do his duty. The sheriff had such a number of writs immediately put into his hands, that bail could not be found; and Mr. Molyneux was elected without opposition.

  But, let us return, from the misery of arrests and elections, to peace, industry, family union, and love, in the happy cottage of Rosanna. No obstacles now prevented the marriage of Stafford and Rose; it was celebrated with every simple demonstration of rural felicity. The bride had the blessings of her fond father and mother, the congratulations of her beloved brothers, and the applause of her own heart. Are not these better things than even forty fine wedding gowns, or a coach of Hatchett’s best workmanship? Rose thought so, and her future life proved she was not much mistaken. Stafford some time after his marriage took his wife to England, to see his mother, who was soon reconciled to him and her Irish daughter-in-law, whose gentle manners and willing obedience overcame her unreasonable dislike. Old Mrs. Stafford de
clared to her son, when he was returning, that she had so far got the better of what he called her prejudices, that, if she could but travel to Ireland, without crossing the sea, she verily believed she would go and spend a year with him and the Grays at Rosanna.

  {Footnote: Having heard, from good judges, that the language used by Farmer Gray in this story appears superior to his condition, we insert a letter which we lately received from him; matter, manner, and orthography his own.

  “To R. L. EDGEWORTH, ESQ.

  “HON. SIR,

  “I have read your valuable present with care, so has also the whole family; its design is excellent, it breathes forth a spirit of virtue and industry and in a word all the social virtues which constitute human happiness — Its other characters are admirably adapted to expose vice in all its hideous forms, and gives us a view of those baneful principles which terminate in certain misery and proves beyond a doubt that many of mankind are the authors of their own calamities and frequently involve others in the same or similar unhappy circumstances —

  “Thrice happy are they who in affluence endeavour thus to amend the morals of mankind; it’s they only who enjoy true felicity — their example and their precepts have a powerful influence on all around them, and never fail to excite a virtuous emulation, except, among the utterly abandoned and profligate —

  “On the contrary, families in elevated situations of life who devote their time to dissipation and its sensual allurements are the pest of society — the vices and crimes of the great are frequently imitated by the lower ranks — they all die, and no memorial is left behind but that of folly and an ill-spent life.

  “May that life of virtue so strongly recommended be long the shining ornament of you and your family, and its end be rewarded with a crown of eternal happiness, which is the joint wish of the family of —