Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “That’s a pity, sir,” said Fanny laughing, and trying to turn off what he said, as if it were only a jest. “It is a great pity, sir, that you cannot live without me; for, you know, I cannot serve my mistress, do my duty, and live with you.”

  Mr. Folingsby endeavoured to convince, or rather to persuade her, that she was mistaken; and swore that nothing within the power of his fortune should be wanting to make her happy.

  “Ah! sir,” said she, “your fortune could not make me happy, if I were to do what I know is wrong, what would disgrace me for ever, and what would break my poor father’s heart!”

  “But your father shall never know any thing of the matter. I will keep your secret from the whole world: trust to my honour.”

  “Honour! Oh! sir, how can you talk to me of honour! Do you think I do not know what honour is, because I am poor? Or do you think I do not set any value on mine, though you do on yours? Would you not kill any man, if you could, in a duel, for doubting of your honour? And yet you expect me to love you, at the very moment you show me, most plainly, how desirous you are to rob me of mine!”

  Mr. Folingsby was silent for some moments; but, when he saw that Fanny was leaving him, he hastily stopped her, and said, laughing, “You have made me a most charming speech about honour; and, what is better still, you looked most charmingly when you spoke it; but now take time to consider what I I have said to you. Let me have your answer to-morrow; and consult this book before you answer me, I conjure you.”

  Fanny took up the book as soon as Mr Folingsby had left the room; and, without opening it, determined to return it immediately. She instantly wrote a letter to Mr. Folingsby, which she was just wrapping up with the book in a sheet of paper, when Miss Jessy Bettesworth, the blind lady, and the music-master, came into the room. Fanny went to set a chair for the blind lady; and, whilst she was doing so, Miss Jessy Bettesworth, who had observed that Fanny blushed when they came in, slily peeped into the book, which lay on the table. Between the first pages she opened there was a five-pound bank-note; she turned the leaf, and found another, and another, and another at every leaf! Of these notes she counted one-and-twenty! whilst Fanny, unsuspicious of what was doing behind her back, was looking for the children’s music-books.

  “Philip Folingsby! So, so! Did he give you this book, Fanny Frankland?” said Jessy, in a scornful tone: “it seems truly to be a very valuable performance; and, no doubt, he had good reasons for giving it to you.”

  Fanny coloured deeply at this unexpected speech; and hesitated, from the fear of betraying Mr. Folingsby. “He did not give me the book: he only lent it to me,” said she, “and I am going to return it to him directly.”

  “Oh! no; pray lend it to me first,” replied Jessy, in an ironical tone; “Mr. Folingsby, to be sure, would lend it to me as soon as to you. I’m growing as fond of reading as other folks, lately,” continued she, holding the book fast.

  “I dare say, Mr. Folingsby would — Mr. Folingsby would lend it to you, I suppose,” said Fanny, colouring more and more deeply; “but, as it is trusted to me now, I must return it safe. Pray let me have it, Jessy.”

  “Oh! yes; return it, madam, safe! I make no manner of doubt you will! I make no manner of doubt you will!” replied Jessy, several times, as she shook the book; whilst the bank-notes fell from between the leaves, and were scattered upon the floor. “It is a thousand pities, Mrs. Cheviott, you can’t see what a fine book we have got, full of bank-notes! But Mrs. Hungerford is not blind at any rate, it is to be hoped,” continued she, turning to Mrs. Hungerford, who at this instant opened the door.

  She stood in dignified amazement. Jessy had an air of malignant triumph. Fanny was covered with blushes; but she looked with all the tranquillity of innocence. The children gathered round her; and blind Mrs. Cheviott cried, “What is going on? What is going on? Will nobody tell me what is going on? Jessy! What is it you are talking about, Jessy?”

  “About a very valuable book, ma’am; containing more than I can easily count, in bank-notes, ma’am, that Mr. Folingsby has lent, only lent, ma’am, she says, to Miss Fanny Frankland, ma’am, who was just going to return them to him, ma’am, when I unluckily took up the book, and shook them all out upon the floor, ma’am.”

  “Pick them up, Gustavus, my dear,” said Mrs. Hungerford, coolly. “From what I know of Fanny Frankland, I am inclined to believe that whatever she says is truth. Since she has lived with me, I have never, in the slightest instance, found her deviate from the truth; therefore I must entirely depend upon what she says.”

  “Oh! yes, mamma,” cried the children, all together, “that I am sure you may.”

  “Come with me, Fanny,” resumed Mrs. Hungerford; “it is not necessary that your explanation should be public, though I am persuaded it will be satisfactory.”

  Fanny was glad to escape from the envious eye of Miss Jessy Bettesworth, and felt much gratitude to Mrs. Hungerford for this kindness and confidence; but, when she was to make her explanation, Fanny was in great confusion. She dreaded to occasion a quarrel between Mr. Folingsby and his aunt; yet she knew not how to exculpate herself, without accusing him.

  “Why these blushes and tears, and why this silence, Fanny?” said Mrs. Hungerford, after she had waited some minutes, in expectation she would begin to speak. “Are not you sure of justice from me; and of protection, both from slander and insult? I am fond of my nephew, it is true; but I think myself obliged to you, for the manner in which you have conducted yourself towards my children, since you have had them under your care. Tell me then, freely, if you have any reason to complain of young Mr. Folingsby.”

  “Oh! madam,” said Fanny, “thank you a thousand times for your goodness to me. I do not, indeed, I do not wish to complain of any body; and I would not for the world make mischief between you and your nephew. I would rather leave your family at once; and that,” continued the poor girl, sobbing, “that is what I believe I had best; nay, is what I must and will do.”

  “No, Fanny, do not leave my house, without giving me an explanation of what has passed this morning; for, if you do, your reputation is at the mercy of Miss Jessy Bettesworth’s malice.”

  “Heaven forbid!” said Fanny, with a look of real terror. “I must beg, madam, that you will have the kindness to return this book, and these bank-notes, to Mr. Folingsby; and that you will give him this letter, which I was just going to wrap up in the paper, with the book, when Jessy Bettesworth came in and found the bank-notes, which I had never seen. These can make no difference in my answer to Mr. Folingsby: therefore I shall leave my letter just as it was first written, if you please, madam.”

  Fanny’s letter was as follows:

  “SIR,

  “I return the book, which you left with me, as nothing it contains can ever alter my opinion on the subject of which you spoke to me this morning. I hope you will never speak to me again, sir, in the same manner. Consider, sir, that I am a poor unprotected girl. If you go on as you have done lately, I shall be obliged to leave good Mrs. Hungerford, who is my only friend. Oh! where shall I find so good a friend? My poor old father is in the almshouse! and there he must remain till his children can earn money sufficient to support him. Do not fancy, sir, that I say this by way of begging from you; I would not, nor would he, accept of any thing that you could offer him, whilst in your present way of thinking. Pray, sir, have some compassion, and do not injure those whom you cannot serve.

  “I am, sir,

  “Your humble servant,

  “FANNY FRANKLAND.”

  Mr. Folingsby was surprised and confounded, when this letter, and the book containing his bank-notes, were put into his hand by his aunt. Mrs. Hungerford told him by what means the book had been seen by Miss Jessy Bettesworth, and to what imputations it must have exposed Fanny. “Fanny is afraid of making mischief between you and me,” continued Mrs. Hungerford “and I cannot prevail upon her to give me an explanation, which I am persuaded would be much to her honour.”

  “Then you hav
e not seen this letter! Then she has decided without consulting you! She is a charming girl!” cried Mr. Folingsby; “and whatever you may think of me, I am bound, in justice to her, to show you what she has written: that will sufficiently explain how much I have been to blame, and how well she deserves the confidence you place in her.”

  As he spoke, Mr. Folingsby rang the bell to order his horses. “I will return to town immediately,” continued he; “so Fanny need not leave the house of her only friend to avoid me. As to these bank-notes, keep them, dear aunt. She says her father is in great distress. Perhaps, now that I am come ‘to a right way of thinking,’ she will not disdain my assistance. Give her the money when and how you think proper. I am sure I cannot make a better use of a hundred guineas; and wish I had never thought of making a worse.”

  Mr. Folingsby returned directly to town; and his aunt thought he had in some measure atoned for his fault by his candour and generosity. Miss Jessy Bettesworth waited all this time, with malicious impatience, to hear the result of Fanny’s explanation with Mrs. Hungerford. How painfully was she surprised and disappointed, when Mrs. Hungerford returned to the company, to hear her speak in the highest terms of Fanny! “Oh, mamma,” cried little Gustavus, clapping his hands, “I am glad you think her good, because we all think so; and I should be very sorry indeed if she was to go away, especially in disgrace.”

  “There is no danger of that, my dear,” said Mrs. Hungerford. “She shall never leave my house, as long as she desires to stay in it. I do not give, or withdraw, my protection, without good reasons.”

  Miss Jessy Bettesworth hit her lips. Her face, which nature intended to be beautiful, became almost ugly; envy and malice distorted her features; and, when she departed with Mrs. Cheviott, her humiliated appearance was a strong contrast to the air of triumph with which she had entered.

  CHAPTER V.

  After Jessy and Mrs. Cheviott had left the room, one of the little girls exclaimed, “I don’t like that Miss Bettesworth; for she asked me whether I did not wish that Fanny was gone, because she refused to let me have a peach that was not ripe. I am sure I wish Fanny may always stay here.”

  There was a person in the room who seemed to join most fervently in this wish: this was Mr. Reynolds, the drawing-master. For some time his thoughts had been greatly occupied by Fanny. At first, he was struck with her beauty; but he had discovered that Mr. Folingsby was in love with her, and had carefully attended to her conduct, resolving not to offer himself till he was sure on a point so serious. Her modesty and prudence fixed his affections; and he now became impatient to declare his passion. He was a man of excellent temper and character; and his activity and talents were such as to ensure independence to a wife and family.

  Mrs. Hungerford, though a proud, was not a selfish woman: she was glad that Mr. Reynolds was desirous to obtain Fanny, though she was sorry to part with one who was so useful in her family. Fanny had now lived with her nearly two years; and she was much attached to her. A distant relation, about this time, left her five children a small legacy of ten guineas each. Gustavus, though he had some ambition to be master of a watch, was the first to propose that this legacy should be given to Fanny. His brothers and sisters applauded the idea; and Mrs. Hungerford added fifty guineas to their fifty. “I had put by this money,” said she, “to purchase a looking-glass for my drawing-room; but it will be much better applied in rewarding one who has been of real service to my children.”

  Fanny was now mistress of two hundred guineas; a hundred given to her by Mr. Folingsby, fifty by Mrs. Hungerford, and fifty by the children. Her joy and gratitude were extreme: for with this money she knew she could relieve her father; this was the first wish of her heart; and it was a wish in which her lover so eagerly joined that she smiled on him, and said, “Now I am sure you really love me.”

  “Let us go to your father directly,” said Mr. Reynolds. “Let me be present when you give him this money.”

  “You shall,” said Fanny; “but first I must consult my sister Patty and my brothers; for we must all go together; that is our agreement. The first day of next month is my father’s birthday; and, on that day, we are all to meet at the almshouse. What a happy day it will be!”

  But what has James been about all this time? How has he gone on with his master, Mr. Cleghorn, the haberdasher?

  During the eighteen months that James had spent in Mr. Cleghorn’s shop, he never gave his master the slightest reason to complain of him; on the contrary, this young man made his employer’s interests his own; and, consequently, completely deserved his confidence. It was not, however, always easy to deal with Mr. Cleghorn; for he dreaded to be flattered, yet could not bear to be contradicted. James was very near losing his favour for ever, upon the following occasion.

  One evening, when it was nearly dusk, and James was just shutting up shop, a strange-looking man, prodigiously corpulent, and with huge pockets to his coat, came in. He leaned his elbows on the counter, opposite to James, and stared him full in the face without speaking. James swept some loose money off the counter into the till. The stranger smiled, as if purposely to show him this did not escape his quick eye. There was in his countenance an expression of roguery and humour: the humour seemed to be affected, the roguery natural. “What are you pleased to want, sir?” said James.

  “A glass of brandy, and your master.”

  “My master is not at home, sir; and we have no brandy. You will find brandy, I believe, at the house over the way.”

  “I believe I know where to find brandy a little better than you do; and better brandy than you ever tasted, or the devil’s in it,” replied the stranger. “I want none of your brandy. I only asked for it to try what sort of a chap you were. So you don’t know who I am?”

  “No, sir; not in the least.”

  “No! Never heard of Admiral Tipsey! Where do you come from? Never heard of Admiral Tipsey! whose noble paunch is worth more than a Laplander could reckon,” cried he, striking the huge rotundity he praised. “Let me into this back parlour; I’ll wait there till your master comes home.”

  “Sir, you cannot possibly go into that parlour; there is a young lady, Mr. Cleghorn’s daughter, sir, at tea in that room: she must not be disturbed,” said James, holding the lock of the parlour door. He thought the stranger was either drunk or pretending to be drunk; and contended, with all his force, to prevent him from getting into the parlour.

  Whilst they were struggling, Mr. Cleghorn came home. “Heyday! what’s the matter? O admiral, is it you?” said Mr. Cleghorn in a voice of familiarity that astonished James. “Let us by, James; you don’t know the admiral.”

  Admiral Tipsey was a smuggler: he had the command of two or three smuggling vessels, and thereupon created himself an admiral: a dignity which few dared to dispute with him, whilst he held his oak stick in his hand. As to the name of Tipsey, no one could be so unjust as to question his claim to it; for he was never known to be perfectly sober, during a whole day, from one year’s end to another. To James’s great surprise, the admiral, after he had drunk one dish of tea, unbuttoned his waist-coat from top to bottom, and deliberately began to unpack his huge false corpulence! Round him were wound innumerable pieces of lace, and fold after fold of fine cambric. When he was completely unpacked, it was difficult to believe that he was the same person, he looked so thin and shrunk.

  He then called for some clean straw, and began to stuff himself out again to what he called a passable size. “Did not I tell you, young man, I carried that under my waistcoat which would make a fool stare? The lace that’s on the floor, to say nothing of the cambric, is worth full twice the sum for which you shall have it, Cleghorn. Good night. I’ll call again to-morrow, to settle our affairs; but don’t let your young man here shut the door, as he did to-day, in the admiral’s face. Here is a cravat for you, notwithstanding,” continued he, turning to James, and throwing him a piece of very fine cambric. “I must ‘list you in Admiral Tipsey’s service.”

  James followed hi
m to the door, and returned the cambric in despite of all his entreaties that he would “wear it, or sell it, for the admiral’s sake.”

  “So, James,” said Mr. Cleghorn, when the smuggler was gone, “you do not seem to like our admiral.”

  “I know nothing of him, sir, except that he is a smuggler; and for that reason I do not wish to have any thing to do with him.”

  “I am sorry for that,” said Mr. Cleghorn, with a mixture of shame and anger in his countenance: “my conscience is as nice as other people’s; and yet I have a notion I shall have something to do with him, though he is a smuggler; and, if I am not mistaken, shall make a deal of money by him. I have not had any thing to do with smugglers yet; but I see many in Monmouth who are making large fortunes by their assistance. There is our neighbour, Mr. Raikes; what a rich man he is become! And why should I, or why should you, be more scrupulous than others? Many gentlemen, ay, gentlemen, in the country are connected with them; and why should a shopkeeper be more conscientious than they? Speak; I must have your opinion.”

  With all the respect due to his master, James gave it as his opinion that it would be best to have nothing to do with Admiral Tipsey, or with any of the smugglers. He observed that men who carried on an illicit trade, and who were in the daily habit of cheating, or of taking false oaths, could not be safe partners. Even putting morality out of the question, he remarked that the smuggling trade was a sort of gaming, by which one year a man might make a deal of money, and another might be ruined.

  “Upon my word!” said Mr. Cleghorn, in an ironical tone, “you talk very wisely, for so young a man! Pray, where did you learn all this wisdom?”

  “From my father, sir; from whom I learned every thing that I know; every thing that is good, I mean. I had an uncle once, who was ruined by his dealings with smugglers; and who would have died in jail, if it had not been for my father. I was but a young lad at the time this happened; but I remember my father saying to me, the day my uncle was arrested, when my aunt and all the children were crying, ‘Take warning by this, my dear James: you are to be in trade, some day or other, yourself: never forget that honesty is the best policy. The fair trader will always have the advantage, at the long run.’”