Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  When Lord Colambre expressed some surprise that an old gentleman, as he conceived Mr. Ralph Reynolds to be, should change places so frequently, the old woman answered, “that though her master was a deal on the wrong side of seventy, and though, to look at him, you’d think he was glued to his chair, and would fall to pieces if he should stir out of it, yet he was as alert, and thought no more of going about, than if he was as young as the gentleman who was now speaking to her. It was old Mr. Reynolds’ delight to come down and surprise his people at his different places, and see that they were keeping all tight.”

  “What sort of a man is he? — Is he a miser?” said Lord Colambre.

  “He is a miser, and he is not a miser,” said the woman. “Now he’d think as much of the waste of a penny as another man would of a hundred pounds, and yet he would give a hundred pounds easier than another would give a penny, when he’s in the humour. But his humour is very odd, and there’s no knowing where to have him; he’s cross-grained, and more positiver-like than a mule; and his deafness made him worse in this, because he never heard what nobody said, but would say on his own way — he was very odd, but not cracked — no, he was as clear-headed, when he took a thing the right way, as any man could be, and as clever, and could talk as well as any member of parliament — and good-natured, and kind-hearted, where he would take a fancy — but then, may be, it would be to a dog (he was remarkably fond of dogs), or a cat, or a rat even, that he would take a fancy, and think more of ’em than he would of a Christian. But, poor gentleman, there’s great allowance,” said she, “to be made for him, that lost his son and heir — that would have been heir to all, and a fine youth that he doted upon. But,” continued the old woman, in whose mind the transitions from great to little, from serious to trivial, were ludicrously abrupt, “that was no reason why the old gentleman should scold me last time he was here, as he did, for as long as ever he could stand over me, only because I killed a mouse who was eating my cheese; and, before night, he beat a boy for stealing a piece of that same cheese; and he would never, when down here, let me set a mouse-trap.”

  “Well, my good woman,” interrupted Lord Colambre, who was little interested in this affair of the mouse-trap, and nowise curious to learn more of Mr. Reynolds’ domestic economy, “I’ll not trouble you any farther, if you can be so good as to tell me the road to Toddrington, or to Little Wickham, I think you call it.”

  “Little Wickham!” repeated the woman, laughing—”Bless you, sir, where do you come from? It’s Little Wrestham: sure every body knows, near Lantry; and keep the pike till you come to the turn at Rotherford, and then you strike off into the by-road to the left, and then turn again at the ford to the right. But, if you are going to Toddrington, you don’t go the road to market, which is at the first turn to the left, and the cross country road, where there’s no quarter, and Toddrington lies — but for Wrestham, you take the road to market.”

  It was some time before our hero could persuade the old woman to stick to Little Wrestham, or to Toddrington, and not to mix the directions for the different roads together — he took patience, for his impatience only confused his director the more. In process of time he made out, and wrote down, the various turns that he was to follow, to reach Little Wrestham; but no human power could get her from Little Wrestham to Toddrington, though she knew the road perfectly well; but she had, for the seventeen last years, been used to go “the other road,” and all the carriers went that way, and passed the door, and that was all she could certify.

  Little Wrestham, after turning to the left and right as often as his directory required, our hero happily reached: but, unhappily, he found no Mr. Reynolds there; only a steward, who gave nearly the same account of his master as had been given by the old woman, and could not guess even where the gentleman might now be. Toddrington was as likely as any place — but he could not say.

  “Perseverance against fortune.” To Toddrington our hero proceeded, through cross country roads — such roads! — very different from the Irish roads. Waggon ruts, into which the carriage wheels sunk nearly to the nave — and, from time to time, “sloughs of despond,” through which it seemed impossible to drag, walk, wade, or swim, and all the time with a sulky postilion. “Oh, how unlike my Larry!” thought Lord Colambre.

  At length, in a very narrow lane, going up a hill, said to be two miles of ascent, they overtook a heavy laden waggon, and they were obliged to go step by step behind it, whilst, enjoying the gentleman’s impatience much, and the postilion’s sulkiness more, the waggoner, in his embroidered frock, walked in state, with his long sceptre in his hand.

  The postilion muttered “curses not loud, but deep.” Deep or loud, no purpose would they have answered; the waggoner’s temper was proof against curse in or out of the English language; and from their snail’s pace neither Dickens, nor devil, nor any postilion in England could make him put his horses. Lord Colambre jumped out of the chaise, and, walking beside him, began to talk to him; and spoke of his horses, their bells, their trappings; the beauty and strength of the thill-horse — the value of the whole team, which his lordship happening to guess right within ten pounds, and showing, moreover, some skill about road-making and waggon-wheels, and being fortunately of the waggoner’s own opinion in the great question about conical and cylindrical rims, he was pleased with the young chap of a gentleman; and, in spite of the chuffiness of his appearance and churlishness of his speech, this waggoner’s bosom being “made of penetrable stuff,” he determined to let the gentleman pass. Accordingly, when half way up the hill, and the head of the fore-horse came near an open gate, the waggoner, without saying one word or turning his head, touched the horse with his long whip — and the horse turned in at the gate, and then came, “Dobbin! — Jeho!” and strange calls and sounds, which all the other horses of the team obeyed; and the waggon turned into the farm-yard.

  “Now, master! while I turn, you may pass.”

  The covering of the waggon caught in the hedge as the waggon turned in; and as the sacking was drawn back, some of the packages were disturbed — a cheese was just rolling off on the side next Lord Colambre; he stopped it from falling: the direction caught his quick eye—”To Ralph Reynolds, Esq.”—”Toddrington” scratched out; “Red Lion Square, London,” written in another hand below.

  “Now I have found him! And surely I know that hand!” said Lord Colambre to himself, looking more closely at the direction.

  The original direction was certainly in a hand-writing well known to him — it was Lady Dashfort’s.

  “That there cheese, that you’re looking at so cur’ously,” said the waggoner, “has been a great traveller; for it came all the way down from Lon’on, and now its going all the way up again back, on account of not finding the gentleman at home; and the man that booked it told me as how it came from foreign parts.”

  Lord Colambre took down the direction, tossed the honest waggoner a guinea, wished him good night, passed, and went on. As soon as he could, he turned into the London road — at the first town, got a place in the mail — reached London — saw his father — went directly to his friend, Count O’Halloran, who was delighted when he beheld the packet. Lord Colambre was extremely eager to go immediately to old Reynolds, fatigued as he was; for he had travelled night and day, and had scarcely allowed himself, mind or body, one moment’s repose.

  “Heroes must sleep, and lovers too; or they soon will cease to be heroes or lovers!” said the count. “Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! this night; and to-morrow morning we’ll finish the adventures in Red Lion Square, or I will accompany you when and where you will; if necessary, to earth’s remotest bounds.”

  The next morning Lord Colambre went to breakfast with the count. The count, who was not in love, was not up, for our hero was half an hour earlier than the time appointed. The old servant Ulick, who had attended his master to England, was very glad to see Lord Colambre again, and, showing him into the breakfast parlour, could not help saying, in defence of his master�
��s punctuality, “Your clocks, I suppose, my lord, are half an hour faster than ours: my master will be ready to the moment.”

  The count soon appeared — breakfast was soon over, and the carriage at the door; for the count sympathized in his young friend’s impatience. As they were setting out, the count’s large Irish dog pushed out of the house-door to follow them; and his master would have forbidden him, but Lord Colambre begged that he might be permitted to accompany them; for his lordship recollected the old woman’s having mentioned that Mr. Reynolds was fond of dogs.

  They arrived in Red Lion Square, found the house of Mr. Reynolds, and, contrary to the count’s prognostics, found the old gentleman up, and they saw him in his red night-cap at his parlour window. After some minutes’ running backwards and forwards of a boy in the passage, and two or three peeps taken over the blinds by the old gentleman, they were admitted.

  The boy could not master their names; so they were obliged reciprocally to announce themselves—”Count O’Halloran and Lord Colambre.” The names seemed to make no impression on the old gentleman; but he deliberately looked at the count and his lordship, as if studying what rather than who they were. In spite of the red night-cap, and a flowered dressing-gown, Mr. Reynolds looked like a gentleman, an odd gentleman — but still a gentleman.

  As Count O’Halloran came into the room, and as his large dog attempted to follow, the count’s look expressed —

  “Say, shall I let him in, or shut the door?”

  “Oh, let him in, by all means, sir, if you please! I am fond of dogs; and a finer one I never saw: pray, gentlemen, be seated,” said he — a portion of the complacency, inspired by the sight of the dog, diffusing itself over his manner towards the master of so fine an animal, and even extending to the master’s companion, though in an inferior degree. Whilst Mr. Reynolds stroked the dog, the count told him that “the dog was of a curious breed, now almost extinct — the Irish greyhound; only one nobleman in Ireland, it is said, has a few of the species remaining in his possession — Now, lie down, Hannibal,” said the count. “Mr. Reynolds, we have taken the liberty, though strangers, of waiting upon you—”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Mr. Reynolds; “but did I understand you rightly, that a few of the same species are still to be had from one nobleman in Ireland? Pray, what is his name?” said he, taking out his pencil.

  The count wrote the name for him, but observed, that “he had asserted only that a few of these dogs remained in the possession of that nobleman; he could not answer for it that they were to be had.”

  “Oh, I have ways and means,” said old Reynolds; and, rapping his snuff-box, and talking, as it was his custom, loud to himself, “Lady Dashfort knows all those Irish lords: she shall get one for me — ay! ay!”

  Count O’Halloran replied, as if the words had been addressed to him, “Lady Dashfort is in England.”

  “I know it, sir; she is in London,” said Mr. Reynolds, hastily. “What do you know of her?”

  “I know, sir, that she is not likely to return to Ireland, and that I am; and so is my young friend here: and if the thing can be accomplished, we will get it done for you.”

  Lord Colambre joined in this promise, and added, that, “if the dog could be obtained, he would undertake to have him safely sent over to England.”

  “Sir — gentlemen! I’m much obliged; that is, when you have done the thing I shall be much obliged. But, may be, you are only making me civil speeches!”

  “Of that, sir,” said the count, smiling with much temper, “your own sagacity and knowledge of the world must enable you to judge.”

  “For my own part, I can only say,” cried Lord Colambre, “that I am not in the habit of being reproached with saying one thing and meaning another.”

  “Hot! I see,” said old Reynolds, nodding as he looked at Lord Colambre: “Cool!” added he, nodding at the count. “But a time for every thing; I was hot once: both answers good for their ages.”

  This speech Lord Colambre and the count tacitly agreed to consider as another apart, which they were not to hear, or seem to hear. The count began again on the business of their visit, as he saw that Lord Colambre was boiling with impatience, and feared that he should boil over, and spoil all. The count commenced with, “Mr. Reynolds, your name sounds to me like the name of a friend; for I had once a friend of that name: I once had the pleasure (and a very great pleasure it was to me) to be intimately acquainted abroad, on the continent, with a very amiable and gallant youth — your son!”

  “Take care, sir,” said the old man, starting up from his chair, and instantly sinking down again, “take care! Don’t mention him to me — unless you would strike me dead on the spot!”

  The convulsed motions of his fingers and face worked for some moments; whilst the count and Lord Colambre, much shocked and alarmed, stood in silence.

  The convulsed motions ceased; and the old man unbuttoned his waistcoat, as if to relieve some sense of oppression; uncovered his gray hairs; and, after leaning back to rest himself, with his eyes fixed, and in reverie for a few moments, he sat upright again in his chair, and exclaimed, as he looked round, “Son! — Did not somebody say that word? Who is so cruel to say that word before me? Nobody has ever spoken of him to me — but once, since his death! Do you know, sir,” said he, fixing his eyes on Count O’Halloran, and laying his cold hand on him, “do you know where he was buried, I ask you, sir? do you remember how he died?”

  “Too well! too well!” cried the count, so much affected as to be scarcely able to pronounce the words; “he died in my arms: I buried him myself!”

  “Impossible!” cried Mr. Reynolds. “Why do you say so, sir?” said he, studying the count’s face with a sort of bewildered earnestness. “Impossible! His body was sent over to me in a lead coffin; and I saw it — and I was asked — and I answered, ‘In the family vault.’ But the shock is over,” said he: “and, gentlemen, if the business of your visit relates to that subject, I trust I am now sufficiently composed to attend to you. Indeed, I ought to be prepared; for I had reason, for years, to expect the stroke; and yet, when it came, it seemed sudden! — it stunned me — put an end to all my worldly prospects — left me childless, without a single descendant, or relation near enough to be dear to me! I am an insulated being!”

  “No, sir, you are not an insulated being,” said Lord Colambre: “You have a near relation, who will, who must, be dear to you; who will make you amends for all you have lost, all you have suffered — who will bring peace and joy to your heart: you have a grand-daughter.”

  “No, sir; I have no grand-daughter,” said old Reynolds, his face and whole form becoming rigid with the expression of obstinacy. “Rather have no descendant than be forced to acknowledge an illegitimate child.”

  “My lord, I entreat as a friend — I command you to be patient,” said the count, who saw Lord Colambre’s indignation suddenly rise.

  “So, then, this is the purpose of your visit,” continued old Reynolds: “and you come from my enemies, from the St. Omars, and you are in a league with them,” continued old Reynolds: “and all this time it is of my eldest son you have been talking.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the count; “of Captain Reynolds, who fell in battle, in the Austrian service, about nineteen years ago — a more gallant and amiable youth never lived.”

  Pleasure revived through the dull look of obstinacy in the father’s eyes.

  “He was, as you say, sir, a gallant, an amiable youth, once — and he was my pride, and I loved him, too, once — but did not you know I had another?”

  “No, sir, we did not — we are, you may perceive, totally ignorant of your family and of your affairs — we have no connexion whatever or knowledge of any of the St. Omars.”

  “I detest the sound of the name,” cried Lord Colambre.

  “Oh, good! good! — Well! well! I beg your pardon, gentlemen, a thousand times — I am a hasty, very hasty old man; but I have been harassed, persecuted, hunted by wr
etches, who got a scent of my gold; often in my rage I longed to throw my treasure-bags to my pursuers, and bid them leave me to die in peace. You have feelings, I see, both of you, gentlemen; excuse, and bear with my temper.”

  “Bear with you! Much enforced, the best tempers will emit a hasty spark,” said the count, looking at Lord Colambre, who was now cool again; and who, with a countenance full of compassion, sat with his eyes fixed upon the poor — no, not the poor, but the unhappy old man.

  “Yes, I had another son,” continued Mr. Reynolds, “and on him all my affections concentrated when I lost my eldest, and for him I desired to preserve the estate which his mother brought into the family. Since you know nothing of my affairs, let me explain to you: that estate was so settled, that it would have gone to the child, even the daughter of my eldest son, if there had been a legitimate child. But I knew there was no marriage, and I held out firm to my opinion. ‘If there was a marriage,’ said I, ‘show me the marriage certificate, and I will acknowledge the marriage, and acknowledge the child:’ but they could not, and I knew they could not; and I kept the estate for my darling boy,” cried the old gentleman, with the exultation of successful positiveness again appearing strong in his physiognomy: but, suddenly changing and relaxing, his countenance fell, and he added, “but now I have no darling boy. What use all! — all must go to the heir at law, or I must will it to a stranger — a lady of quality, who has just found out she is my relation — God knows how! I’m no genealogist — and sends me Irish cheese, and Iceland moss, for my breakfast, and her waiting gentlewoman to namby-pamby me. Oh, I’m sick of it all — see through it — wish I was blind — wish I had a hiding-place, where flatterers could not find me — pursued, chased — must change my lodgings again to-morrow — will, will — I beg your pardon, gentlemen, again: you were going to tell me, sir, something more of my eldest son; and how I was led away from the subject, I don’t know; but I meant only to have assured you that his memory was dear to me, till I was so tormented about that unfortunate affair of his pretended marriage, that at length I hated to hear him named; but the heir at law, at last, will triumph over me.”