Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “The Order of the Sisters of Charity was established by Vincent St. Paul, in the year 1629, assisted by the counsel and co-operation of a lady of rank named Le Gras. This benevolent individual not only bestowed her whole fortune for the establishment of the institution, but took upon herself an active part in its management and labours. Thus, whilst the worthy Pastor was travelling from town to town, and village to village, preaching in aid of the funds of the society, she remained at Paris, inciting the charitable of her own sex to become the dispensers of the bounty thus collected.

  “On its first commencement, when hospitals were unhappily more scarce than they have since become, the afflicted poor were received into the houses of this community; but, alas! it was soon evident, that, however ample the funds of the society might be, they were inadequate for even a temporary maintenance of half the unhappy claimants that presented themselves: the Sisters were therefore under the necessity of attending the least destitute poor at their own houses; and this excellent method of ascertaining the wants of the afflicted, as well as the best means of alleviating them, is pursued to the present day.”

  “But, Mamma,” inquired Blanche, “are not the Sisters of Charity obliged to take upon themselves some vows which are thought objectionable by Protestants?”

  “The vows of the Sisters of Charity are simply these—’Poverty, obedience, and service to the poor.’ These vows are limited to one year, although many continue their voluntary labours for a long life. During this period, their vow of ‘Poverty’ prevents their enjoying property individually; neither can they marry: their ‘Obedience’ consists in an adherence to the regulations of the society; and their “Service to the Poor” in relieving the distressed without distinction of creed or country.”

  “But, Mamma,” interrupted Blanche, “I do not see what could be objected to in any thing you have named — the vows are so simple, and for so short a period.”

  “It would detain us too long to enter minutely into that question,” replied her mother; “but there can be no doubt that the arrangements might be so modified as to meet the scruples of the most timid; and it would be well for us all to bear in mind that, even in its existing form, it is an institution of pure humanity. It does not immure its members within stone walls — it sends them forth into the world in all the beautiful energy of benevolence; and when the calls on their labour of love have ceased, it returns them, not cramped by indolence or soured by austerity, but glowing with the wholesome fatigue of good work — to enjoy peaceful repose, until the dawn of another day calls them to minister to the affliction it brings with it.”

  “But the dress, Mamma — the dress — how came they to choose so strange a costume? — it is so very unbecoming.”

  “I fancy, my dear, that persons who voluntarily take upon themselves the duties I have enumerated would not be very solicitous on that head. The dress, with the exception of the cap, is exactly similar to the one which the first Sister, Madame Le Gras, is represented to have worn. It consists of a black stuff petticoat, with the body made jacket-wise; a blue apron, with stockings of the same colour; a white collar and cap, the latter modelled from the form which a handkerchief, took for a moment, as it fell from the hand of Louis XIV. on the head of one of the Sisters.”

  “How strange! But did the King accidentally drop his handkerchief?” inquired Blanche.

  “No;” replied her mother, “the Sister whom the King chanced to encounter happened to be very lovely, and his Majesty remarked that ‘she needed a veil to conceal her loveliness from vulgar eyes;’ and, suiting the action to the word, invested her with the embroidered handkerchief he held in his hand: this is the origin of the only very singular part of their costume; but we will resume their history on some future occasion, when I trust to be able to narrate to you a series of anecdotes illustrative of the activity of their benevolence, which will greatly enhance the interest of the sketch on which our present conversation has originated.”

  ANECDOTE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.

  During the great American War an English officer, in command of a foraging party, was together with his soldiers surprised by a large ambush of Indians, who poured in a destructive fire upon them, by which many of the English were killed. The survivors had hardly time to look from whence the attack proceeded, when the Indians sprung forward from their lurking place with yells more savage than the howls of the wild beasts of the forest. The few English who were not killed or disabled took to flight, it being impossible to withstand the superior numbers of the enemy, and among the fugitives was the officer, who had received a wound in his left arm.

  For a short time he did not consider himself pursued, but after forcing his way with difficulty through the wildest and gloomiest thickets for about half an hour, he was alarmed to hear the well-known whoop of the Indians not far from him. He gave himself up for lost, for what chance had he of escape in those thick woods, every pass of which was probably as familiar to his enemies as unknown to himself? He sought the deepest recesses, but the Indians still kept near him, and an accident only prevented his being almost immediately discovered by them. There was a hollow place, almost like a well, in his path, the mouth of which was so overgrown with wild shrubs as not to be perceptible, except on a minute search. Into this he fell, and though he was bruised by his fall he was here effectually concealed from the Indians. More than once he heard their footsteps as they passed by his place of concealment.

  When several hours had elapsed and all seemed still, the officer ventured to stir from his hiding-place. His wound was painful; his limbs were stiff; and it was with great difficulty that he could get out of the pit into which he had fallen. At last he effected his deliverance, and faint and wounded as he was, and though the night was dark and dismal, he set forth in hopes of rejoining the English army.

  He had not proceeded far when a light, glimmering through the trees, attracted his attention: he approached it with great caution, and, sheltering himself from observation, regarded with much anxiety a party of Indians who were assembled round a great fire roasting the flesh of a deer. Their wild and savage looks, as they sat on the ground in the red light of the fire, were truly alarming; and the officer, afraid of being seen, changed his position in the hope of concealing himself more effectually. In doing so he struck his wounded arm against a branch, which caused him such violent pain that he was unable at the moment to prevent a cry of agony bursting from him. In a moment the Indians were on their feet, and in another they had dragged him forth.

  Wounded as he was, and though his enemies were too numerous to leave any chance of successful resistance, the officer drew his sword and endeavoured to defend himself, for he dreaded the torture which he knew the Indians would inflict on him if he became their captive. So unequal a strife would speedily have terminated in the death of the officer, but that an old Indian, who had hitherto stood aloof, sprung forward, and waving his tomahawk over the Englishman forbad any one to harm him.

  It was fortunate that this old Indian was the chief of his tribe, and was highly reverenced by his people for his great strength and skill in war and in hunting, — they sullenly obeyed him. He addressed the officer in broken French; of which language many of the Indians who were in league with the French had a slight knowledge. He promised him protection, and gave him food. Perceiving that their captive was wounded, he gathered the leaves of some healing plant, and after steeping them in water bound them on the wound, with the greatest solicitude for the officer’s recovery, and by words of comfort tried to alleviate his sufferings.

  After some time the Indians stretched themselves on the ground to sleep, all but one or two who remained to watch, and the chief, who carried on a short conversation with the officer.

  “You cannot,” said he, “go away yet, my son, for you could not find the paths through the woods, and if you could you would probably meet with enemies. I cannot now conduct you, for we go in the morning towards the north. You must therefore accompany us, but as soon as possib
le you shall be restored to your own people. Now go and sleep, for you are wounded and weary, and must have rest.”

  The Englishman, it may be imagined, did not much relish the idea of being kept among the Indians; it was however much better than being tortured or killed by them, and he returned many thanks to the chief.

  Early in the morning he was aroused by the troop preparing for departure. They travelled with the most singular caution, and wound their way through the most obscure parts of the woods, and guided themselves by tracks quite undistinguishable, except by the experienced eye of an Indian. They preserved a profound silence, and showed great ingenuity in the means they adopted to prevent their course being known.

  During the middle of the day they rested, and again at night. In the depth of the night the officer was aroused by some one shaking him, and looking up he saw his friend the old Indian, who, cautioning him to be silent, bade him to follow his steps. He did so, and they proceeded carefully among the woods. It was not until daybreak that the silence was broken by the Englishman asking his conductor whither they were going.

  “One of our people,” replied the Indian, “was wounded severely by you when you were first surprised by them. In consequence of this his brother has sworn revenge against you, and it would have been unsafe for you to remain with us. I will guide you to safety, and then return.”

  The Englishman made grateful acknowledgments for the Indian’s kindness. “I am thinking,” he then added, “why you should show me this goodness, for I was a stranger and am an enemy.”

  “Does a white man never do good to a stranger or an enemy?” asked the Indian. The Englishman blushed, and was silent.

  “But I am only paying a debt,” said the Indian: “nine months ago I was wounded, and weary, and dying of thirst; you saw me and gave me drink, which saved my life. I prayed to the Great Spirit that I might repay the benefit: behold he has heard me.”

  The officer was struck with the noble sentiments of the savage, and sighed to think how often his countrymen might take lessons from the Indian.

  As the evening drew nigh they came to a tract of country where the woods were thinner, — presently they perceived marks of cultivation: at least the eye was struck by a village not very distant.

  “That is an English station,” said the Indian; “there you will find white men and friends. But, my son, when thou art with them do not forget the Indian, nor think ill of his people. Farewell, my son! May the Great Spirit protect thee, and give thee strength among thy people.”

  The Englishman pressed the hand of the old man, spoke a parting word, for he was too much affected to say more. The next moment the Indian was amid the woods, and the officer on his way to join his regiment.

  THE LITTLE DOG TRUSTY; THE ORANGE MAN; AND THE CHERRY ORCHARD

  BEING THE TENTH PART OF EARLY LESSONS

  CONTENTS

  THE LITTLE DOG TRUSTY.

  THE ORANGE MAN.

  THE CHERRY ORCHARD.

  THE LITTLE DOG TRUSTY.

  OR, THE LIAR AND THE BOY OF TRUTH.

  Very, very little children must not read this story; for they cannot understand it: they will not know what is meant by a liar and a boy of truth.

  Very little children, when they are asked a question, say “yes,” and “no,” without knowing the meaning of the words; but you, children, who can speak quite plain, and who can tell, by words, what you wish for, and what you want, and what you have seen, and what you have done; you who understand what is meant by the words “I have done it,” or “I have not,” you may read this story; for — you can understand it.

  Frank and Robert were two little boys, about eight years old.

  Whenever Frank did any thing wrong, he always told his father and mother of it; and when any body asked him about any thing which he had done or said, he always told the truth; so that every body who knew him, believed him: but nobody who knew his brother Robert, believed a word which he said, because he used to tell lies.

  Whenever he did any thing wrong, he never ran to his father and mother to tell them of it; but when they asked him about it, he denied it, and said he had not done the things which he had done.

  The reason that Robert told lies was, because he was afraid of being punished for his faults, if he confessed them. He was a coward, and could not bear the least pain; but Frank was a brave boy, and could bear to be punished for little faults: his mother never punished him so much for such little faults, as she did Robert for the lies which he told, and which she found out afterward.

  One evening, these two little boys were playing together, in a room by themselves; their mother was ironing in a room next to them, and their father was out at work in the fields, so there was nobody in the room with Robert and Frank; but there was a little dog, Trusty, lying by the fire-side.

  Trusty was a pretty playful little dog, and the children were very fond of him.

  “Come,” said Robert to Frank, “there is Trusty lying beside the fire asleep; let us go and waken him, and he will play with us.”

  “O yes, do, let us,” said Frank. So they both ran together, towards the hearth, to waken the dog.

  Now there was a basin of milk standing upon the hearth; and the little boys did not see where-abouts it stood; for it was behind them: as they were both playing with the dog, they kicked it with their feet, and threw it down; and the basin broke, and all the milk ran out of it over the hearth, and about the floor; and when the little boys saw what they had done, they were very sorry, and frightened; but they did not know what to do: they stood for some time, looking at the broken basin and the milk, without speaking.

  Robert spoke first.

  “So, we shall have no milk for supper to-night,” said he; and he sighed ——

  “No milk for supper! —— why not?” said Frank; “is there no more milk in the house?”

  “Yes, but we shall have none of it; for, do not you remember, last Monday, when we threw down the milk, my mother said we were very careless, and that the next time we did so, we should have no more; and this is the next time; so we shall have no milk for supper to-night.”

  “Well, then,” said Frank, “we must do without it, that’s all: we will take more care another time; there’s no great harm done; come, let us run and tell my mother. You know she bid us always tell her directly when we broke any thing; so come,” said he, taking hold of his brother’s hand.

  “I will come, just now,” said Robert; “don’t be in such a hurry, Frank — Can’t you stay a minute?” So Frank staid; and then he said, “Come now, Robert.” But Robert answered, “Stay a little longer; for I dare not go yet — I am afraid.”

  Little boys, I advise you, never be afraid to tell the truth; never say, “Stay a minute,” and, “Stay a little longer,” but run directly, and tell of what you have done that is wrong. The longer you stay, the more afraid you will grow, till at last, perhaps, you will not dare to tell the truth at all. — Hear what happened to Robert.

  The longer he staid, the more unwilling he was to go to tell his mother that he had thrown the milk down; and at last he pulled his hand away from his brother, and cried, “I won’t go at all; Frank, can’t you go by yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Frank, “so I will; I am not afraid to go by myself: I only waited for you out of good-nature, because I thought you would like to tell the truth too.”

  “Yes, so I will; I mean to tell the truth when I am asked; but I need not go now, when I do not choose it: — and why need you go either? — Can’t you wait here? — Surely my mother can see the milk when she comes in.”

  Frank said no more; but, as his brother would not come, he went without him. He opened the door of the next room, where he thought his mother was ironing; but when he went in, he saw that she was gone; and he thought she was gone to fetch some more clothes to iron. The clothes, he knew, were hanging on the bushes in the garden; so he thought his mother was gone there; and he ran after her, to tell what had happened.

  Now whi
lst Frank was gone, Robert was left in the room by himself; and all the while he was alone, he was thinking of some excuses to make to his mother; and he was sorry that Frank was gone to tell her the truth. He said to himself, “If Frank and I both were to say, that we did not throw down the basin, she would believe us, and we should have milk for supper. I am very sorry Frank would go to tell her about it.”

  Just as he said this to himself, he heard his mother coming down stairs—”Oh ho!” said he to himself, “then my mother has not been out in the garden, and so Frank has not met her, and cannot have told her; so now I may say what I please.”

  Then this naughty, cowardly boy, determined to tell his mother a lie.

  She came into the room; but when she saw the broken basin, and the milk spilled, she stopped short, and cried; “So, so! — What a piece of work is here! — Who did this, Robert?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” said Robert, in a very low voice.

  “You don’t know, Robert! — tell me the truth — I shall not be angry with you, child — You will only lose the milk at supper; and as for the basin, I would rather have you break all the basins I have, than tell me one lie. — So don’t tell me a lie. — I ask you, Robert, did you break the basin?”

  “No, ma’am, I did not,” said Robert; and he coloured as red as fire.

  “Then, where’s Frank? — did he do it?”

  “No mother, he did not,” said Robert; for he was in hopes, that when Frank came in, he should persuade him to say that he did not do it.

  “How do you know,” said his mother, “that Frank did not do it?”

  “Because — because — because, ma’am,” said Robert, hesitating, as liars do for an excuse—”because I was in the room all the time, and I did not see him do it.”

  “Then how was the basin thrown down? If you have been in the room all the time, you can tell.”