Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  As Arthur could not just then speak any more, his brother spoke for him and told how it had happened, and Robert again repeated that Arthur was very sorry when he saw that he had torn the drawing which he knew that his mother liked so much and which her friend and his friend, Mrs. Mary Delaval, had given her.

  Mrs. Mary Delaval, who was standing at the table, but who had not yet spoken, now in her gentle voice began to speak, and all the rest of the company who had most of them been exclaiming, “What a pity. Oh, what a pity!” were silent.

  “I am sorry, my dear Arthur, and you see your mother is sorry for what has happened,” said Mrs. Mary Delaval, stroking Arthur’s head kindly as she spoke, “and I know that you are very sorry, but if you will only recollect the pain you now feel and let it prevent you from falling into a passion the next time you are inclined to be angry, and not only next time but the next and the next, you will learn my dear to restrain the natural impatience of your temper, and then the loss of this drawing will be the cause of more pleasure than it ever was before, more pleasure than she ever did, or ever could, receive from any drawing that I or anybody else could give her.”

  Arthur, and Robert too, were struck with the good sense and kindness of what their friend, Mrs. Delaval, said, and they stood silent, each holding her hand and both thinking that they would endeavour always to do as she advised.

  Another lady who was present, a visitor, who was not quite so sensible a woman as Mrs. Mary Delaval, then addressed herself to Arthur and asked him, “to promise that he would never while he lived be in a passion again.”

  “No, Ma’am, I will not make that promise,” said Arthur, “for I am afraid I should not be able to keep it.”

  “That is right, Arthur,” said his mother. “Never make any promise that you do not feel sure you can keep.”

  “Quite right, Arthur,” said Mrs. Delaval. “But I think I may promise, for of this I do feel almost certain, Mamma,” said Arthur, “that the next time and the next time and the next, when I feel inclined to be angry I shall recollect and try to stop myself and, Mamma, I will paste these pieces of the torn drawing together and hang them up in my own room, if you please Mamma, to put me in mind.”

  “To put us both in mind,” said Robert. “I am sure though I shall not forget this whole month — I daresay I shall not forget this whole year, what has happened to-day.”

  When Robert said this he little knew what was to happen before this day was over. Something that happened too, in consequence of his own carelessness and of his brother’s impatience.

  Their mother at this time was not very well, was tired this evening, and Mrs. Mary Delaval advising her to he down to rest herself, she went to the sofa and threw herself upon it, but she suddenly uttered a shriek and starting up from the sofa she said that something sharp had run into her arm. Blood streamed from her arm as she held it up. Everybody ran to her. They could not imagine how this had been done. Upon examining the place on the sofa where she had lain down a pair of scissors were found sticking up between the cushions. One of the points of these scissors was broken, the other, which was very sharp, had run into the fleshy part of her arm as she had sunk down and as the cushions sank down under her.

  Now these were the scissors which Arthur had angrily attempted to snatch from his brother, and which Robert had thrown on the sofa and carelessly left there. Till this moment he had quite forgotten them.

  When these little boys saw their mother bleeding and saw how much she was hurt, they felt so much frightened and shocked that they could neither speak nor stir from the place where they stood.

  The housekeeper, who had now brought a basin, was holding it under their mamma’s arm while she was stopping the blood and binding up the wound.

  The children both felt sick, and standing quite still and holding each other by the hand, they never spoke, till the housekeeper said, “I wonder who could leave these scissors on the sofa?”

  “It was I! Oh, it was I left them there,” cried Robert.

  “It was my fault, it was all my fault,” cried Arthur. “Oh, Mamma, it was all our doing!”

  Everybody now began asking the little boys different questions. “How they did it?” and “When they did it?” — except good Mrs. Mary Delaval and their mother, who waited till they were able to explain themselves.

  “Dear little creatures! How they do cry and sob, as if their hearts would break,” said one of the ladies who was standing by. She was the same silly lady who had asked Arthur to promise never to be in a passion again. She stooped down and whispering to their mother, but whispering loud enough for them to hear, she said: “These sweet boys of yours, my dear madam, have so much sensibility, take my advice and you may make anything of them by only working on their sensibility.”

  Robert and Arthur did not in the least understand what she meant.

  “My little angels,” continued she, going to kiss them, “I will only appeal to your tender hearts.”

  But Robert and Arthur did not listen to anything more that she said, for at this moment their mother stretched out her hand towards them, that hand which had not been hurt, and they pressed forward to the sofa on which she was lying and took her hand and kissed it many times and asked her if she was very much hurt and if she felt very much pain.

  “How they do dote on their mamma,” continued the talking lady. “Ma’am you will manage them so easily by only speaking to their hearts.”

  “I would rather teach them to manage themselves,” answered their mother, “and therefore I will speak to their reason, for young as they are they can understand reason.”

  Their mother then bid them look at the wound in her arm; she told them that it hurt her, but that she might have been hurt a great deal more, that she might have been deprived of the use of her limbs, or she might have been killed, if she had fallen so as to run the point of the scissors into her back.

  “I have often told you,” said she, “how dangerous it is to leave scissors or knives or any sharp-pointed things on sofas or chairs. Now you see the consequence of not believing, or not attending, to what I told you.”

  “Not attending, Mamma! we did believe you indeed,” interrupted Robert. “Let me just tell you exactly how it all happened.” Then Robert and Arthur told exactly how it happened, and Robert finished by saying: “How very unlucky we have both of us been, trying to do something for you to please you, particularly on your birthday, and we have after all done nothing but mischief and after all hurt you exceedingly. Oh! this has been the most unhappy, unfortunate day of my whole life!”

  Robert’s mother agreed with him that it had been an unhappy day, but otherwise she said she did not understand what was meant by an unfortunate or an unlucky day, and when Robert in trying to explain what he meant recollected each of what he called the unlucky accidents which had happened this day, she showed him that they had each and all been caused by his own carelessness and by his own and his brother’s impatience.

  “And now my dear boys,” said she, “though you have lost the pleasure of giving me those things you intended to give me on my birthday, yet there is still something which you may both do to please me particularly on my birthday. It will be a week before that day comes; let me see during that week you, Arthur, are never impatient, even if you do not succeed in whatever you are attempting, and let me see, Robert, that you finish whatever you begin.”

  “I will not promise, as Arthur says — but, Mamma, you shall see!” said Robert.

  The story says that Robert and Arthur rose very early the next morning and Arthur began to make another copy of that drawing about which he had been impatient. And Robert, determining to finish what he had begun, returned to his scheme of making the new feather brush. Though it was disagreeable to him to search for the old handle of the brush which he had lost, yet he never gave up looking for it till he found it at last behind a great chest where he had dropped it formerly.

  He found it a more difficult piece of work than he had expected to
fasten all the feathers firmly to this handle, but he had begun it and he was determined to finish it, and he did finish it. Arthur also finished the terribly difficult legs of the ass to his own and his mother’s satisfaction. During the whole of this week — as the story says (and we believe it) — Arthur was never once impatient, nor was Robert careless. And so anxious was Robert to prove to his mother that he wished to cure himself of his faults, that he finished this week a catalogue of her books, which he had begun six months before that time.

  Their mother was pleased with them and they were pleased with themselves, as people usually are, whether they be men, women or children, when they feel in their own minds that they have cured themselves of any one fault.

  Their mother’s birthday was a happy day, a day that her children made happy for her.

  “But, Mamma,” said Robert, “you must finish whatever you begin. You did not finish reading my catalogue. Go on, if you please, pray, till you come to the word ‘FINIS’.”

  She went on till she came to the word “Finis” and she smiled when she saw it.

  “What are you smiling at?” said Mrs. Mary Delaval.

  Their mother pointed to the word round which Robert had drawn to the best of his ability a crown of laurels, with this motto, “FINIS CORONAT OPUS” which words he, having just learned Latin enough to understand, was happy to be able to translate for his good friend Mrs. Mary Delaval, “FINISH CROWNS THE WORK.”

  THE PURPLE JAR.

  ROSAMOND, a little girl of about seven years old, was walking with her mother in the streets of London. As she passed along, she looked in at the windows of several shops; and she saw a great variety of different sorts of things, of which she did not know the use, nor even the names. She wished to stop to look at them; but there were a great number of people in the streets, and a great many carts, and carriages, and wheelbarrows, and she was afraid to let go her mother’s hand.

  ‘O, mother, how happy I should be,’ said she, as she passed a toy-shop, ‘if I had all these pretty things!’

  ‘What, all! Do you wish for them all Rosamond?’

  ‘Yes, mother, all.’

  As she spoke they came to a milliner’s shop; the windows were hung with ribands and lace, and festoons of artificial flowers.

  ‘O, mother, what beautiful roses! Won’t you buy some of them?’

  ‘No, my dear.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t want them, my dear.’

  They went a little further, and they came to another shop, which caught Rosamond’s eye. It was a jeweller’s shop, and there were a great many pretty baubles ranged in drawers behind glass.

  ‘Mother, you’ll buy some of these?’

  ‘Which of them, Rosamond?’

  ‘Which — I don’t know which; — but any of them, for they are all pretty.’

  ‘Yes, they are all pretty; but of what use would they be to me?’

  ‘Use! O, I’m sure you could find some use or other, if you would only buy them first.’

  “But I would rather find out the use first.’

  ‘Well then, mother, there are bosom pins; you know bosom pins are useful things, very useful things.’

  ‘I have bosom pins, I don’t want any more,’ said her mother, and walked on Rosamond was very sorry that her mother wanted nothing. Presently however they came to a shop which appeared to her far more beautiful than the rest.

  ‘O, mother, O!’ cried she, pulling her mother’s hand; ‘Look, look, blue, green, red yellow, and purple! O, mother, what beautiful things! Won’t you buy some of these?’

  Still her mother answered as before.

  ‘Of what use would they be to me, Rosamond?’

  ‘You might put flowers in them, mother, and they would look so pretty on the chimney-piece; — I wish I had one of them.’

  ‘You have a flower-pot,’ said her mother, ‘and that is not a flower-pot.’

  ‘But I could use it for a flower-pot, mother, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps if you were to see it nearer, if you were to examine it, you might be disappointed.’

  ‘No, indeed, I’m sure I should not; I should like it exceedingly.’

  Rosamond kept her head turned to look at the purple vase, till she could see it no longer.

  ‘Then, mother,’ said she, after a pause, ‘perhaps you have no money.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Dear, if I had money, I would buy roses, and boxes, and breast pins, and purple flowerpots, and every thing.’ Rosamond was obliged to pause in the midst of her speech.

  ‘O, mother, would you stop a minute for me; I have got a stone in my shoe, it hurts me very much.’

  ‘How comes there to be a stone in your shoe?’

  ‘Because of this great hole, mother, it comes in there: my shoes are quite worn out, I wish you’d be so very good as to give me another pair.’

  ‘Nay, Rosamond, but I have not money enough to buy shoes, and flower-pots, and boxes, and every thing.’

  Rosamond thought that was a great pity. But now her foot, which had been hurt by the stone, began to give her so much pain that she was obliged to hop every other step, and she could think of nothing else. They came to a shoemaker’s shop soon afterwards.

  ‘There! there! mother, there are shoes, there are little shoes that would just fit me; and you know shoes would be really of use to me.’

  ‘Yes, so they would, Rosamond. Come in.’ She followed her mother into the shop.

  Mr. Sole, the shoemaker, had a great many customers, and his shop was full, so they were obliged to wait.

  ‘Well, Rosamond,’ said her mother, ‘you don’t think this shop so pretty as the rest?’

  ‘No, not nearly; it’s black and dark, and there are nothing but shoes all round; and, besides, there’s a very disagreeable smell.’

  ‘That smell is the smell of new leather.’

  ‘Is it? O!’ said Rosamond, looking round, ‘there is a pair of little shoes, they’ll just fit me, I’m sure.’ —

  ‘Perhaps they might; but you cannot be sure till you have tried them on, any more than you can be quite sure that you should like the purple vase exceedingly, till you have examined it more attentively.’

  ‘Why, I don’t know about the shoes certainly till I’ve tried; but, mother, I in quite sure I should like the flower-pot.’

  ‘Well, which would you rather have, that jar or a pair of shoes? I will buy either for you.’

  ‘Dear mother, thank you; but — if you could buy both?’

  ‘No, not both.’

  ‘Then the jar, if you please.’

  ‘But I should tell you that I shall not give you another pair of shoes this month.’

  ‘‘This month! that’s a very long time indeed! You can’t think how these hurt me. I believe I’d better have the new shoes: but yet, that purple flower pot — O, indeed, mother, these shoes are not so very, very bad; I think I might wear them a little longer; and the month will be soon over; I can make them last till the end of the month; can’t I — don’t you think so, mother?’

  ‘Nay, my dear, I want you to think for yourself; you will have time enough to consider about it, whilst I speak to Mr. Sole about my clogs.’

  Mr. Sole was by this time at leisure; and whilst her mother was speaking to him, Rosamond stood in profound meditation, with one shoe on and the other in her hand.

  ‘Well, my dear, have you decided?’

  ‘Mother! — yes — I believe — if you please —

  I should like the flower-pot, that is, if you won’t think me very silly, mother.’

  ‘Why, as to that, I can’t promise you Rosamond; but, when you are to judge for yourself, you should choose what will make you the happiest; and then it would not signify who thought you silly.’

  ‘Then, mother, if that’s all, I’m sure the flower-pot would make me happiest,’ said she, putting on her old shoe again; ‘so I choose the flower-pot.’

  ‘Very well, you shall have it; clasp your
shoe and come home.’

  Rosamond clasped her shoe and ran after her mother; it was not long before the shoe came down at the heel, and many times was she obliged to stop to take the stones out of her shoe, and often was she obliged to hop with pain; but still the thoughts of the purple flower-pot prevailed, and she persisted in her choice.

  When they came to the shop with the large windows, Rosamond felt her joy redoubled upon hearing her mother desire the servant, who was with them, to buy the purple jar and bring it home. He had other commissions, so he did not return with them. Rosamond, as soon as she got in, ran to gather all her own flowers, which she had in a corner of her mother’s garden.

  ‘I’m afraid they’ll be dead before the flower-pot comes, Rosamond,’ said her mother to her, when she was coming in with the flowers in her lap.

  ‘No indeed, mother, it will come home very soon, I dare say; and shan’t I be very happy putting them into the purple flower-pot?’

  ‘I hope so, my dear.’

  The servant was much longer returning home than Rosamond had expected; but at length he came, and brought with him the long-wished-for jar. The moment it was set down upon the table, Rosamond ran up with an exclamation of joy—’ I may have it now, mother?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, it is yours.’

  Rosamond poured the flowers from her lap upon the carpet, and seized the purple flower pot. ‘O, dear mother!’ cried she as soon as she had taken off the top, ‘but there’s something dark in it — it smells very disagreeably — what is it? I didn’t want this black stuff.” Nor I either, my dear.’

  ‘But what shall I do with it, mother?’

  ‘That I cannot tell.’

  ‘But it will be of no use to me, mother.’

  ‘That I can’t help.’

  ‘But I must pour it out and fill the flowerpot with water.’

  ‘That’s as you please, my dear.’

  ‘Will you lend me a bowl to pour it into, mother?’

  ‘That was more than I promised you, my dear; but I will lend you a bowl.’

  The bowl was produced, and Rosamond proceeded to empty the purple vase. But what was her surprise and disappointment, when it was entirely empty, to find that it was no longer a purple vase. It was a plain white glass jar, which had appeared to have that beautiful color merely from the liquor with which it had been filled.