Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Orlandino coloured up to the eyes; but he stopped suddenly, and turned aside, either to hide his confusion, or from real good-nature to assist a poor little girl who was trying to lift a great basketful of nicely-washed caps and muslins up the steps of the house they were passing. He took it from her with rather a theatrical grace, and Walter rang the door-bell; and as he did so, he recognised the poor girl as a protégée of his sisters. They had taught her to knit, and his mother had given work to her. They called her poor Mary; but he had never heard her other name. He had not seen her for some time, and now she looked thin and weak. The basket, though not very heavy, had almost slipped from her hands; and the pile of beautifully clear-starched muslins were all but in the mud. She trembled, and looked gaunt with hunger. A maid-servant, a great brungel, opened the door, and bade her hand up the basket, as she was ordered on no account to let her in, as the mistress and the ladies within were in dread of the fever now rife near at hand. She might wait, and the basket would be given out with the fine things for next week: and the bill for this week paid, if there was a possibility.

  Walter and Orlandino stood to see what the event would be as to the possibility. Brungel returned with the bill, but no money. “Not convenient; must call next week, when these things would be done,” and she shoved out the basket with a pile of muslins to be clear-starched. “There, take it, and be off with you; and not too much starch, mind; and not an atom, not a particle at all of blue in it for your life!”

  So saying, she threw the unpaid bill on the muslins, and shut the door. The poor child sat down on the steps and hid her face in her apron. She said nothing but “My mother!”

  Walter’s money had long been hot in his hand. He doubted no longer, but darted across the street to the relief shop, threw his shilling on the counter—”Stirabout — Indian meal — meal rice — what have you? A loaf of bread! Anything!”

  “Here, sir — just baked,” answered the ready boy. “And stirabout, sir, India meal and rice, just boiled. And what’ll I put it into? But I see, then, no bowl, sir. But I’ll manage — I’ll get it.”

  And so saying, the boy ran into the inner room — to the mistress’s tea things — seized upon a slop-basin and sugar-bowl—”They’ll be back before night-tea. I’ll be to the fore, and have them in unknownst; and you, Master Walter, dear, if they’d be missed, answering for all.”

  Master Walter answered for all; and the boy helped to carry all “across street.”

  “Bravissimo! young gentleman!” exclaimed Orlandino. “Famously, Master Walter; you done it with the speed of light in no time.”

  With the speed of instinct, Walter came to the conclusion that, as he had before suspected, Mr Orlandino was Irish: these characteristic expressions, this sympathetic flattery, could be only from an Irishman. But Orlandino did not see his smile. Intent on his own vanity, he snatched from the boy’s hand the loaf, drew a French bread-knife from his breast, and began to cut away, without seeming to be in the least conscious of impropriety in thus dealing with the bread which was not his own, and not having the least idea that he might be thought officious; taking it for granted, in the good-nature of his conceit, that Walter would be pleased to see him do and give; and delighted with his own grace, he handed, on the knife’s point, a slice of the smoking-hot fresh bread to the poor girl, saying, “Capital — the best ever I smelt. Take it, dear!”

  Mary did not stretch out her hand, though she looked ravenously at the bread one instant, then turned aside, and drew back.

  Walter took the slice of bread from the point of the knife, and would have rescued the loaf from Orlandino, but he held it fast in his grasp; and Walter, breaking a piece off, tasted it, and said it was too fresh. “You will like it better, Mary, by and by; will not you?”

  “A deal, sir;” and she whispered, “I could not touch it before them beggars.”

  The words reached Orlandino’s quick ears, and his quick eyes caught a group of beggar boys who had gathered at the corner, and who that instant called out, “Blessings on yees, Master Walter, that has it — please your honour that never forgets.”

  Orlandino struck his knife into the loaf, and slice after slice he stepped forward with to the boys, bestowing a kick with every slice, and then bidding them all “be off, and be seen no more on their peril.”

  As flies flapped off, they all dispersed, to return, peril or no peril, the first opportunity, to be as troublesome as before. But for the present the little vagabonds were scared, and Mary swallowed in peace. While she ate, the good-natured impertinent seized upon her basketful of muslins.

  “Never fear, child!” cried he in answer to her look of alarm—”never you fear! But see how I’ll manage; for how would you carry those crockerywares and the basket, and they full, and you but two hands? Leave it all to me, and you just eat easy on. I’m just going to settle it for her, Master Walter. Steady now, there!” said he to the basket, as he planted it on the road before the door. He seemed to have half a mind to take off his coat, but contented himself with turning up the sleeves; and continued, as he worked, in the abundance of his self-satisfaction —

  “I am famous for packing, you must know: packer and gauger to the company.”

  Then scientifically and mechanically he placed the bowls in the centre, well separated by rolls of handkerchiefs, and well surrounded by soft muslins on every side — rolling and winding, convoluting and evoluting, talking and looking all the time in the most conceited manner, but actually doing the business admirably.

  “See there now, Master Walter; you are a judge! intelligent beyond all! My principles of packing par excellence, all comprised in one word — and that word now I’ll reveal to you, for you are worthy of it. My mot d’enigme — my one word is — elasticity! Do you take me? You do! Grave as you are — solid — cube root, as I calculate — worth extracting. You understand me? Natures differ — nature’s all —— There now! — the best-packed basket ever witnessed! go to the world’s end and back again it would without stirring.”

  Walter could not help laughing at this strange mixture of sense and nonsense, activity and inordinate vanity. He had looked on with proud humility, with the half-pitying, half-contemptuous eyes with which pride looks down on vanity, whether from man to man, or from boy to boy; but he was puzzled, fairly puzzled, by this young stranger. He was evidently very clever, and certainly very good-natured; he appeared, too, to have had some education; but was he true? — was he honest? His pretence of English accent, his scraps of French, with his brogue and vulgar Irish expressions breaking through, and his confused, evasive answers as to his country, were suspicious. Whether Orlandino read any such suspicion in his countenance, or whether he was really afraid of being late, he interrupted Walter’s cogitations with, “But the coach! All this time it must have passed. I’ve missed my place. What shall I do?”

  “The coach is it, please your honour?” cried one from among the ragamuffin swarm which had now resettled at their corner. Above their heads came one taller and smarter-looking than the rest, and his was the voice. His peeled stick, his tight-buttoned jacket over shirtless breast, his bare knees and dangling strings, his shoeless feet, his rabbit-skin cap, his ready air — all proclaimed him an errand-boy by profession, always ready to “run to Cork to serve your honour,” for love and sixpence; while the set of his cap, and the arch expression of his comical face, equally proclaimed him to be “a bit of a rogue,” and worthy of his name—”’Cute Paddy, the bould gossoon.” Putting himself forward, “Is it the coach, please your honour?” said he: “then I seen it overturned an hour ago and better at the bad step by Crookenaslattery, where the engineer’s public works is begun, and not ended, but all in a hole and a slush; and the wheel off, and the forge three miles off; and the coach wouldn’t be up these two hours anyway.”

  “Thank you,” said Orlandino coldly; and turning from the gossoon, he spread his fine bandana handkerchief over the girl’s basket. But the gossoon was not so easily disposed of. He mad
e another step forward, and a long step, which brought him close to Orlandino—”Long life to your honour — your English honour’s honour — a gintleman that never forgets the poor; give the poor boy something!”

  “If I am not mistaken, my good lad,” replied the young actor, at once assuming a reserved look, and speaking in his high English tone—”if I am not mistaken, I gave you all something already this morning, and not many minutes ago.”

  “Is it me, your honour? Sorrow a hap’orth of your honour’s change did I get: it was on them others behind me you bestowed it, sir.”

  “Very well, then,” said his English honour, stiff and cold—”very well, then, go to them, and they will, I suppose, make what you call in Ireland a divide, and give you a share.”

  “A divide! Would it be of the kick or of the loaf, please your honour? The kick you bestowed from yourself, or the lump from the poor girl’s loaf that you gave away for Master Walter? Is it the bread or the kick they’ll divide; or was there any change given among yees?” continued Paddy, affecting to turn round to the grinning crowd, and then half-whispered, “Sixpence! and I’m dumb!”

  But the young actor thought he could brave the “bould gossoon,” and answered haughtily, “I have nothing for you; I have no sixpences.”

  “True for you!” cried Paddy; “but you’ll find one. Try again; your honour would be apt to find it at the bottom of your pocket.”

  Orlandino repeated, “I have nothing.” But Paddy, confident in his tried powers of alternate bullying and flattering, went on, “Then there’s many a gintleman that says he has not sixpence, has mints all the time at command: going the world incog — travelling, and strolling, and acting only for fun.”

  The actor changed colour. And Paddy, stretching over, added, “Never trimble, man; not a word of it from me will they hear — I’m no informer — only give me the sixpence, dear!”

  Not a sixpence, but half-a-crown — a splendid half-crown, new and bright — was now chucked to Paddy; while “crowns of glory!” came from the corner, and “success to his honour wherever he’d go.”

  And success to myself, thought Paddy, as he ran off with his admiring mob behind.

  “To the whisky shop no doubt,” said Orlandino, still cold English, and smiling superior down. But Walter looked grave, and said he was sorry to see a good half-crown thrown away.

  “What’s half-a-crown?” cried the other grandly.

  “Half-a-crown is something,” said Walter; “at least when I have earned it, I think something of it, and would rather give it to do some good.”

  “One gives without calculating,” said Orlandino affectedly, “when one’s generous.”

  “Or when one is flattered,” said Walter smiling; “or threatened, or both together.”

  Orlandino reddened, and passing over the “threatened,” declared he detested flattery; and answering the incredulity of Walter’s look, and surprised to find in such a quiet-looking lad, not so old as himself, so nice an observer, he hastily repeated, “I detest all flattery. You do not think I was taken in by that vulgar fellow’s flummery. I declare now, sir, if you will believe me, I have a natural antipathy for that ‘oil of fools,’ as some one calls flattery; in fact I could never bear it.”

  “Never!” said Walter, persisting in his look of incredulity.

  “Never!” repeated Orlandino; “except, perhaps, when delicately perfumed — on a benefit night, when wafted from quality fans; but this gross, rancid stuff, from such spalpeens!” ——

  “Spalpeens!” repeated Walter, while Orlandino rubbed his hand over his face to hide his confusion at having uttered so palpable an Irishism; and Mary, taking advantage of his letting go her basket, which she had been endeavouring to get from his grasp, now took possession of it, and prepared to raise it upon her head; but in doing so, it touched his shoulder, and he turned—”Stay, child; I’ll put it up for you.” He took hold of it; but as he raised it, a twig in one side of it caught in her thick hair, and drew out a lock of it — a long, wavy lock of beautiful auburn hair it was. Orlandino fixed his eyes on it with more of earnestness than of admiration: his look expressed surprise, curiosity, anxiety. His conceit, his affectation, his acting, all were gone at once. — Here was nature; natural real feeling; deep, intense feeling. — He carefully, tenderly disentangled the girl’s hair; touching it respectfully, and as it were religiously. Walter, who watched him with astonishment, perceived that his hands trembled, and that his fingers were again becoming that deadly white he had seen them at the post-office, when he almost swooned.

  “Thank you, sir,” cried he, as Walter put his hand to his shoulder as if to support him—”thank you, sir. I don’t know what’s come over me — I’m not quite well: I’m often seized this way. It’s over now. Thank you, sir; and thank you too,” said he to Mary, whose pitying look well-nigh overcame him again. But struggling to collect himself, he said confusedly, “What was it? What happened? — Oh I know;” and touching Mary’s head, he said kindly —

  “Is your mother’s hair this colour?”

  “No, sir; my mother’s hair is quite gray.”

  He drew back; and leaning against the wall, he murmured to himself, “Bring their gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.”

  Walter had no doubt that this young man had run away from his parents to go upon the stage, and had disgraced them and himself, and, as the gossoon had intimated, was now afraid of being found out. But he could hardly think that this poor girl, Mary, could be anyway related to him — she looked so forlorn, and so poverty-stricken.

  “What is your mother’s name, child?” said Orlandino.

  “Smith, sir,” was the answer.

  “Smith! that is no name at all,” said he rather angrily.

  “It is my mother’s, sir,” said the child.

  “Do not be angry with her because her name is Smith,” said Walter; “she can’t help that.”

  “I am not in the least angry.” But in a dissatisfied tone he repeated, “Smith — and where does your mother live?”

  The girl hesitated, and looked up the road: “We live in a cabin at the end of the bohreen — off that road.”

  “I will carry the basket there for you,” cried Orlandino suddenly.

  “No, thank you, sir,” said the girl; “it’s too much trouble for you.”

  “No trouble in life,” said he.

  “I had rather you did not, sir. My mother does not like strangers coming to her. She is very ill, sir, and weak, and a little thing startles her.”

  “Let her carry it herself,” said Walter.

  Orlandino repeated the word “strangers” in a low voice with much emotion; and again taking out his fine handkerchief, which Mary had returned to him, he spread it over the muslins, and let Mary go. But looking after her, repeated in a dissatisfied tone, “Smith — her name is Smith.”

  “That seems to be a great offence,” said Walter.

  “I knew a man of the name, who was of this country — that silver-handled whip we met at the post-office — a steward, if I recollect rightly, to —— . I wonder” ——

  Walter was more and more puzzled, and more and more interested in this extraordinary lad, whose quick changing manner, and the mystery that seemed to hang over him, excited his imagination as well as his curiosity. He was not what is usually called a romantic youth; but when his imagination did unfold its wings, its flight was high and wide; and now it flew high from the gossoon’s suggestion. “He might be — he certainly was a gentleman’s son. A gentleman’s son in disguise. A gentleman’s son on the stage for a frolic. A gentleman’s, a nobleman’s perhaps.” With the Red Book Walter was not very familiar; but he was sure his mother or his uncle would find it all out in a minute. They were now within a few yards of his home: they had walked on together.

  “This is our gate. You are in no hurry now, Orlandino, or whatever you please to call yourself: the coach will not pass for some time now. Could not you come up to the house? I want my uncle to be acq
uainted with you.”

  “Thank you kindly, sir,” answered Orlandino hastily, in his warm Irish accent and Irish idiom; and then recollecting himself, he added formally, and in his feigned tone, “You do me too much honour; but as the time for the coach passing is now uncertain, I must remain on this mail-coach road for fear I should miss it. But could not you, Master Walter, walk on a bit further with me till we meet the coach?”

  Walter hesitated; when Orlandino, assuming a frankness of manner, as if willing to be only an actor, re-urged his request, adding, “The tent — the amphitheatre, sir; I have not half explained how it is managed. I will explain everything to you.”

  This promise, unlimited as it appeared, and calculated to raise great expectations, brought down Walter’s flight of fancy at once, and he saw in his companion now only an ingenious lad, who understood the mechanism of an itinerant show; not the hero of a romance, but a player, acting low life above stairs. He wished him “good-morning;” and in consideration of his mortified look, held out his hand. Orlandino took it, and intreated him to grant him a few minutes more; he wanted so much to tell him, to consult him. “You are so wise, so good; you could give me such good advice.”

  “But my uncle could give you really good advice; he is so sensible, and knows the world; he is the person to give you the best advice.”

  Orlandino looked disappointed. He seemed on the point of explaining everything; and then afraid — his countenance showed the vacillation of his mind. At last he said, “I cannot; I could not, sir, lay myself open to your uncle. You would understand me, you are so nearly my own age; and though you could not fall into my errors, yet you would hear me with indulgence.”

  “As to indulgence,” interrupted Walter, “my mother is the person for that; and she would keep your secret so safe; but she would have nothing to do with you unless you told her —— You understand me?”