Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Perfectly; and all you have told me is just what I expected from — from yourself, and from the lady your mother. I should be most grateful for her indulgence, and for your most respectable uncle’s advice. I will throw myself upon their mercy.”

  Walter ran off instantly, so quickly, that Orlandino had not time to make some limitation of powers; but the only words which reached Walter as he ran were, “Your mother only, sir, I beg.”

  Taking two steps at a time, Walter went up to his mother’s dressing-room. He had looked for his uncle in the study — not there. He had looked into the drawing-room — empty. As he opened the dressing-room door, Amy and Bessy both ran to him, both repeating at once different bits of Parnell’s Fairy Tale. Amy began with —

  “The country lent the sweet perfumes, The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes, The town its silken store.”

  Bessy at the same time going on —

  “Withouten hands the dishes fly, The glasses with a wish come nigh, And with a wish retire.”

  “Retire! retire, then!” said Walter, “and let me say something to my mother, something of consequence.”

  “But tell us,” cried Bessy, catching hold of his coat, and hanging upon his rear; “tell us what hour the play is to begin on Monday?”

  “And tell us,” cried Amy, “what kept you away so long, Walter? And tell us” ——

  “I tell you I want to speak to my mother.” And taking Bessy gently by the hand, he put her out of the room, and Amy followed.

  His mother was very much interested by his account of Orlandino. She thought he must be very clever, and notwithstanding his exuberant vanity, very good-natured, as his conduct to poor Mary proved. As to his history and his mystery, she said she hated mysteries; but since the poor young man really wished to consult Walter, she saw no objection. She had perfect confidence in her son; and whether Orlandino turned out to be a gentleman in disguise, or merely a low-born fellow, and good actor, she had no fears for Walter being in his company; and she thought his wishing for advice a good sign, and a proof of his being something better than a mere strolling player.

  She consented to Walter’s returning to him; and if he found he could do any good by it, to his bringing him to the house to consult his uncle.

  Walter, overjoyed, ran off directly to rejoin Orlandino.

  When Walter returned to the spot where he had left Orlandino, he was not there; nor up the road, nor down the road was he. Concluding that he must have gone into the village, Walter went thither in search of him. He observed one of the beggar boys running on with all his might, scuffling before him to that house which he knew was the whisky shop; and thence, in another instant, issued Orlandino. It was evident that the little scout had been sent to watch, and to give notice. This increased his own sense of doubt and mystery; but to his further surprise, and actually to his dismay, as Orlandino walked towards him, he saw that he did not come quite in a straight line; there was an unsteadiness in the gait; and when he approached nearer, it was evident from his eyes, and confirmed by his breath, that he had been — could it be? Walter could hardly believe it—”drinking!”

  The gossoon came out after him, and passing close to Walter, said, “Only his morning, Master Walter; do not be mad with him, if you please, sir.”

  Walter bade him be silent; and then looking fixedly at Orlandino, he turned disgusted away, intending to leave him at once for ever; when the unhappy young man, making a great effort over himself, recovered his faculties, steadiness of appearance, and suavity of manner sufficiently to speak and to plead to the purpose, and in good-set terms misquoting—”’My misery, but not my will, offends.’ I declare to you, Master Walter, you cannot be half so disgusted with me as I am with myself. But it is only mornings that I do take, upon my honour.”

  “Honour!”

  “I have some honour, then; and to tell you the whole truth” —— He paused.

  “Do tell it, then,” cried Walter; “and tell it plainly at once.”

  “The truth is, I ran away from school; and then I fell in with this strolling company of players, and this manager, and he enticed me with fair promises, and great promises; and he is as great a cheat as ever was created, and I as poor and miserable a young dupe now as ever you saw. And, moreover, with a weight upon my conscience.”

  He looked so unhappy, and seemed so contrite, that Walter again was interested; and, moreover, was again curious to know what weight was upon his conscience, and he repeated the words, “Weight upon your conscience do you say?”

  “On my conscience, and on my heart. I was born and bred a gentleman; that I can certify to you, sir. I am the son of an officer, and he married my mother, though she was but a poor girl: an officer of good family — on a visit he was in this country, for my mother’s misfortune, sir; for he left her, and deserted her, and would not own to the marriage; and left her to struggle through with poverty and shame. The poverty she was used to, but the shame she was not used to,” continued he passionately. “She was not born to it: she came of honest people: she was not used to it — and she would not put up with it: only she did, till my father died, and owned to the marriage; and his brother acknowledged it, and acknowledged me as his lawful nephew, and sent me to a good school, and there” ——

  He stopped: his thoughts seemed all disordered: he walked on in silence.

  “Well,” said Walter, “I thought you wanted to consult me about something: if you do not, I had better go home.”

  “Oh, I do, I do — oh, stay, sir — I do want to consult you: I am only collecting my thoughts. It’s what I want to ask your advice. Shall I penetrate this mystery?”

  “What mystery? Speak plainly; do!”

  “Why, sir, then — about that girl: I want to settle with myself. Would she be anything to me? and whether her mother — I cannot believe it — only the colour of her hair, that I never saw on any other head, that particular, undeniable auburn. I declare it to you now, when the suspicion first crossed me that it must be my sister in that condition, and my mother worse, I was ready to drop. You seen it — you saw it yourself, sir?”

  Walter had seen this; and sure of this being true, he listened with attention.

  “Thank you now, Master Walter, for giving me a candid hearing, spite of my misdemeanour. But, on the other hand, then, said I to myself, as I became more collected, and recovered sense, she can hardly be my sister; and though her name is Mary, there are many Marys; and when I parted her, that was not the colour of hair: nothing like it; nor she promising to be like that girl, nor as likely at all. But then the child — my little sister — was but five years old; so I could not reason nor argufy any more upon that, sir.”

  “I wish you would not then,” said Walter; “but tell me what you want with me?”

  “I want you to give me your opinion, that were a stander-by, that sees more than the player proverbially, whether you think there would be anything in it?”

  “How can I possibly tell?” said Walter.

  “But you might have an opinion — a surmise sure, Master Walter. You could notice whether she looked guilty or conscious when I fixed her. She coloured up — not a doubt — when I stared.”

  “Modest girls usually colour when they are stared at,” said Walter. “As to her looking conscious, or guilty, I cannot understand what you mean. Guilty of what? — guilty of being your sister! Nonsense! Either you are trifling with me, or you do not know what you are saying.”

  “Neither, then, Master Walter. I know what I am saying now too well. I was in all the agonies of doubt was it my mother or not that was reduced to that distress, in that hovel in the bohreen she talked of. I feared it was, and I hoped it was not. Oh, just let me tell you, sir, how it was with me.”

  “Make haste, then, and tell me, and do not waste any more time,” said Walter. He spoke abruptly, yet he was moved with compassion, as Orlandino saw.

  “I ask your pardon, sir; but such a comfort — one meets it so seldom — to get some sympathy fro
m one kind enough to listen to the most unfortunate” ——

  The word unfortunate, and the sigh with which it was uttered, calmed Walter’s impatience, and propitiated his further attention; for though blunt and rough of speech, he had a very tender heart.

  “Then, sir, I was in twenty minds, and did not know which. ‘Hope and fear alternate seized me,’ as the poet says.”

  “Do not tell me what the poet says.”

  “I will not then, sir; but it’s truth, in spite of its being poetry. And not only alternate seized me, but both at once. Hope’s the greatest blessing in life. When I’m happy, I hope everything; and then —— Now, Master Walter, there are ways of reasoning my imagination has with me which you’ve no conception of” ——

  He stopped suddenly at a half-open gate, leading to a narrow lane. “The bohreen she talked of! We are come to the very spot!” exclaimed he.

  Walter reminded Orlandino that Mary had requested that he would not follow her home; she had told him that her mother was in such delicate health, that she could not bear to see strangers.

  “But if I should prove not to be a stranger?” argued Orlandino.

  “That might be so much the worse,” said Walter, “coming suddenly, if she is so sickly as the girl said.”

  “But when she would never recognise me, no danger; and she never would know me again at first sight — so grown I am, so altered every way, so different. But I would know her; the mother can’t be so changed but the son would know her at any time anywhere. I must see her, sir; I must see if she is there or not. See now, Master Walter, I have it. You will have the kindness to step in, and say for us that you came with me to ask for my bandana — to reclaim my silk pocket-handkerchief I left by mistake on the top of her basket.”

  “But you did not leave it by mistake,” said Walter. “You left it on purpose; you put it over her basket a second time: after she had taken it off, you put it on again when she did not perceive what you were doing. I see now why you did that. I fancied that it was from good-nature; but now I see it was to be used as an excuse.”

  “Excuse me now, Master Walter; you wrong me. The first time I meant to give it to her; I protest to you that was pure good-nature now: I had no other idea. It degenerated into policy afterwards. But I never devised it as an excuse till the spur of the occasion came upon me now; and I had no better apology for a call, upon my honour. Now, Master Walter, not a word of lie, upon my conscience!”

  “Listen! Hear that sound!”

  It was the sound of a carriage at a distance on the road — mail-coach road. Instantly Orlandino pushed open the gate, which Walter had let go: he made his way into the lane, and ran on.

  “You will be too late for the coach,” cried Walter. “It is coming — it is coming!”

  “I don’t care — I don’t care! I cannot help it; I must be satisfied,” cried Orlandino, running on.

  Walter followed, calling after him to stop. The mail-coach came in view — came up to the gate just as Walter reached him. As the coachman’s head appeared over the hedge, Orlandino stooped, and hid himself behind a bush till the coach had quite passed, when he stood up, and looked after it till it turned the corner of the road, and disappeared — standing silent and motionless till the sound of the wheels died away, when he suddenly exclaimed, “I have set my life upon the cast, and I will stand the chance!”

  And he ran on towards the cabin till he was at the door. He tried it: it was fastened. He took up a large stone; Walter caught his arm—”You would not break open the door surely? It would be very wrong.”

  “Don’t talk to me of wrong or right!” cried Orlandino, freeing his arm: “I am beyond your reasoning now — I will, and I MUST!”

  His voice was raised to the utmost pitch. A form appeared at the window within; his voice ceased — the form disappeared — and in a whisper he said, “I will stay here, sir, if you will go in and take the curtain, or whatever it is, from that window, or leave the door, the least bit open, that I might just hear the sound, if it is her voice.”

  He leaned against the clay buttress which propped the front of the house, and hid his face. Walter heard the bolt withdrawn; he lifted the latch of the door, and walked into the house, leaving the door open. But as he did so, such a quantity of smoke came from the chimney, that no person or thing could be distinguished. The little girl closed the door behind him, and he heard a voice say, “Kindly welcome, Master Walter;” and another calling to him to come in out of the “smoke, and sit down by the fire, that would burn up immediately.”

  He made his way, cleaving with both arms through the dense choking atmosphere; and as he reached the fireplace, he began to distinguish objects by the light of the dim flame; and he perceived that there were two people in the room — a girl, Mary, standing; and a woman, indistinctly visible sitting in the chimney-corner. Mary ran and opened the window, to let out the smoke, and then set a creepy for Master Walter, telling her sick mother that here was Miss Bessy’s brother come to see her — no stranger, so she need not be alarmed, nor disturb herself. The poor woman, nevertheless, made an effort to rise, though Walter besought her not; while in a faint tremulous voice she poured forth blessings on Miss Amy and Miss Bessy, and all the family. The smoke by degrees rolled away; and Orlandino, who had left the door on its being again shut and fastened, came round to the window. He was completely concealed from view, and he hoped to be able, unseen, to see into the room. But though he put forward his head as far as he dared, and strained his eyes to the utmost, not the least glimpse could he get of the person in the corner. It was a woman’s voice, though what manner of woman, he could not discern. But he too plainly saw the desolation of the house she lived in: the floor in holes, the roof half unthatched, the walls blackened with smoke, and stained with damp; no furniture, except what he could see of the end of a wretched bed, a stool, and a sort of dresser, on which was a ragged blanket and two smoothing-irons, with a flat stone for them to rest on, and two washing-tubs; an unfinished stocking, with the knitting-pins in it, lay on the stool. But there was a sort of order and cleanliness, and much of industry and carefulness, even in this extreme of penury, which made it the more shocking from the contrast of the habits with the condition of those who lived there.

  “And I have brought her to this!” thought Orlandino, as he looked round conscience-stricken, yet still doubtful—”If this is my mother?” — still doubtful, and still wishing to doubt; when a word distinctly reached him. It was her voice — it was hers! The girl at this instant caught sight of him, as he involuntarily at that sound stretched farther in. She threw up her arms, and would have screamed; but stopping herself, stepped aside out of her mother’s sight, and Walter, perceiving how it was, whispered something to her; and instead of closing the window, she went to her ironing-table, and took from beneath the blanket the silk handkerchief which had been spread over her basket, and which she had ironed and neatly folded; she brought it to the window, making her way so as not to be noticed by her mother, who was engaged speaking or listening; and put the bandana into his hands with a look of thanks, but without saying anything; only giving a nod, as if understanding that he had asked permission to stand there without being noticed, and signifying that leave was granted.

  For some minutes he could make out only from the questions and answers that Walter was trying to learn why this poor sick woman, or the girl, had never let his mother know of her illness, or of her distress.

  “Loath to be troublesome,” was the first answer. Then she said that she was a stranger — both she and her girl strangers in these parts. She had lived always, till within the last few months, up in the mountains in a bettermost way; and when turned out, and forced to take shelter in any spot at all she could find to put her head and the child’s into, she came to this miserable place, and kept herself to herself as much as she could — for, truth to own, she had a spice of pride born in her that lasted through all — though she would rather not mention her name, for a reason she ha
d.

  Walter respected her reason, and repeated his regret that his mother had not known what distress she was in.

  “Oh, then, I would not have been in this distress at all, but for an accident. I was well off once, though I was not well used by one that was a gentleman, though he did not treat me so; but it is bad to be speaking ill of the dead — and he is dead, and dead long ago — and all the comfort I had was the boy — for she was but a baby then. Then when I went through all I did, and got to the brother, and got acknowledged, and all; and my beautiful boy made so much of, and sent back with me dressed like a gentleman, as he was, and put to a gentleman’s school — and well he got on there, so he did, sir; and the prizes he got, and the books he’d be having of a Saturday evening when he’d come home — it was nigh hand the school I was living then, and bad for my poor Johnny I believe it was —— What is it?” said she, interrupting herself, as she observed both Walter’s and her daughter’s eyes turn towards the window.

  “Pray go on,” said Walter.

  “I could not tell you all I gone through. Deserted I was everyway: the father to leave me when she was just born” — pointing to Mary—”and never owning her nor myself; and then my boy — running home he would be for ever, though a great scholar he was, but a bit of a scamp — an unlucky boy he was, and ever and always in one scrape or another; and a great flogging he got — too great it was for a big boy like him — so he fairly ran off one day entirely, and took with him all the money he got, and the watch that was his father’s, which the brother gave him; and mad angry then the brother was, after all he done; and with me too, saying it was all my fault that spoiled the boy: and maybe it was true; but he gave me up then from that out, and stopped paying the rent for me, and never had a penny or heard a sentence from him from that day to this. The unlucky boy that brought it all on me was off to America; and that same was excusable too, for he went with one that was of decent people, and got consent: neighbours they were then, when I lived beyond, sir, in the mountains in Corlinan.”