Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  She started and stopped, for at this instant she thought she heard the word “Corlinan” repeated. And so she did; but supposing it only fancy, or the echo, she went on. “New York it was they were bound for; and young Walsh” ——

  “Peter Walsh!” exclaimed Walter with another uncontrollable glance at the window.

  “Yes, sir — Peter Walsh — young Peter,” replied the widow. “There was an old Peter, and there do be many Walshes beyond there; but of all, young Peter proved himself the best; and writes over continually, and did write the minute he’d land, and said he parted company with my boy in Liverpool, and that he was going with another captain to Philadelphia, or Tennessee, or the Canadas — the Lord he knows which or where! But no account ever reached me of him, after all the inquiries I made, and writing letters till I was sick: and some of them went safe, I’m confident; for they went through Mr Millar — the kindest gentleman as ever lived in that particular — forwarding poor Irish letters, twelve a month, so he does, and did these twenty years — the Lord above for ever bless him! And it’s unknown all the good he caused, all the money them poor creatures send home from their banishment! Mary, dear, what was it you heard at the post-office? How much?”

  “Four hundred thousand pounds, mother, come over in letters from our own in America.”

  “Think of that!” cried the poor woman. “Glory be to God! though I never got a penny of it! What a heart’s-warming to hear of that same, though cold enough it comes upon me, that never got a sentence from my boy!”

  She paused, and the beating of a heart at the window might have been heard.

  “A bad son, then, I will not call him,” continued she; “for once he was good — no better nor fonder when he was a child ever was or could be of the mother that doted on him — so she did; and the joy and pride of my heart he was — and never heard a sentence of him good nor bad these eight long years now come Whitsuntide that he left me. It can’t be, and he alive: so he can’t be alive.”

  “Mary, dear! don’t cry. Better, sure, the boy was dead, and gone, and good, than living, and the bad son. Blessings on him, dead or alive!”

  A sudden noise, as of a heavy push against the door, or of a fall.

  “What noise was that?” cried the mother. “Hush! didn’t you hear? Then it must be the wind, I conclude, Master Walter.”

  All the seriousness of Master Walter’s sympathy could not prevent a smile at this hasty jump to a conclusion. She, seeing the smile — for however illogical, she was not unobserving — said, with an answering smile half sad, half sweet —

  “It’s what you’re laughing at me, Master Walter; and you’re welcome, dear! for I’m sensible its superstitious I’m growing about noises and everything. Sick and weak I am, and gray I’m grown, sir. All in one week, then, sir, every hair I had turned white — the week he deserted me.”

  She hid her face in her hands, and rocked backwards and forwards. Voices were heard at the door — not by the mother, she was absorbed in her own feelings. Walter and the girl looked at each other — it was not the voice they expected. — It ceased. — Walter thought he heard Orlandino’s tones low in reply, but not a word could be distinguished. Then the sounds receding, died away. Mary recovered her colour — Walter took breath. The mother continued rocking herself backwards and forwards, her face still covered by her hands, and the tears trickling down. Walter longed to give her some hope, but he dared not, without better grounds. His interest was so great in this poor woman, that, as he was wont when he felt strongly, he spoke harshly.

  “Good-by!” said he abruptly; “good-morning to you, Mrs Smith, if that’s your name.”

  “It is not my name, then, sir,” said she—”and I’d rather be excused telling my husband’s name” — she paused—”for it was altogether a private transaction; and when he left me so ungratefully, I never spoke nor betrayed him till he died. And when he died without righting me, I went to the brother; and though he did me justice, he did not like me to be blazoning it abroad I was his sister-in-law. I could see that, even when he was doing for me, he never took to me kindly; and after, when he withdrew all his countenance and protection, and let me be turned out of my house by not paying for me. Then came the scarcity, and then I’d be dead long ago but for the young ladies that” ——

  “Good-morning,” repeated Walter, and left the house.

  Walter expected to have found Orlandino at the door; but he was not there; and as Walter looked round, he saw only the gossoon running across the bog. After walking a few steps farther up the lane, he perceived Orlandino leaning against a tree. He did not move till Walter came quite close to him and touched his arm; then he started. It was no theatric start, but a real wakening from deep and painful reverie. After staring at Walter, as if trying to collect himself, he spoke, but in so hurried and confused a manner, as to be hardly intelligible.

  “The gossoon! Ay — true — I heard something — he told me. In short, it has altered all my plans, all my determination!”

  “What plans? — what determination?” said Walter.

  Orlandino looked bewildered, and replied incoherently—”Till that moment I was not clear — I was not sure it was her voice; till the glimpse I caught of her. — That wasted creature! — that was my mother; and that hovel she was in — and it all my doing!” he groaned.

  “Your letters were all lost, I suppose?” said Walter.

  “No, sir, they were not lost; I never wrote one line!”

  Walter turned away with disgust.

  “Oh stay, Master Walter; hear me; do not give me up without a hearing. I am not a hardened sinner yet indeed!” He spoke with the greatest emotion — the tears were in his eyes.—”Oh do not give me up!”

  Walter was moved, but he tried to speak with composure.

  “I do not give you up; but what can I do for you? I wish to serve you; but till I know the facts, I cannot but condemn you as most unfeeling to your poor mother.”

  “Oh, then, it was not from want of feeling. — I would tell you all, sir, if you would listen; but that I am ashamed, and greatly afraid you will never understand me.”

  “There is no difficulty in understanding plain facts; tell me the facts, and I will listen as long as you please.”

  Orlandino thanked him, wiped his forehead, and Walter compassionately added—”Take your own time; you know we have plenty of time — nothing to hurry you. The coach is gone, and you have determined to stay.”

  “No, sir, I beg your pardon for contradicting you; but the coach is not gone — that is what the gossoon ran over to tell me. It broke down at the post-office door — the axle-tree come in two — cannot go on yet this hour or two — but will go on to-day: and I must be off; I have come to the determination not to stay.”

  Walter stopped short, and looked at him with astonishment. “What can have changed your mind? Recollect you said ‘the die is cast.’”

  “I know I said so, sir. But now I must make another cast, and stand another hazard,” said Orlandino.

  “Was all that mere acting then?” said Walter indignantly.

  “Not at all, not a bit, I can certify it to you, sir; it was all earnest truth and reality. I was determined then to stay, on the chance even that I might find my mother, and free myself from the manager.”

  “Does the manager know you have a mother living here?”

  “Not a sentence of it, sir. If he did, never would he have let me come one step. Only granted me leave, under the impression that I should be the best person, as I always was, to distribute playbills, and beat up for recruits, as we say; that is, insure him a full house. Had he got the least whisper of a mother alive, and here, he would never have suffered me to come; he would have been in dread that I should cut and run. But I thought my mother was living where I left her, in Carrolinan; and there I always pictured her to myself — as comfortable a place as ever you saw — plenty of everything. She had a great allowance from — from my father’s brother, as I reckoned; and would
be laying it all by, I thought, and would have a mint of money; and would settle with the manager, and all be right, and all my debts paid. That was one thought; and then that she was so rich, there was the other thought. All those eight years, struggling in and out of difficulties, I scorned to beg from her that I deserted; but hoped always to come back some time a grand gentleman, and find her sitting there in the garden full of flowers she was so proud of. But then, when I came, what did I see? Oh, sir, to see her in that hovel — in that extremity of wretchedness — and all my doing! And her gray hair! it felled me down, sir, to the earth: I thought I’d die at her door” ——

  He stopped, and then went on abruptly—”The boy ran up, and that startled me to myself; and the minute I got sense, it struck me that the manager would be down on me; and what good could I do my mother if I stayed? Only bringing my troubles upon her: and troubles enough I have of my own.” He stopped again, then resumed—”If I was once free from that tyrant I sold myself to! ’Twas he led me on, so he did, with all his praises and applauses; and I was made so much of at first! Then the excitement of the stage — you would not know what it was till you tried it, sir — to have the whole house clapping one and encoring one — handkerchiefs waving, feet thundering admiration! I tried it, and I was wild with it. I danced, and I rode, and I acted. It was with all my heart and soul I did it at the first; ay, with all my heart, and soul, and body too. But my body wore out, and I could not do it; and soon after the body, and all against the grain it went! My spirit was gone, and then I was forced! Oh the difference of acting for my own free-will and pleasure, from doing it ‘By particular desire!’ If you could know how sick I am of the sound, how I detest the very look of the words in the playbills! Then I being worn out, and the manager compelling me to that exertion beyond nature, I took to stimulants to keep me up. And in his power I am still. ‘You must go back to him!’ the gossoon said to me. Ay, must, must — for that gossoon might betray me, after all I bribed him to silence,” continued he, speaking aloud to himself.

  “Betray what?” said Walter. “What is it that fellow knows about you that puts you in his power? About what did you bribe him to silence?”

  “What, indeed! A slave everyway, a slave to that blackguard rascal I am. I said I’d tell you all. I will, sir. At the last town we were at, that boy was there, peeping about, and longing to see the play; and I treated him; I was always treating every one. I got him free entrance: he saw me in my glory! — and then in my disgrace! Oh how I was applauded that night! — and I was so excited! so over-exerted myself! Exhausted I was when the curtain fell, as I often was; and then, as I often did, I went with some of my comrades, and treated them too, as usual. And a fine supper we had at the inn; and we sat it out, and the whisky punch, and everything — I cannot tell you how it was at the end — but Paddy the gossoon was there at the inn door, and I was in a fit, and he ran for the doctor; and when he got me out of it, he pronounced I’d be a dead man if I had it again. He said it was — I’ll tell you the truth — he said it was—’delirium tremens!’”

  “Sit down upon this bank,” said Walter.

  “Thank you, sir; thank you kindly, sir,” said Orlandino in a tone that showed how humbled he felt.

  Touched to the heart — for he had a heart that could be touched — Walter looked with the deepest compassion upon the unfortunate young man.

  “That was what happened me; and directly I got my senses again, I was afraid it would take wind; and the disgrace! and the manager to know of it! and that officious gossoon hovering about me, and hearing the doctor: so then I bribed him to silence; and now I am in his power!”

  There was a pause. ——

  “What do you mean to do?” said Walter.

  “Go back to my yoke, and slave on! What else can I do?” replied Orlandino.

  “My uncle could help you out, I am sure,” said Walter.

  “What could anybody do for me? How could I pay all the debts I have, even if I could get off from the manager. There are all my own debts. No, no; I am lost everyway.”

  “Nobody is lost who has resolution,” said Walter. “Only resolve” ——

  “I understand you, sir. Often and often I did resolve; but I could not keep to it: it is all in vain. It is easy for those that are born steady, and that have not the temptation! Oh if I could keep out of it, and get steady, and get rid of my tyrant, and out of his clutches, and out of this vagabond life! For my mother I’d work to the bone, till I’d get her comfortable again.”

  “Do — do. You can; you will,” cried Walter; all the deep-buried enthusiasm of his nature taking fire at this spark of virtuous hope in the poor abject wretch before him. “Never despair while you have your mother to work for: never doubt: you will surely do well. Come, come with me; it will not take long: you have time enough now. Come home with me. Tell my uncle.”

  “I could not tell your uncle,” said Orlandino, drawing back.

  “You have told me,” said Walter.

  “True; but I saw your kind heart, Master Walter, the first minute in the post-office when you read out Peter Walsh’s letter. I could tell you anything.”

  “Let me tell my uncle then; and when he sees you —— Come with me.”

  “I should wish to make myself fit to be seen first, Master Walter,” said the actor, looking at his dress.

  “My uncle will not care a straw for your dress, I assure you. But if you like it, you can go to the inn and make what dressing you choose; and then follow me up to the house; by that time I shall have told your story to my uncle.”

  Orlandino thanked him; and leaving him at the inn to make the alterations he deemed essential to his appearance, Walter went homewards; but as he went, he had some misgivings. — As he came up the avenue, he saw his little sisters at work in their gardens, and he turned into another path, afraid of their springing upon him with questions which he could not answer. He felt very doubtful as to what his uncle would say, or how he would take his story. He was afraid that his uncle would call Orlandino a scamp, and a strolling player, and would never believe that there was any good in him, or that any good could be made of him. However, straight to his uncle Walter resolutely went.

  “So, my dear young Quixote nephew, you have the notion that you can reform a scamp, and a scamp older than yourself by you do not know how many years; and a practised actor, and a strolling player! — Orlandino! — a young gentleman in disguise?”

  “Not in disguise, uncle, any longer. Orlandino has thrown off all disguise with me,” said Walter, steadily standing against his uncle’s raillery.

  “My dear Walter,” said his uncle, “you really are —

  ‘In wit a man, simplicity a child.’

  But go on — go on, my dear boy — my dear dupe.”

  “Uncle, I am not a dupe,” replied Walter, speaking very gravely, and with dignity. “I am not a dupe, sir.”

  “How do you know that?” said his uncle. “A dupe must always be a dupe without knowing it. There may be a philosopher without knowing it. ‘Le Philosophe sans le sçavoir,’ I think, is the title of the French play your mother was reading to us the other night.”

  “Uncle, I wish you would not talk now of plays,” said Walter.

  “Because you want to talk of players, eh? Well, say on; I will give you precedence. Youngest counsel open the case; only make out your case: I am all attention.”

  Walter, more embarrassed by his uncle’s bending-forward-air of profound attention than he had been by his raillery, hesitated.

  “I had no intention of making out a case — I know nothing of junior counsel or precedency. I know only you are a very good judge: I hope you will be merciful.”

  “Mercy in a judge,” replied his uncle, “is not always a proof of goodness or of wisdom. Sometimes what is called mercy is cruelty, and ought to be twice cursed.”

  “Oh do not go to twice cursed before you have even once heard! Hear my story, dear uncle.”

  “Well, let us hear it. Tell
me all about this Orlandito, or whatever his ridiculous name is? Out with it!”

  Walter plunged into the midst of things at once, and told the whole of Orlandino’s story with all the courage of truth. Without glossings or skippings, he got through the whole in a wonderfully short time. From the beginning of the deserted mother and gentleman father, and the acknowledging uncle, and the good school, and the running away from it, he went on to his strolling life, and his over-excitement, and over-exertions, and his taking to stimulants, and his mornings, and to the last excess that had brought with it the dread punishment which Walter almost feared to name: he did name it, however — for he saw he had fairly interested his uncle, who said —

  “That offence has borne its own punishment: it is not to be punished a second time by man. But for the future, if your Orlandino really wants to get out of his Merry-Andrew line, and to reform, and be a support and a comfort to his mother, tell him that before I take any trouble about him, before I see him even, he must enter into a solemn engagement against drinking.”

  Orlandino had arrived, and was in the next room. Walter went to him. He had at first thought of making him take the PLEDGE; but he found that Orlandino was a Protestant. He told him what his uncle had said. That his attempting to assist him, or consenting even to see him, was solely on condition of this solemn promise.

  “On that condition only will I interest myself in his concerns.”

  These words made a deep impression upon Orlandino (or, as we should now call him, since he has laid disguise aside — Orlando. It is time to reveal his real name. John Orlando was his baptismal name: his surname More. The fine name Orlando, as we have been informed, came from the paternal grandmother’s side, connected with some noble family). These particulars, though here all crammed into a parenthesis, were of great consequence in the eyes of our young scamp himself, though he had run away from his family, disgraced that family as far as in him lay, and had for years given up all claim to their assistance, all promise of receiving or prospect of doing honour to it. And even now, when the possibility of regaining his place in society was presented to him, he could scarcely believe in it. The probability appeared to him so small, so distant, considering all he knew of his own habits and of his debts, that he stood hesitating whether he could, would, or should — for the chance of what might be effected by Walter’s friendship, or by his uncle’s interest in his concerns — make the sacrifice of the only indulgence left him: so he called his “besetting sin.” And further, he doubted whether he could abide by the sacrifice, and not incur deeper sin and shame. Walter, seeing his dubious look, respected what he thought arose from the awful idea of entering into solemn engagement, doubtful of being able to be faithful to his vow.