Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Don’t ask the lady to speak for him,” said the farmer; “it’s better he should go to Bridewell now, than to the gallows by-and-by.”

  Nothing more was said; for everybody felt the truth of the farmer’s speech.

  Lawrence was eventually sent to Bridewell for a month, and the stable-boy was sent for trial, convicted, and transported to Botany Bay.

  During Lawrence’s confinement, Jem often visited him, and carried him such little presents as he could afford to give; and Jem could afford to be GENEROUS, because he was INDUSTRIOUS. Lawrence’s heart was touched by his kindness, and his example struck him so forcibly that, when his confinement was ended, he resolved to set immediately to work; and, to the astonishment of all who knew him, soon became remarkable for industry. He was found early and late at his work, established a new character, and for ever lost the name of “Lazy Lawrence.”

  THE FALSE KEY.

  Mr. Spencer, a very benevolent and sensible man, undertook the education of several poor children. Among the rest was a boy of the name of Franklin, whom he had bred up from the time he was five years old. Franklin had the misfortune to be the son of a man of infamous character; and for many years this was a disgrace and reproach to his child. When any of the neighbours’ children quarrelled with him, they used to tell him that he would turn out like his father. But Mr. Spencer always assured him that he might make himself whatever he pleased; that by behaving well he would certainly, sooner or later, secure the esteem and love of all who knew him, even of those who had the strongest prejudice against him on his father’s account.

  This hope was very delightful to Franklin, and he showed the strongest desire to learn and to do everything that was right; so that Mr. Spencer soon grew fond of him, and took great pains to instruct him, and to give him all the good habits and principles which might make him a useful, respectable and happy man.

  When he was about thirteen years of age, Mr. Spencer one day sent for him into his closet; and as he was folding up a letter which he had been writing, said to him, with a very kind look, but in a graver tone than usual, “Franklin, you are going to leave me.”

  “Sir!” said Franklin.

  “You are now going to leave me, and to begin the world for yourself. You will carry this letter to my sister, Mrs. Churchill, in Queen’s Square. You know Queen’s Square?” Franklin bowed. “You must expect,” continued Mr. Spencer, “to meet with several disagreeable things, and a great deal of rough work, at your first setting out; but be faithful and obedient to your mistress, and obliging to your fellow-servants, and all will go well. Mrs. Churchill will make you a very good mistress, if you behave properly; and I have no doubt but you will.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And you will always — I mean, as long as you deserve it — find a friend in me.”

  “Thank you, sir — I am sure you are—” There Franklin stopped short, for the recollection of all Mr. Spencer’s goodness rushed upon him at once, and he could not say another word.

  “Bring me a candle to seal this letter,” said his master; and he was very glad to get out of the room. He came back with the candle, and, with a stout heart, stood by whilst the letter was sealing; and, when his master put it into his hand, said, in a cheerful voice, “I hope you will let me see you again, sir, sometimes.”

  “Certainly; whenever your mistress can spare you, I shall be very glad to see you; and remember, if ever you get into any difficulty, don’t be afraid to come to me. I have sometimes spoken harshly to you; but you will not meet with a more indulgent friend.” Franklin at this turned away with a full heart; and, after making two or three attempts to express his gratitude, left the room without being able to speak.

  He got to Queen’s Square about three o’clock. The door was opened by a large, red-faced man, in a blue coat and scarlet waistcoat, to whom he felt afraid to give his message, lest he should not be a servant.

  “Well, what’s your business, sir?” said the butler.

  “I have a letter for Mrs. Churchill, sir,” said Franklin, endeavouring to pronounce his “sir” in a tone as respectful as the butler’s was insolent.

  The man having examined the direction, seal, and edges of the letter, carried it upstairs, and in a few minutes returned, and ordered Franklin to rub his shoes well and follow him. He was then shown into a handsome room, where he found his mistress — an elderly lady. She asked him a few questions, examining him attentively as she spoke; and her severe eye at first, and her gracious smile afterwards, made him feel that she was a person to be both loved and feared. “I shall give you in charge,” said she, ringing a bell, “to my housekeeper, and I hope she will have no reason to be displeased with you.”

  The housekeeper, when she first came in, appeared with a smiling countenance; but the moment she cast her eyes on Franklin, it changed to a look of surprise and suspicion. Her mistress recommended him to her protection, saying, “Pomfret, I hope you will keep this boy under your own eye.” And she received him with a cold “Very well, ma’am,” which plainly showed that she was not disposed to like him. In fact, Mrs. Pomfret was a woman so fond of power, and so jealous of favour, that she would have quarrelled with an angel who had got so near her mistress without her introduction. She smothered her displeasure, however, till night; when, as she attended her mistress’ toilette, she could not refrain from expressing her sentiments. She began cautiously: “Ma’am, is not this the boy Mr. Spencer was talking of one day — that has been brought up by the VILLAINTROPIC SOCIETY, I think they call it?”

  “Philanthropic Society; yes,” said her mistress; “and my brother gives him a high character: I hope he will do very well.”

  “I’m sure I hope so too,” observed Mrs. Pomfret; “but I can’t say; for my part, I’ve no great notion of those low people. They say all those children are taken from the very lowest DRUGS and REFUGES of the town, and surely they are like enough, ma’am, to take after their own fathers and mothers.”

  “But they are not suffered to be with their parents,” rejoined the lady; “and therefore cannot be hurt by their example. This little boy, to be sure, was unfortunate in his father, but he has had an excellent education.”

  “Oh, EDICATION! to be sure, ma’am, I know. I don’t say but what edication is a great thing. But then, ma’am, edication can’t change the NATUR that’s in one, they say; and one’s that born naturally bad and low, they say, all the edication in the world won’t do no good; and, for my part, ma’am, I know you knows best; but I should be afraid to let any of those Villaintropic folks get into my house; for nobody can tell the natur of them aforehand. I declare it frights me.”

  “Pomfret, I thought you had better sense: how would this poor boy earn his bread? he would be forced to starve or steal, if everybody had such prejudices.”

  Pomfret, who really was a good woman, was softened at this idea, and said, “God forbid he should starve or steal, and God forbid I should say anything PREJUDICIARY of the boy; for there may be no harm in him.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Churchill, changing her tone, “but, Pomfret, if we don’t like the boy at the end of the month, we have done with him; for I have only promised Mr. Spencer to keep him a month upon trial: there is no harm done.”

  “Dear, no, ma’am, to be sure; and cook must put up with her disappointment, that’s all.”

  “What disappointment?”

  “About her nephew, ma’am; the boy she and I was speaking to you for.”

  “When?”

  “The day you called her up about the almond pudding, ma’am. If you remember, you said you should have no objections to try the boy; and upon that cook bought him new shirts; but they are to the good, as I tell her.”

  “But I did not promise to take her nephew.”

  “O, no ma’am, not at all; she does not think to SAY THAT, else I should be very angry; but the poor woman never let fall a word, any more than frets that the boy should miss such a good place.”

  “Well, but
since I did say that I should have no objection to try him, I shall keep my word; let him come to-morrow. Let them both have a fair trial, and at the end of the month I can decide which I like best, and which we had better keep.”

  Dismissed with these orders, Mrs. Pomfret hastened to report all that had passed to the cook, like a favourite minister, proud to display the extent of her secret influence. In the morning Felix, the cook’s nephew, arrived; and, the moment he came into the kitchen, every eye, even the scullion’s, was fixed upon him with approbation, and afterwards glanced upon Franklin with contempt — contempt which Franklin could not endure without some confusion, though quite unconscious of having deserved it; nor, upon the most impartial and cool self-examination, could he comprehend the justice of his judges. He perceived indeed — for the comparisons were minutely made in audible and scornful whispers — that Felix was a much handsomer, or as the kitchen maid expressed it, a much more genteeler gentlemanly looking like sort of person than he was; and he was made to understand, that he wanted a frill to his shirt, a cravat, a pair of thin shoes, and, above all, shoe strings, besides other nameless advantages, which justly made his rival the admiration of the kitchen. However, upon calling to mind all that his friend Mr. Spencer had ever said to him, he could not recollect his having warned him that shoe strings were indispensable requisites to the character of a good servant; so that he could only comfort himself with resolving, if possible, to make amends for these deficiencies, and to dissipate the prejudices which he saw were formed against him, by the strictest adherence to all that his tutor had taught him to be his duty. He hoped to secure the approbation of his mistress by scrupulous obedience to all her commands, and faithful care of all that belonged to her. At the same time he flattered himself he should win the goodwill of his fellow servants by showing a constant desire to oblige them. He pursued this plan of conduct steadily for nearly three weeks, and found that he succeeded beyond his expectations in pleasing his mistress; but unfortunately he found it more difficult to please his fellow servants, and he sometimes offended when he least expected it. He had made great progress in the affections of Corkscrew, the butler, by working indeed very hard for him, and doing every day at least half his business. But one unfortunate night the butler was gone out; the bell rang: he went upstairs; and his mistress asking where Corkscrew was, he answered that he was gone out. “Where to!” said his mistress. “I don’t know,” answered Franklin. And, as he had told exactly the truth, and meant to do no harm, he was surprised, at the butler’s return, when he repeated to him what had passed, at receiving a sudden box on the ear, and the appellation of a mischievous, impertinent, mean-spirited brat.

  “Mischievous, impertinent, mean!” repeated Franklin to himself; but, looking in the butler’s face, which was a deeper scarlet than usual, he judged that he was far from sober, and did not doubt but that the next morning, when he came to the use of his reason, he would be sensible of his injustice, and apologize for his box of the ear. But no apology coming all day, Franklin at last ventured to request an explanation, or rather, to ask what he had best do on the next occasion.

  “Why,” said Corkscrew, “when mistress asked for me, how came you to say I was gone out?”

  “Because, you know, I saw you go out.”

  “And when she asked you where I was gone, how came you to say that you did not know?”

  “Because, indeed, I did not.”

  “You are a stupid blockhead! could you not say I was gone to the washerwoman’s?”

  “But WERE you?” said Franklin.

  “Was I?” cried Corkscrew, and looked as if he would have struck him again; “how dare you give me the lie, Mr. Hypocrite? You would be ready enough, I’ll be bound, to make excuses for yourself. Why are not mistress’ clogs cleaned? Go along and blacken ‘em, this minute, and send Felix to me.”

  From this time forward Felix alone was privileged to enter the butler’s pantry. Felix became the favourite of Corkscrew; and, though Franklin by no means sought to pry into the mysteries of their private conferences, nor ever entered without knocking at the door, yet it was his fate once to be sent of a message at an unlucky time; and, as the door was half open, he could not avoid seeing Felix drinking a bumper of red liquor, which he could not help suspecting to be wine; and, as the decanter, which usually went upstairs after dinner, was at this time in the butler’s grasp, without any stopper in it, he was involuntarily forced to suspect they were drinking his mistress’ wine.

  Nor were the bumpers of port the only unlawful rewards which Felix received: his aunt, the cook, had occasion for his assistance, and she had many delicious douceurs in her gift. Many a handful of currants, many a half-custard, many a triangular remnant of pie, besides the choice of his own meal at breakfast, dinner and supper, fell to the share of the favourite Felix; whilst Franklin was neglected, though he took the utmost pains to please the cook in all honourable service, and, when she was hot, angry, or hurried, he was always at hand to help her; and in the hour of adversity, when the clock struck five, and no dinner was dished, and no kitchen maid with twenty pair of hands was to be had, Franklin would answer to her call, with flowers to garnish her dishes, and presence of mind to know, in the midst of the commotion, where everything that was wanting was to be found; so that, quick as lightning, all difficulties vanished before him. Yet when the danger was over, and the hour of adversity had past, the ungrateful cook would forget her benefactor, and, when it came to his supper time, would throw him, with a carelessness that touched him sensibly, anything which the other servants were too nice to eat. All this Franklin bore with fortitude; nor did he envy Felix the dainties which he ate, sometimes close beside him: “For,” said he to himself, “I have a clear conscience, and that is more than Felix can have. I know how he wins cook’s favour too well, and I fancy I know how I have offended her; for since the day I saw the basket, she has done nothing but huff me.”

  The history of the basket was this. Mrs. Pomfret, the housekeeper, had several times, directly and indirectly, given the world below to understand that she and her mistress thought there was a prodigious quantity of meat eaten of late. Now, when she spoke, it was usually at dinner time; she always looked, or Franklin imagined that she looked, suspiciously at him. Other people looked more maliciously; but, as he felt himself perfectly innocent, he went on eating his dinner in silence.

  But at length it was time to explain. One Sunday there appeared a handsome sirloin of beef, which before noon on Monday had shrunk almost to the bare bone, and presented such a deplorable spectacle to the opening eyes of Mrs. Pomfret that her long smothered indignation burst forth, and she boldly declared she was now certain there had been foul play, and she would have the beef found, or she would know why. She spoke, but no beef appeared, till Franklin, with a look of sudden recollection, cried, “Did not I see something like a piece of beef in a basket in the dairy? — I think—”

  The cook, as if somebody had smote her a deadly blow, grew pale; but, suddenly recovering the use of her speech, turned upon Franklin, and, with a voice of thunder, gave him the lie direct; and forthwith, taking Mrs. Pomfret by the ruffle, led the way to the dairy, declaring she could defy the world—”that so she could, and would.” “There, ma’am,” said she kicking an empty basket which lay on the floor—”there’s malice for you. Ask him why he don’t show you the beef in the basket.”

  “I thought I saw—” poor Franklin began.

  “You thought you saw!” cried the cook, coming close up to him with kimboed arms, and looking like a dragon; “and pray, sir, what business has such a one as you to think you see? And pray, ma’am, will you be pleased to speak — perhaps, ma’am, he’ll condescend to obey you — ma’am, will you be pleased to forbid him my dairy? for here he comes prying and spying about; and how, ma’am, am I to answer for my butter and cream, or anything at all? I’m sure it’s what I can’t pretend to, unless you do me the justice to forbid him my places.”

  Mrs. Pomfret, whose e
yes were blinded by her prejudices against the folks of the “Villaintropic Society,” and also by her secret jealousy of a boy whom she deemed to be a growing favourite of her mistress’, took part with the cook, and ended, as she began, with a firm persuasion that Franklin was the guilty person. “Let him alone, let him alone!” said she; “he has as many turns and windings as a hare; but we shall catch him yet, I’ll be bound, in some of his doublings. I knew the nature of him well enough, from the first time I ever set my eyes upon him; but mistress shall have her own way, and see the end of it.”

  These words, and the bitter sense of injustice, drew tears at length fast down the proud cheek of Franklin, which might possibly have touched Mrs. Pomfret, if Felix, with a sneer, had not called them CROCODILE TEARS. “Felix, too!” thought he; “this is too much.” In fact, Felix had till now professed himself his firm ally, and had on his part received from Franklin unequivocal proofs of friendship; for it must be told that every other morning, when it was Felix’s turn to get breakfast, Felix never was up in decent time, and must inevitably have come to public disgrace if Franklin had not got all the breakfast things ready for him, the bread and butter spread, and the toast toasted; and had not, moreover, regularly, when the clock struck eight, and Mrs. Pomfret’s foot was heard overhead, run to call the sleeping Felix, and helped him constantly through the hurry of getting dressed one instant before the housekeeper came downstairs. All this could not but be present to his memory; but, seeming to reproach him, Franklin wiped away his crocodile tears, and preserved a magnanimous silence.

  The hour of retribution was, however, not so far off as Felix imagined. Cunning people may go on cleverly in their devices for some time; but although they may escape once, twice, perhaps ninety-nine times, what does that signify? — for the hundredth time they come to shame, and lose all their character. Grown bold by frequent success, Felix became more careless in his operations; and it happened that one day he met his mistress full in the passage, as he was going on one of the cook’s secret errands.