Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Very well, sir! very well! very fine! stick to it, stick to it, I advise you, and we shall see. And how will you look to-morrow, Mr. Innocent, when my uncle, the doctor, comes home?”

  “As I do now, sir,” said Hardy, unmoved.

  His composure threw Mr. Power into a rage too great for utterance. “Sir,” continued Hardy, “ever since I have been at school, I never told a lie, and therefore, sir, I hope you will believe me now. Upon my word and honour, sir, I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Nothing wrong? Better and better! what, when I caught you going out at night?”

  “THAT, to be sure, was wrong,” said Hardy, recollecting himself; “but except that—”

  “Except that, sir! I will except nothing. Come along with me, young gentleman, your time for pardon is past.”

  Saying these words, he pulled Hardy along a narrow passage to a small closet, set apart for desperate offenders, and usually known by the name of the BLACK HOLE. “There, sir, take up your lodging there for to- night,” said he, pushing him in; “tomorrow I’ll know more, or I’ll know why,” added he, double locking the door, with a tremendous noise, upon his prisoner, and locking also the door at the end of the passage, so that no one could have access to him. “So now I think I have you safe!” said Mr. William Power to himself, stalking off with steps which made the whole gallery resound, and which made many a guilty heart tremble.

  The conversation which had passed between Hardy and Mr. Power at the head of the stairs had been anxiously listened to; but only a word or two here and there had been distinctly overheard.

  The locking of the black hole door was a terrible sound — some knew not what it portended, and others knew TOO WELL. All assembled in the morning with faces of anxiety. Tarlton and Loveit’s were the most agitated: Tarlton for himself, Loveit for his friend, for himself, for everybody. Every one of the party, and Tarlton at their head, surrounded him with reproaches; and considered him as the author of the evils which hung over them. “How could you do so? and why did you say anything to Hardy about it? when you had promised, too! Oh! what shall we all do? what a scrape you have brought us into, Loveit, it’s all your fault!”

  “ALL MY FAULT!” repeated poor Loveit, with a sigh; “well, that is hard.”

  “Goodness! there’s the bell,” exclaimed a number of voices at once. “Now for it!” They all stood in a half circle for morning prayers. They listened—”Here he is coming! No — Yes — Here he is!” And Mr. William Power, with a gloomy brow, appeared and walked up to his place at the head of the room. They knelt down to prayers, and the moment they rose, Mr. William Power, laying his hand upon the table, cried, “Stand still, gentlemen, if you please.” Everybody stood stock still; he walked out of the circle; they guessed that he was gone for Hardy, and the whole room was in commotion. Each with eagerness asked each what none could answer, “HAS HE TOLD?” “WHAT has he told?” “Who has he told of?” “I hope he has not told of me,” cried they.

  “I’ll answer for it he has told of all of us,” said Tarlton.

  “And I’ll answer for it he has told of none of us,” answered Loveit, with a sigh.

  “You don’t think he’s such a fool, when he can get himself off,” said

  Tarlton.

  At this instant the prisoner was led in, and as he passed through the circle, every eye was fixed upon him. His eye fell upon no one, not even upon Loveit, who pulled him by the coat as he passed — everyone felt almost afraid to breathe.

  “Well, sir,” said Mr. Power, sitting down in Mr. Trueman’s elbow-chair, and placing the prisoner opposite to him; “well, sir, what have you to say to me this morning?”

  “Nothing, sir,” answered Hardy, in a decided, yet modest manner; “nothing but what I said last night.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Nothing more, sir.”

  “But I have something more to say to you, sir, then; and a great deal more, I promise you, before I have done with you;” and then, seizing him in a fury, he was just going to give him a severe flogging, when the schoolroom door opened, and Mr. Trueman appeared, followed by an old man whom Loveit immediately knew. He leaned upon his stick as he walked, and in his other hand carried a basket of apples. When they came within the circle, Mr. Trueman stopped short. “Hardy!” exclaimed he, with a voice of unfeigned surprise, whilst Mr. William Power stood with his hand suspended.—”Ay, Hardy, sir,” repeated he. “I told him you’d not believe your own eyes.”

  Mr. Trueman advanced with a slow step. “Now, sir, give me leave,” said the usher, eagerly drawing him aside, and whispering.

  “So, sir,” said Mr. T. when the whisper was done, addressing himself to Hardy, with a voice and manner which, had he been guilty, must have pierced him to the heart, “I find I have been deceived in you; it is but three hours ago that I told your uncle I never had a boy in my school in whom I placed so much confidence; but, after all this show of honour and integrity, the moment my back is turned, you are the first to set an example of disobedience of my orders. Why do I talk of disobeying my commands — you are a thief!”

  “I, sir?” exclaimed Hardy, no longer able to repress his feelings.

  “You, sir, — you and some others,” said Mr. Trueman, looking round the room with a penetrating glance—”you and some others.”

  “Ay, sir,” interrupted Mr. William Power, “get that out of him if you can — ask him.”

  “I will ask him nothing; I shall neither put his truth nor his honour to the trial; truth and honour are not to be expected amongst thieves.”

  “I am not a thief! I have never had anything to do with thieves,” cried

  Hardy, indignantly.

  “Have you not robbed this old man? Don’t you know the taste of these apples?” said Mr. Trueman, taking one out of the basket.

  “No, sir; I do not. I never touched one of that old man’s apples.”

  “Never touched one of them! I suppose this is some vile equivocation; you have done worse, you have had the barbarity, the baseness, to attempt to poison his dog; the poisoned meat was found in your pocket last night.”

  “The poisoned meat was found in my pocket, sir; but I never intended to poison the dog — I saved his life.”

  “Lord bless him!” said the old man.

  “Nonsense — cunning!” said Mr. Power. “I hope you won’t let him impose upon you, sir.”

  “No, he cannot impose upon me; I have a proof he is little prepared for,” said Mr. Trueman, producing the blue handkerchief in which the meat had been wrapped.

  Tarlton turned pale; Hardy’s countenance never changed.

  “Don’t you know this handkerchief, sir?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Is it not yours?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Don’t you know whose it is?” cried Mr. Power. Hardy was silent.

  “Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Trueman, “I am not fond of punishing you; but when I do it, you know, it is always in earnest. I will begin with the eldest of you; I will begin with Hardy, and flog you with my own hands till this handkerchief is owned.”

  “I’m sure it’s not mine,” and “I’m sure it’s none of mine,” burst from every mouth, whilst they looked at each other in dismay; for none but Hardy, Loveit and Tarlton knew the secret. “My cane,” said Mr. Trueman, and Mr. Power handed him the cane. Loveit groaned from the bottom of his heart. Tarlton leaned back against the wall with a black countenance. Hardy looked with a steady eye at the cane.

  “But first,” said Mr. Trueman, laying down the cane, “let us see. Perhaps we may find out the owner of this handkerchief another way,” examining the corners. It was torn almost to pieces; but luckily the corner that was marked remained.

  “J. T.!” cried Mr. Trueman. Every eye turned upon the guilty Tarlton, who, now as pale as ashes and trembling in every limb, sank down upon his knees, and in a whining voice begged for mercy. “Upon my word and honour, sir, I’ll tell you all; I’d never have thought of stealing th
e apples if Loveit had not first told me of them; and it was Tom who first put the poisoning the dog into my head. It was he that carried the meat, WASN’T IT?” said he, appealing to Hardy, whose word he knew must be believed. “Oh, dear sir!” continued he as Mr. Trueman began to move towards him, “do let me off; pray do let me off this time! I’m not the only one, indeed, sir! I hope you won’t make me an example for the rest. It’s very hard I’m to be flogged more than they!”

  “I’m not going to flog you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Tarlton, getting up and wiping his eyes.

  “You need not thank me,” said Mr. Trueman. “Take your handkerchief — go out of this room — out of this house; let me never see you more.”

  “If I had any hopes of him,” said Mr. Trueman, as he shut the door after him;—”if I had any hopes of him, I would have punished him; — but I have none. Punishment is meant only to make people better; and those who have any hopes of themselves will know how to submit to it.”

  At these words Loveit first, and immediately all the rest of the guilty party, stepped out of the ranks, confessed their fault, and declared themselves ready to bear any punishment their master thought proper.

  “Oh, they have been punished enough,” said the old man; “forgive them, sir.”

  Hardy looked as if he wished to speak. “Not because you ask it,” said Mr. Trueman to the guilty penitents, “though I should be glad to oblige you — it wouldn’t be just; but there,” pointing to Hardy, “there is one who has merited a reward; the highest I can give him is that of pardoning his companions.”

  Hardy bowed and his face glowed with pleasure, whilst everybody present sympathized in his feelings.

  “I am sure,” thought Loveit, “this is a lesson I shall never forget.”

  “Gentlemen,” said the old man, with a faltering voice, “it wasn’t for the sake of my apples that I spoke; and you, sir,” said he to Hardy, “I thank you for saving my dog. If you please, I’ll plant on that mount, opposite the window, a young apple-tree, from my old one. I will water it, and take care of it with my own hands for your sake, as long as I am able. And may God bless you!” laying his trembling hand on Hardy’s head; “may God bless you — I’m sure God WILL bless all such boys as you are.”

  THE BASKET-WOMAN.

  ”Toute leur etude etait de se complaire et de s’entr’aider.” *

  PAUL ET VIRGINIE.

  At the foot of a steep, slippery, white hill, near Dunstable, in Bedfordshire, called Chalk Hill, there is a hut, or rather a hovel, which travellers could scarcely suppose could be inhabited, if they did not see the smoke rising from its peaked roof. An old woman lives in this hovel, * * and with her a little boy and girl, the children of a beggar who died, and left these orphans perishing with hunger. They thought themselves very happy when the good old woman first took them into her hut and bid them warm themselves at her small fire, and gave them a crust of mouldy bread to eat. She had not much to give, but what she had she gave with good-will. She was very kind to these poor children, and worked hard at her spinning-wheel and at her knitting, to support herself and them. She earned money also in another way. She used to follow all the carriages as they went up Chalk Hill, and when the horses stopped to take breath or to rest themselves, she put stones behind the carriage wheels to prevent them from rolling backwards down the steep, slippery hill.

  * “Their whole study was how to please and to help one another.”

  * * This was about the close of the 18th century.

  The little boy and girl loved to stand beside the good natured old woman’s spinning-wheel when she was spinning, and to talk to her. At these times she taught them something, which, she said, she hoped they would remember all their lives. She explained to them what is meant by telling the truth, and what it is to be honest. She taught them to dislike idleness, and to wish that they could be useful.

  One evening, as they were standing beside her, the little boy said to her, “Grandmother,” for that was the name by which she liked that these children should call her—”grandmother, how often you are forced to get up from your spinning-wheel, and to follow the chaises and coaches up that steep hill, to put stones underneath the wheels, to hinder them from rolling back! The people who are in the carriages give you a halfpenny or a penny for doing this, don’t they?”

  “Yes, child.”

  “But it is very hard work for you to go up and down that hill. You often say that you are tired, and then you know that you cannot spin all that time. Now if we might go up the hill, and put the stones behind the wheels, you could sit still at your work, and would not the people give us the halfpence? and could not we bring them all to you? Do, pray, dear grandmother, try us for one day — to-morrow, will you?”

  “Yes,” said the old woman; “I will try what you can do; but I must go up the hill along with you for the first two or three times, for fear you should get yourselves hurt.”

  So, the next day, the little boy and girl went with their grandmother, as they used to call her, up the steep hill; and she showed the boy how to prevent the wheels from rolling back, by putting stones behind them; and she said, “This is called scotching the wheels;” and she took off the boy’s hat and gave it to the little girl, to hold up to the carriage- windows, ready for the halfpence.

  When she thought that the children knew how to manage by themselves, she left them, and returned to her spinning-wheel. A great many carriages happened to go by this day, and the little girl received a great many halfpence. She carried them all in her brother’s hat to her grandmother in the evening; and the old woman smiled, and thanked the children. She said that they had been useful to her, and that her spinning had gone on finely, because she had been able to sit still at her wheel all day. “But, Paul my boy,” said she, “what is the matter with your hand?”

  “Only a pinch — only one pinch that I got, as I was putting a stone behind a wheel of a chaise. It does not hurt me much, grandmother; and I’ve thought of a good thing for to-morrow. I shall never be hurt again, if you will only be so good as to give me the old handle of the broken crutch, grandmother, and the block of wood that lies in the chimney- corner, and that is of no use. I’ll make it of some use, if I may have it.”

  “Take it then, dear,” said the old woman; “and you’ll find the handle of the broken crutch under my bed.”

  Paul went to work immediately, and fastened one end of the pole into the block of wood, so as to make something like a dry-rubbing brush. “Look, grandmamma, look at my SCOTCHER. I call this thing my SCOTCHER,” said Paul, “because I shall always scotch the wheels with it. I shall never pinch my fingers again; my hands, you see, will be safe at the end of this long stick; and, sister Anne, you need not be at the trouble of carrying any more stones after me up the hill; we shall never want stones any more. My scotcher will do without anything else, I hope. I wish it was morning, and that a carriage would come, that I might run up the hill, and try my scotcher.”

  “And I wish that as many chaises may go by to-morrow as there did to-day, and that we may bring you as many halfpence, grandmother,” said the little girl.

  “So do I, my dear Anne,” said the old woman; “for I mean that you and your brother shall have all the money that you get to-morrow. You may buy some gingerbread for yourselves, or some of those ripe plums that you saw at the fruit-stall the other day, which is just going into Dunstable. I told you then that I could not afford to buy such things for you; but now that you can earn halfpence for yourselves, children, it is fair should taste a ripe plum and bit of gingerbread for once and a way in your lives.”

  “We’ll bring some of the gingerbread home to her, shan’t we, brother?” whispered little Anne. The morning came; but no carriages were heard, though Paul and his sister had risen at five o’clock, that they might be sure to be ready for early travellers. Paul kept his scotcher poised upon his shoulder, and watched eagerly at his station at the bottom of the hill. He did not wait long before a carri
age came. He followed it up the hill; and the instant the postillion called to him, and bid him stop the wheels, he put his scotcher behind them, and found that it answered the purpose perfectly well.

  Many carriages went by this day, and Paul and Anne received a great many halfpence from the travellers.

  When it grew dusk in the evening, Anne said to her brother—”I don’t think any more carriages will come by to-day. Let us count the halfpence, and carry them home now to grandmother.”

  “No, not yet,” answered Paul, “let them alone — let them lie still in the hole where I have put them. I daresay more carriages will come by before it is quite dark, and then we shall have more halfpence.”

  Paul had taken the halfpence out of his hat, and he had put them into a hole in the high bank by the roadside; and Anne said she would not meddle with them, and that she would wait till her brother liked to count them; and Paul said—”If you will stay and watch here, I will go and gather some blackberries for you in the hedge in yonder field. Stand you hereabouts, half-way up the hill, and the moment you see any carriage coming along the road, run as fast as you can and call me.”

  Anne waited a long time, or what she thought a long time; and she saw no carriage, and she trailed her brother’s scotcher up and down till she was tired. Then she stood still, and looked again, and she saw no carriage; so she went sorrowfully into the field, and to the hedge where her brother was gathering blackberries, and she said, “Paul, I’m sadly tired, SADLY TIRED!” said she, “and my eyes are quite strained with looking for chaises; no more chaises will come to-night; and your scotcher is lying there, of no use, upon the ground. Have not I waited long enough for to- day, Paul?”

  “Oh, no,” said Paul; “here are some blackberries for you; you had better wait a little bit longer. Perhaps a carriage might go by whilst you are standing here talking to me.”

  Anne, who was of a very obliging temper, and who liked to do what she was asked to do, went back to the place where the scotcher lay; and scarcely had she reached the spot, when she heard the noise of a carriage. She ran to call her brother, and to their great joy, they now saw four chaises coming towards them. Paul, as soon as they went up the hill, followed with his scotcher; first he scotched the wheels of one carriage, then of another; and Anne was so much delighted with observing how well the scotcher stopped the wheels, and how much better it was than stones, that she forgot to go and hold her brother’s hat to the travellers for halfpence, till she was roused by the voice of a little rosy girl, who was looking out of the window of one of the chaises. “Come close to the chaise-door,” said the little girl; “here are some halfpence for you.”