Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Anne held the hat; and she afterwards went on to the other carriages. Money was thrown to her from each of them; and when they had all gotten safely to the top of the hill, she and her brother sat down upon a large stone by the roadside, to count their treasure. First they began by counting what was in the hat—”One, two, three, four halfpence.”

  “But, oh, brother, look at this!” exclaimed Anne; “this is not the same as the other halfpence.”

  “No, indeed, it is not,” cried Paul, “it is no halfpenny; it is a guinea, a bright golden guinea!”

  “Is it?” said Anne, who had never seen a guinea in her life before, and who did not know its value; “and will it do as well as a halfpenny to buy gingerbread? I’ll run to the fruit-stall, and ask the woman; shall I?”

  “No, no,” said Paul, “you need not ask any woman, or anybody but me; I can tell you all about it, as well as anybody in the whole world.”

  “The whole world! Oh, Paul, you forgot. Not so well as my grandmother.”

  “Why, not so well as my grandmother, perhaps, but, Anne, I can tell you that you must not talk yourself, Anne, but you must listen to me quietly, or else you won’t understand what I am going to tell you, for I can assure you that I don’t think I quite understood it myself, Anne, the first time my grandmother told it to me, though I stood stock still listening my best.”

  Prepared by this speech to hear something very difficult to be understood, Anne looked very grave, and her brother explained to her, that, with a guinea, she might buy two hundred and fifty-two times as many plums as she could get for a penny.

  “Why, Paul, you know the fruit-woman said she would give us a dozen plums for a penny. Now, for this little guinea, would she give us two hundred and fifty-two dozen?”

  “If she has so many, and if we like to have so many, to be sure she will,” said Paul, “but I think we should not like to have two hundred and fifty-two dozen of plums; we could not eat such a number.”

  “But we could give some of them to my grandmother,” said Anne.

  “But still there would be too many for her, and for us, too,” said Paul, “and when we had eaten the plums, there would be an end to all the pleasure. But now I’ll tell you what I am thinking of, Anne, that we might buy something for my grandmother, that would be very useful to her indeed, with the guinea — something that would last a great while.”

  “What, brother? What sort of thing?”

  “Something that she said she wanted very much last winter, when she was so ill with the rheumatism — something that she said yesterday, when you were making her bed, she wished she might be able to buy before next winter.”

  “I know, I know what you mean!” said Anne—”a blanket. Oh, yes, Paul, that will be much better than plums; do let us buy a blanket for her; how glad she will be to see it! I will make her bed with the new blanket, and then bring her to see it. But, Paul, how shall we buy a blanket? Where are blankets to be got?”

  “Leave that to me, I’ll manage that. I know where blankets can be got.

  I saw one hanging out of a shop the day I went last to Dunstable.”

  “You have seen a great many things at Dunstable, brother.”

  “Yes, a great many; but I never saw anything there or anywhere else, that

  I wished for half so much as I did for the blanket for my grandmother.

  Do you remember how she used to shiver with the cold last winter? I’ll

  buy the blanket to-morrow. I’m going to Dunstable with her spinning.”

  “And you’ll bring the blanket to me, and I shall make the bed very neatly, that will be all right — all happy!” said Anne, clapping her hands.

  “But stay! Hush! don’t clap your hands so, Anne; it will not be all happy, I’m afraid,” said Paul, and his countenance changed, and he looked very grave. “It will not be all right, I’m afraid, for there is one thing we have neither of us thought of, but that we ought to think about. We cannot buy the blanket, I’m afraid.”

  “Why, Paul, why?”

  “Because I don’t think this guinea is honestly ours.”

  “Nay, brother, but I’m sure it is honestly ours. It was given to us, and grandmother said all that was given to us to-day was to be our own.”

  “But who gave it to you, Anne?”

  “Some of the people in those chaises, Paul. I don’t know which of them, but I daresay it was the little rosy girl.”

  “No,” said Paul, “for when she called you to the chaise door, she said, ‘Here’s some halfpence for you.’ Now, if she gave you the guinea, she must have given it to you by mistake.”

  “Well, but perhaps some of the people in the other chaises gave it to me, and did not give it to me by mistake, Paul. There was a gentleman reading in one of the chaises and a lady, who looked very good-naturedly at me, and then the gentleman put down his book and put his head out of the window, and looked at your scotcher, brother, and he asked me if that was your own making; and when I said yes, and that I was your sister he smiled at me, and put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and threw a handful of halfpence into the hat, and I daresay he gave us the guinea along with them because he liked your scotcher so much.”

  “Why,” said Paul, “that might be, to be sure, but I wish I was quite certain of it.”

  “Then, as we are not quite certain, had not we best go and ask my grandmother what she thinks about it?”

  Paul thought this was excellent advice; and he was not a silly boy, who did not like to follow good advice. He went with his sister directly to his grandmother, showed her the guinea, and told her how they came by it.

  “My dear, honest children,” said she, “I am very glad you told me all this. I am very glad that you did not buy either the plums or the blanket with this guinea. I’m sure it is not honestly ours. Those who threw it you gave it you by mistake, I warrant; and what I would have you do is, to go to Dunstable, and try if you can, at either of the inns find out the person who gave it to you. It is now so late in the evening that perhaps the travellers will sleep at Dunstable, instead of going on the next stage; and it is likely that whosoever gave you a guinea instead of a halfpenny has found out their mistake by this time. All you can do is to go and inquire for the gentleman who was reading in the chaise.”

  “Oh!” interrupted Paul, “I know a good way of finding him out. I remember it was a dark green chaise with red wheels: and I remember I read the innkeeper’s name upon the chaise, ‘John Nelson.’ (I am much obliged to you for teaching me to read, grandmother.) You told me yesterday, grandmother, that the names written upon chaises are the innkeepers to whom they belong. I read the name of the innkeeper upon that chaise. It was John Nelson. So Anne and I will go to both the inns in Dunstable, and try to find out this chaise — John Nelson’s. Come, Anne; let us set out before it gets quite dark.”

  Anne and her brother passed with great courage the tempting stall that was covered with gingerbread and ripe plums, and pursued their way steadily through the streets of Dunstable; but Paul, when he came to the shop where he had seen the blanket, stopped for a moment, and said, “It is a great pity, Anne, that the guinea is not ours. However, we are doing what is honest, and that is a comfort. Here, we must go through this gateway, into the inn-yard; we are come to the ‘Dun Cow.’”

  “Cow!” said Anne, “I see no cow.”

  “Look up, and you’ll see the cow over your head,” said Paul—”the sign — the picture. Come, never mind looking at it now; I want to find out the green chaise that has John Nelson’s name upon it.”

  Paul pushed forward, through a crowded passage, till he got into the inn- yard. There was a great noise and bustle. The hostlers were carrying in luggage. The postillions were rubbing down the horses, or rolling the chaises into the coach-house.

  “What now! What business have you here, pray?” said a waiter, who almost ran over Paul, as he was crossing the yard in a great hurry to get some empty bottles from the bottle-rack. “You’ve no business here, crowdi
ng up the yard. Walk off, young gentleman, if you please.”

  “Pray give me leave, sir,” said Paul, “to stay a few minutes, to look amongst these chaises for one dark green chaise with red wheels, that has Mr. John Nelson’s name written upon it.”

  “What’s that he says about a dark green chaise?” said one of the postillions.

  “What should such a one as he is know about chaises?” interrupted the hasty waiter, and he vas going to turn Paul out of the yard; but the hostler caught hold of his arm and said, “Maybe the child has some business here; let’s know what he has to say for himself.”

  The waiter was at this instant luckily obliged to leave them to attend the bell; and Paul told his business to the hostler, who as soon as he saw the guinea and heard the story, shook Paul by the hand, and said, “Stand steady, my honest lad; I’ll find the chaise for you, if it is to be found here; but John Nelson’s chaises almost always drive to the ‘Black Bull.’”

  After some difficulty, the green chaise, with John Nelson’s name upon it, and the postillion who drove that chaise, were found; and the postillion told Paul that he was just going into the parlour to the gentleman he had driven, to be paid, and that he would carry the guinea with him.

  “No,” said Paul, “we should like to give it back ourselves.”

  “Yes,” said the hostler; “that they have a right to do.”

  The postillion made no reply, but looked vexed, and went towards the house, desiring the children would wait in the passage till his return. In the passage there was standing a decent, clean, good natured looking woman, with two huge straw baskets on each side of her. One of the baskets stood a little in the way of the entrance. A man who was pushing his way in, and carried in his hand a string of dead larks hung to a pole, impatient at being stopped, kicked down the straw basket, and all its contents were thrown out. Bright straw hats, and boxes, and slippers, were all thrown in disorder upon the dirty ground.

  “Oh, they will be trampled upon! They will be all spoiled!” exclaimed the woman to whom they belonged.

  “We’ll help you to pick them up if you will let us,” cried Paul and Anne; and they immediately ran to her assistance.

  When the things were all safe in the basket again, the children expressed a desire to know how such beautiful things could be made of straw; but the woman had not time to answer before the postillion came out of the parlour, and with him a gentleman’s servant, who came to Paul, and clapping him upon the back, said, “So, my little chap, I gave you a guinea for a halfpenny, I hear; and I understand you’ve brought it back again; that’s right, give me hold of it.”

  “No, brother,” said Anne, “this is not the gentleman that was reading.”

  “Pooh, child, I came in Mr. Nelson’s green chaise. Here’s the postillion can tell you so. I and my master came in that chaise. I and my master that was reading, as you say, and it was he that threw the money out to you. He is going to bed; he is tired and can’t see you himself. He desires that you’ll give me the guinea.”

  He pushed them towards the door; but the basket-woman whispered to them as they went out, “Wait in the street till I come to you.”

  “Pray, Mrs. Landlady,” cried this gentleman’s servant, addressing himself to the landlady, who just then came out of a room where some company were at supper, “Pray, Mrs. Landlady, please to let me have roasted larks for my supper. You are famous for larks at Dunstable; and I make it a rule to taste the best of everything wherever I go; and, waiter, let me have a bottle of claret. Do you hear?”

  “Larks and claret for his supper,” said the basket-woman to herself, as she looked at him from head to foot. The postillion was still waiting, as if to speak to him; and she observed them afterwards whispering and laughing together. “NO BAD HIT,” was a sentence which the servant pronounced several times.

  Now it occurred to the basket-woman that this man had cheated the children out of the guinea to pay for the larks and claret; and she thought that perhaps she could discover the truth. She waited quietly in the passage.

  “Waiter! Joe! Joe!” cried the landlady, “why don’t you carry in the sweetmeat-puffs and the tarts here to the company in the best parlour?”

  “Coming, ma’am,” answered the waiter; and with a large dish of tarts and puffs, the waiter came from the bar; the landlady threw open the door of the best parlour, to let him in; and the basket-woman had now a full view of a large cheerful company, and amongst them several children, sitting round a supper-table.

  “Ay,” whispered the landlady, as the door closed after the waiter and the tarts, “there are customers enough, I warrant, for you in that room, if you had but the luck to be called in. Pray, what would you have the conscience, I wonder now, to charge me for these here half-dozen little mats to put under my dishes?”

  “A trifle, ma’am,” said the basket-woman. She let the landlady have the mats cheap, and the landlady then declared she would step in and see if the company in the best parlour had done supper. “When they come to their wine,” added she, “I’ll speak a good word for you, and get you called in afore the children are sent to bed.”

  The landlady, after the usual speech of, “I hope the supper and everything is to your liking, ladies and gentlemen,” began with, “If any of the young gentlemen or ladies would have a CUR’OSITY to see any of our famous Dunstable straw-work, there’s a decent body without would, I daresay, be proud to show them her pincushion-boxes, and her baskets and slippers, and her other CUR’OSITIES.”

  The eyes of the children all turned towards their mother; their mother smiled, and immediately their father called in the basket-woman, and desired her to produce her CURIOSITIES. The children gathered round her large pannier as it opened, but they did not touch any of her things.

  “Ah, papa!” cried a little rosy girl, “here are a pair of straw slippers that would just fit you, I think; but would not straw shoes wear out very soon? and would not they let in the wet?”

  “Yes, my dear,” said her father, “but these slippers are meant—”

  “For powdering-slippers, miss,” interrupted the basket-woman.

  “To wear when people are powdering their hair,” continued the gentleman, “that they may not spoil their other shoes.”

  “And will you buy them, papa?”

  “No, I cannot indulge myself,” said her father, “in buying them now. I must make amends,” said he, laughing, “for my carelessness; and as I threw away a guinea to-day, I must endeavour to save sixpence at least?”

  “Ah, the guinea that you threw by mistake into the little girl’s hat as we were coming up Chalk Hill. Mamma, I wonder that the little girl did not take notice of its being a guinea, and that she did not run after the chaise to give it back again. I should think, if she had been an honest girl, she would have returned it.”

  “Miss! — ma’am! — sir!” said the basket-woman, “if it would not be impertinent, may I speak a word? A little boy and girl have just been here inquiring for a gentleman who gave them a guinea instead of a halfpenny by mistake; and not five minutes ago I saw the boy give the guinea to a gentleman’s servant, who is there without, and who said his master desired it should be returned to him.”

  “There must be some mistake, or some trick in this,” said the gentleman.

  “Are the children gone? I must see them — send after them.”

  “I’ll go for them myself,” said the good natured basket-woman; “I bid them wait in the street yonder, for my mind misgave me that the man who spoke so short to them was a cheat, with his larks and his claret.”

  Paul and Anne were speedily summoned, and brought back by their friend the basket-woman; and Anne, the moment she saw the gentleman, knew that he was the very person who smiled upon her, who admired her brother’s scotcher, and who threw a handful of halfpence into the hat; but she could not be certain, she said, that she received the guinea from him; she only thought it most likely that she did.

  “But I can be certain whether t
he guinea you returned be mine or no,” said the gentleman. “I marked the guinea; it was a light one; the only guinea I had, which I put into my waistcoat pocket this morning.” He rang the bell, and desired the waiter to let the gentleman who was in the room opposite to him know that he wished to see him.

  “The gentleman in the white parlour, sir, do you mean?”

  “I mean the master of the servant who received a guinea from this child.”

  “He is a Mr. Pembroke, sir,” said the waiter.

  Mr. Pembroke came; and as soon as he heard what had happened, he desired the waiter to show him to the room where his servant was at supper. The dishonest servant, who was supping upon larks and claret, knew nothing of what was going on; but his knife and fork dropped from his hand, and he overturned a bumper of claret as he started up from the table, in great surprise and terror, when his master came in with a face of indignation, and demanded “THE GUINEA — the GUINEA, sir! that you got from this child; that guinea which you said I ordered you to ask for from this child.”

  The servant, confounded and half intoxicated, could only stammer out that he had more guineas than one about him, and that he really did not know which it was. He pulled his money out, and spread it upon the table with trembling hands. The marked guinea appeared. His master instantly turned him out of his service with strong expressions of contempt.