Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Mrs. Fanshaw was surprised that Lady N —— begged to look at this essay; and was much disappointed to observe that the graceful manner in which Miss Fanshaw presented the book to her ladyship escaped notice.

  “Pray, Miss Matilda, is that a drawing?” said Mrs. Fanshaw, in hopes of leading to a more favourable subject.

  “Oh, dear me! do pray favour us with a sight of it!” cried Miss Fanshaw, and she eagerly unrolled the paper, though Matilda assured her that it was not a drawing.

  It was Hogarth’s print of a country dance, which was prefixed to his “Analysis of Beauty.”

  “It is the oddest thing!” exclaimed Miss Fanshaw, who thought every thing odd or strange which she had not seen at Suxberry house. Without staying to observe the innumerable strokes of humour and of original genius in the print, she ran on—”La! its hardly worth any one’s while, surely, to draw such a set of vulgar figures — one hates low humour.” Then, in a hurry to show her taste for dress, she observed that “people, formerly, must have had no taste at all; — one can hardly believe such things were ever worn.”

  Mrs. Fanshaw, touched by this reflection upon the taste of former times, though she seldom presumed to oppose any of her daughter’s opinions, could not here refrain from saying a few words in defence of sacks, long waists, and whalebone stays, and she pointed to a row of stays in the margin of one of these prints of Hogarth.

  Miss Fanshaw, who did not consider that, with those who have a taste for propriety in manners, she could not gain any thing by a triumph over her mother, laughed in a disdainful manner at her mother’s “partiality for stays,” and wondered how any body could think long waists becoming.

  “Surely, any body who knows any thing of drawing, or has any taste for an antique figure, must acknowledge the present fashion to be most graceful.” She appealed to Isabella and Matilda.

  They were so much struck with the impropriety of her manner towards her mother, that they did not immediately answer; Matilda at length said, “It is natural to like what we have been early used to;” and, from unaffected gentleness, eager to prevent Miss Fanshaw from further exposing her ignorance, she rolled up the print; and Lady N —— , smiling at Mrs. Harcourt, said, “I never saw a print more gracefully rolled up in my life.” Miss Fanshaw immediately rolled up another of the prints, but no applause ensued.

  At the next pause in the conversation, Mrs. Fanshaw and her daughter took their leave, seemingly dissatisfied with their visit.

  Matilda, just after Mrs. Fanshaw left the room, recollected her pretty netting-box, and asked Lady N —— whether she knew any thing of the little boy by whom it was made.

  Her ladyship gave such an interesting account of him, that Matilda determined to have her share in relieving his distress.

  Matilda’s benevolence was formerly rather passive than active; but from Mad. de Rosier she had learned that sensibility should not be suffered to evaporate in sighs, or in sentimental speeches. She had also learnt that economy is necessary to generosity; and she consequently sometimes denied herself the gratification of her own tastes, that she might be able to assist those who were in distress.

  She had lately seen a beautiful print of the king of France taking leave of his family; and, as Mad. de Rosier was struck with it, she wished to have bought it for her; but she now considered that a guinea, which was the price of the print, might be better bestowed on this poor, little, ingenious, industrious boy; so she begged her mother to send to the repository for one of his boxes. The servants were all busy, and Matilda did not receive her box till the next morning.

  Herbert was reading to Mad. de Rosier when the servant brought the box into the room. Favoretta got up to look at it, and immediately Herbert’s eye glanced from his book: in spite of all his endeavours to command his attention, he heard the exclamations of “Beautiful! — How smooth! — like tortoise-shell! — What can it be made of?”

  “My dear Herbert, shut the book,” said Mad. de Rosier, “if your head be in that box. Never read one moment after you have ceased to attend.”

  “It is my fault,” said Matilda; “I will put the box out of the way till he has finished reading.”

  When Herbert had recalled his wandering thoughts, and had fixed his mind upon what he was about, Mad. de Rosier put her hand upon the book — he started—”Now let us see the beautiful box,” said she.

  After it had passed through Favoretta and Herbert’s impatient hands, Matilda, who had scarcely looked at it herself, took it to the window, to give it a sober examination. “It is not made of paper, or pasteboard, and it is not the colour of tortoise-shell,” said Matilda: “I never saw any thing like it before; I wonder what it can be made of?”

  Herbert, at this question, unperceived by Matilda, who was examining the box very earnestly, seized the lid, which was lying upon the table, and ran out of the room; he returned in a few minutes, and presented the lid to Matilda. “I can tell you one thing, Matilda,” said he, with an important face—”it is an animal — an animal substance, I mean.”

  “Oh, Herbert,” cried Matilda, “what have you been doing? — you have blackened the corner of the box.”

  “Only the least bit in the world,” said Herbert, “to try an experiment. I only put one corner to the candle that Isabella had lighted to seal her letter.”

  “My dear Herbert, how could you burn your sister’s box?” expostulated Madame de Rosier: “I thought you did not love mischief.”

  “Mischief! — no, indeed; I thought you would be pleased that I remembered how to distinguish animal from vegetable substances. You know, the day that my hair was on fire, you told me how to do that; and Matilda wanted to know what the box was made of; so I tried.”

  “Well,” said Matilda, good-naturedly, “you have not done me much harm.”

  “But another time,” said Mad. de Rosier, “don’t burn a box that costs a guinea to try an experiment; and, above all things, never, upon any account, take what is not your own.”

  The corner of the lid that had been held to the candle was a little warped, so that the lid did not slide into its groove as easily as it did before. Herbert was disposed to use force upon the occasion; but Matilda with difficulty rescued her box by an argument which fortunately reached his understanding in time enough to stop his hand.

  “It was the heat of the candle that warped it,” said she: “let us dip it into boiling water, which cannot be made too hot, and that will, perhaps, bring it back to its shape.”

  The lid of the box was dipped into boiling-water, and restored to its shape. Matilda, as she was wiping it dry, observed that some yellow paint, or varnish, came off, and in one spot, on the inside of the lid, she discovered something like writing.

  “Who will lend me a magnifying glass?”

  Favoretta produced hers.

  “I have kept it,” said she, “a great, great while, ever since we were at the Rational Toy-shop.”

  “Mad. de Rosier, do look at this!” exclaimed Matilda—”here are letters quite plain! — I have found the name, I do believe, of the boy who made the box!” and she spelled, letter by letter, as she looked through the magnifying glass, the words Henri-Montmorenci.

  Mad. de Rosier started up; and Matilda, surprised at her sudden emotion, put the box and magnifying glass into her hand. Madame de Rosier’s hand trembled so much that she could not fix the glass.

  “Je ne vois rien — lisez — vite! — ma chère amie — un mot de plus!” said she, putting the glass again into Matilda’s hand, and leaning over her shoulder with a look of agonizing expectation.

  The word de was all Matilda could make out — Isabella tried — it was in vain — no other letters were visible.

  “De what? — de Rosier! — it must be! my son is alive!” said the mother.

  Henri-Montmorenci was the name of Mad. de Rosier’s son; but when she reflected for an instant that this might also be the name of some other person, her transport of joy was checked, and seemed to be converted into despai
r.

  Her first emotions over, the habitual firmness of her mind returned. She sent directly to the repository — no news of the boy could there be obtained. Lady N —— was gone, for a few days, to Windsor; so no intelligence could be had from her. Mrs. Harcourt was out — no carriage at home — but Mad. de Rosier set out immediately, and walked to Golden-square, near which place she knew that a number of French emigrants resided. She stopped first at a bookseller’s shop; she described the person of her son, and inquired if any such person had been seen in that neighbourhood.

  The bookseller was making out a bill for one of his customers, but struck with Mad. de Rosier’s anxiety, and perceiving that she was a foreigner by her accent, he put down his pen, and begged her to repeat, once more, the description of her son. He tried to recollect whether he had seen such a person — but he had not. He, however, with true English good-nature, told her that she had an excellent chance of finding him in this part of the town, if he were in London — he was sorry that his shopman was from home, or he would have sent him with her through the streets near the square, where he knew the emigrants chiefly lodged; — he gave her in writing a list of the names of these streets, and stood at his door to watch and speed her on her way.

  She called at the neighbouring shops — she walked down several narrow streets, inquiring at every house, where she thought that there was any chance of success, in vain. At one a slip-shod maid-servant came to the door, who stared at seeing a well-dressed lady, and who was so bewildered, that she could not, for some time, answer any questions; at another house the master was out; at another, the master was at dinner. As it got towards four o’clock, Mad. de Rosier found it more difficult to obtain civil answers to her inquiries, for almost all the tradesmen were at dinner, and when they came to the door, looked out of humour, at being interrupted, and disappointed at not meeting with a customer. She walked on, her mind still indefatigable: — she heard a clock in the neighbourhood strike five — her strength was not equal to the energy of her mind — and the repeated answers of, “We know of no such person”—”No such boy lives here, ma’am,” made her at length despair of success.

  One street upon her list remained unsearched — it was narrow, dark, and dirty; — she stopped for a moment at the corner, but a porter, heavily laden, with a sudden “By your leave, ma’am!” pushed forwards, and she was forced into the doorway of a small ironmonger’s shop. The master of the shop, who was weighing some iron goods, let the scale go up, and, after a look of surprise, said —

  “You’ve lost your way, madam, I presume — be pleased to rest yourself — it is but a dark place;” and wiping a stool, on which some locks had been lying, he left Mad. de Rosier, who was, indeed, exhausted with fatigue, to rest herself, whilst, without any officious civility, after calling his wife from a back shop, to give the lady a glass of water, he went on weighing his iron and whistling.

  The woman, as soon as Mad. de Rosier had drunk the water, inquired if she should send for a coach for her, or could do any thing to serve her.

  The extreme good-nature of the tone in which this was spoken seemed to revive Mad. de Rosier; she told her that she was searching for an only son, whom she had for nearly two years believed to be dead: she showed the paper on which his name was written: the woman could not read — her husband read the name, but he shook his head—”he knew of no lad who answered to the description.”

  Whilst they were speaking, a little boy came into the shop with a bit of small iron wire in his hand, and, twitching the skirt of the ironmonger’s coat to attract his attention, asked if he had any such wire as that in his shop. When the ironmonger went to get down a roll of wire, the little boy had a full view of Mad. de Rosier. Though she was naturally disposed to take notice of children, yet now she was so intent upon her own thoughts that she did not observe him till he had bowed several times just opposite to her.

  “Are you bowing to me, my good boy?” said she—”you mistake me for somebody else; I don’t know you;” and she looked down again upon the paper, on which she had written the name of her son.

  “But, indeed, ma’am, I know you,” said the little boy: “aren’t you the lady that was with the good-natured young gentleman, who met me going out of the pastry-cook’s shop, and gave me the two buns?”

  Mad. de Rosier now looked in his face; the shop was so dark that she could not distinguish his features, but she recollected his voice, and knew him to be the little boy belonging to the dulcimer man.

  “Father would have come again to your house,” said the boy, who did not perceive her inattention—”Father would have come to your house again, to play the tune the young gentleman fancied so much, but our dulcimer is broken.”

  “Is it? I am sorry for it,” said Mad. de Rosier. “But can you tell me,” continued she to the ironmonger, “whether any emigrants lodge in the street to the left of your house?” The master of the shop tried to recollect: she again repeated the name and description of her son.

  “I know a young French lad of that make,” said the little dulcimer boy.

  “Do you? — Where is he? Where does he lodge?” cried Mad. de Rosier.

  “I am not speaking as to his name, for I never heard his name,” said the little boy; “but I’ll tell you how I came to know him. One day lately—”

  Mad. de Rosier interrupted him with questions concerning the figure, height, age, eyes, of the French lad.

  The little dulcimer boy, by his answers, sometimes made her doubt, and sometimes made her certain, that he was her son.

  “Tell me,” said she, “where he lodges; I must see him immediately.”

  “I am just come from him, and I’m going back to him with the wire; I’ll show the way with pleasure; he is the best-natured lad in the world; he is mending my dulcimer; he deserves to be a great gentleman, and I thought he was not what he seemed,” continued the little boy, as he walked on, scarcely able to keep before Mad. de Rosier.

  “This way, ma’am — this way — he lives in the corner house, turning into Golden-square.” It was a stationer’s.

  “I have called at this house already,” said Mad. de Rosier; but she recollected that it was when the family were at dinner, and that a stupid maid had not understood her questions. She was unable to speak, through extreme agitation, when she came to the shop: the little dulcimer boy walked straight forward, and gently drew back the short curtain that hung before a glass door, opening into a back parlour. Mad. de Rosier sprang forward to the door, looked through the glass, and was alarmed to see a young man taller than her son; he was at work; his back was towards her.

  When he heard the noise of some one trying to open the door, he turned and saw his mother’s face! The tools dropped from his hands, and the dulcimer boy was the only person present who had strength enough to open the door.

  How sudden! how powerful is the effect of joy! The mother, restored to her son, in a moment felt herself invigorated — and, forgetful of her fatigue, she felt herself another being. When she was left alone with her son, she looked round his little workshop with a mixture of pain and pleasure. She saw one of his unfinished boxes on the window-seat, which served him for a work-bench; his tools were upon the floor. “These have been my support,” said her son, taking them up: “how much am I obliged to my dear father for teaching me early how to use them!”

  “Your father!” said Mad. de Rosier—”I wish he could have lived to be rewarded as I am! But tell me your history, from the moment you were taken from me to prison: it is nearly two years ago, — how did you escape? how have you supported yourself since? Sit down, and speak again, that I may be sure that I hear your voice.”

  “You shall hear my voice, then, my dear mother,” said her son, “for at least half an hour, if that will not tire you. I have a long story to tell you. In the first place, you know that I was taken to prison; three months I spent in the Conciergerie, expecting every day to be ordered out to the guillotine. The gaoler’s son, a boy about my own age, who wa
s sometimes employed to bring me food, seemed to look upon me with compassion; I had several opportunities of obliging him: his father often gave him long returns of the names of the prisoners, and various accounts, to copy into a large book; the young gentleman did not like this work; he was much fonder of exercising as a soldier with some boys in the neighbourhood, who were learning the national exercise; he frequently employed me to copy his lists for him, and this I performed to his satisfaction: but what completely won his heart was my mending the lock of his fusil. One evening he came to me in a new uniform, and in high spirits; he was just made a captain, by the unanimous voice of his corps; and he talked of his men, and his orders, with prodigious fluency; he then played his march upon his drum, and insisted upon teaching it to me; he was much pleased with my performance, and, suddenly embracing me, he exclaimed, ‘I have thought of an excellent thing for you; stay till I have arranged the plan in my head, and you shall see if I am not a great general.’ The next evening he did not come to me till it was nearly dusk; he was in his new uniform; but out of a bag which he brought in his hand, in which he used to carry his father’s papers, he produced his old uniform, rolled up into a surprisingly small compass. ‘I have arranged every thing,’ said he; ‘put on this old uniform of mine — we are just of a size — by this light, nobody will perceive any difference: take my drum and march out of the prison slowly; beat my march on the drum as you go out; turn to the left, down to the Place de —— , where I exercise my men. You’ll meet with one of my soldiers there, ready to forward your escape.’ I hesitated; for I feared that I should endanger my young general; but he assured me that he had taken his precautions so ‘admirably,’ that even after my escape should be discovered, no suspicion would fall upon him. ‘But, if you delay,’ cried he, ‘we are both of us undone.’ I hesitated not a moment longer, and never did I change my clothes so expeditiously in my life: I obeyed my little captain exactly, marched out of the prison slowly, playing deliberately the march which I had been taught; turned to the left, according to orders, and saw my punctual guide waiting for me on the Place de —— , just by the broken statue of Henry the Fourth.