The poor woman had told her story without any attempt to make it pathetic, and thus far without apparent emotion or change of voice: but when she came to this part, and spoke of her children, her voice changed and failed, she could only add, looking at Gerald, “You know the rest, master; Heaven bless you!”
All she had told was true, as was proved upon inquiry in Gerald’s town of the people at whose house she had lodged, and those to whom she had paid bills, and with whom she had pawned her clothes. Her friends at Manchester were written to by Gerald’s father; their answer confirmed her account of herself and of her husband.
Gerald and Cecilia rejoiced in having her exactness in truth thus proved; not that they had ever doubted it, but the housekeeper had been imposed upon by some travelling people lately, and they were glad that she saw that their Snow-woman was not a beggar or impostor. Impostor, indeed, she could not be, poor creature, as to the main parts of her story, her being buried alive in the snow, and nearly famished. Every thing they saw of her during the time she staid at Crofton’s cottage increased the interest they felt for her — she was so grateful — so little encroaching — so industrious; as soon as ever she was able, in fact, before she was well able, she set about doing needlework for Mrs. Crofton. But Molly, as she told Gerald, would not take her work from her without payment; “I only shammed taking the work from her for nothing, dear, not to vex her, but I counted up what she earned unknown’st to her, and see what I did (opening a chest), I got all her little duds back out of pawn — the black silk bonnet and all, which (added Molly, laughing), to the best of my opinion, is next to her children and husband, perhaps, what she is the fondest of in this life. Well, and even so, so much the greater the creatur’s honesty, you know, that did not begrudge to give it off her head to pay her dues to the last farthing. By the same token she is as welcome as light to stay here with us till she’s quite stout, and as long as she pleases, her and hers — if it were a twelvemonth.”
This permission was no trifling kindness, for the house was so small that Mrs. Crofton, who loved to have it neat too, was much inconvenienced by her guests; she gave up her own bed and room to them, and slept in the kitchen. Molly was a true Irish hospitable soul, who would never count up or tell or hear tell of what she gave or lost. She would not accept of any payment for her lodgers from Gerald’s father or mother, or remuneration in any form. Whatever was sent from the Castle was scrupulously set apart for the use of the Snow-woman and her children, or kept for them till it spoiled. Many times the woman, afraid of being a burthen, said she was well enough, quite well enough, to be stirring.
One day, after they had heard the poor woman declare that she was well able to go, Cecilia, as she was walking home, said to her brother, “Gerald, how very sorry that poor woman must be to get quite well; I remember I was very sorry to get quite well after my measles, because I knew that I should not have mamma and every body waiting upon me, and caring for me so very, very much. But then how dreadfully more your snow-woman must feel this — when all the wonder of her being buried alive is over, when we have no more questions to ask, and no more walking every day to see her, and no more pitying, and no more biscuits and broth and tea, and all manner of good things; and she must leave her warm bed, and Molly’s comfortable house, and be turned out, as Molly says, into the cold wide world — and her children, one of them to be carried all the way, and the other to go barefoot. Gerald, at least I may give her a pair of my old shoes.”
“But that will do little good,” said Gerald, sighing, and he seldom sighed.
“I wish I could do more,” said Cecilia, “but I have nothing. Oh! how I wish I could do something, mamma.”
“You can make some warm clothes for the children, as you proposed yesterday, and I will give you flannel and whatever you want, Cecilia.”
“Thank you, mamma; and you will cut them out, and I will work all day without stirring, mamma, or ever looking up till I have done. But even then it will be so very little compared with all she wants.”
Cecilia now sighed more deeply than Gerald had sighed before.
“Gerald,” she resumed, “I wish I was a fairy, even for one day, a good fairy, I mean.”
“Good, of course; you could not be bad, Cecilia. Well, what would you do in that one day? I am curious to know whether it is the same thing that I am thinking of.”
“No,” said Cecilia, “it cannot be, because I am thinking, my dear, of so many different things. But, in the first place, I would wave my wand and in a minute have a nice house raised, like Molly’s, for the snow-woman.”
“The very thing! I knew it,” cried Gerald. “Oh, Cecilia, if it could be!”
“There are no fairies left now in the world,” said Cecilia mournfully, “that’s all nonsense indeed.”
“But I can tell you, Cecilia, there is still in the world what can do almost all that the fairies could do formerly, at least as to building houses, only not so quick quite — money.”
“I guessed it before you came to the word, Cecilia; but what signifies that; I have no money — have you?”
“Some, but very little,” said Gerald, feeling in his pocket, “too little, only pocket money. Oh, I wish, how I wish, Cecilia, I had as much money as papa has, or mamma,” added he, stopping till they, who were walking behind them, came within hearing, and repeating his wish, added, “then I could do so much good.”
“And if you had as much money as we have,” said his mother, smiling, “you would want more to be able to do all the good you desire.”
His father asked him to tell him what good in particular he thought he could do, and as they walked on Gerald stated, that in particular he would build, or buy a house ready built, “for the snow-woman.”
“And furnished,” interposed Cecilia.
“No, leave out the furniture for the present,” said Gerald; “we cannot do every thing, I know, papa, at once. But seriously, papa, you have built houses for many of the tenants, and you have houses, cottages, one cottage at least, even now, to give to whoever you please, or whoever pleases you.”
“Not exactly to whoever I please, or to whoever pleases me, but to those whom I think most deserving, and to those whom justice calls upon me to prefer. I have claims upon me from good old tenants, or their families, for every house I have to give or to let. How then can I give to a stranger, who has no claims upon me, merely to please myself or you.”
“But she has the claim of being very wretched,” said Gerald.
“And she has been buried in the snow,” said Cecilia.
“And has been recovered,” said her father.
“There’s the worst of it,” said Cecilia, “for now she is recovered she must go. We cannot help it, if we were to talk about it ever so much. But, mamma, though papa says people have never money enough to do all the good they wish, I think you have, for I remember about that cottage you built last year, you said, I recollect perfectly hearing you say the words, ‘I know the way I can manage to have money enough to do it.’ What did you mean, mamma, as you were not a fairy, how did you manage?”
Her mother smiled, but did not answer.
“I will tell you,” said her father, “the way in which she managed, and the only way in which people, let them have ever such large fortunes, can manage to be sure of having money enough to do what they wish most — she denied herself something that she would have liked to buy, but that she could do without — she very much wished at the time you speak of, Cecilia, to have bought a harp, on which she knew that I should have liked to hear her play.”
“I remember that too,” cried Cecilia. “I remember the harp was brought for her to look at, and she liked it exceedingly; and then, after all, she sent it away and would not buy it, and I wondered.”
“She could not have bought the harp and have built the cottage; so she denied herself the harp that year, and she made her old woman, as you call her, happy for life.”
“How very good!” said Cecilia.
G
erald fell into a profound silence, which lasted all the remainder of their walk home, till they reached the lodge at the entrance, when, opening the gate, he let his mother and sister pass, but arrested his father in his passage:—”Father! I have something to say to you, will you walk behind?”
“Son, I am ready to listen to you, and I will do any thing in my power to oblige you, but you must explain to me how I am to walk behind.”
“Oh, papa, you know what I mean; let mamma and Cecilia walk on, so as to be out of hearing, and we can follow behind. What I am thinking of, papa, is Garry Owen; you were so kind as to promise to buy him for me.”
“Yes, as a reward which you deserved for your perseverance last year.”
“Thank you, papa; but suppose, instead of Garry Owen — in short, suppose, papa, I were to give up Garry Owen.”
“To give up Garry Owen!” exclaimed his father, starting back with surprise.
“I am not sure, papa, that I can bring myself to do it yet, I am only considering; therefore, pray, do not tell Cecilia or mamma. I want first to settle my own mind. If I were to give up Garry Owen, would you allow me to have the money which you would have paid for him, and let me do what I please with it?”
“Undoubtedly. But since you consult me, I strongly recommend it to you not to give up Garry Owen for any other horse or pony.”
“For any other horse, certainly not, for I like him better than any other that I ever saw or heard of — the beautiful creature!” cried Gerald enthusiastically. “But if I could give him up, father, as mamma gave up the harp, would the price of him build a cottage for the snow-woman? And would you do it for me?”
His father’s countenance brightened delightfully as Gerald spoke. “Would I do it for you, my son!” said he; but checking himself, he added, in a composed voice, “I would, Gerald. But are you sure that you would wish this to be done, that is the first point to be settled. Remember, that for this year to come I certainly shall not buy for you any other horse if you give up Garry Owen for this purpose: you must understand this clearly, and be prepared to abide by all the consequences of your own determination.”
“Oh certainly, sir, I understand all that perfectly; I know it must be Garry Owen or the snow-woman, I never thought of any thing else; it would be cheating you or cheating myself. But I have not come to my determination yet; remember that, father, and do not say that I go back — you understand.”
“I understand you, Gerald, as well as you understand me; so we need say no more about it till you have settled your mind.”
Which he was called upon to do sooner than he expected. Before he had considered all the pros and cons, before he had screwed his courage to the sticking place, he was summoned to the fight; and well might his father fear that he would not come off victor of himself.
“Oh, Gerald!” cried Cecilia, running back to meet him, “Garry Owen is come! Garry Owen is come! that horse-dealer man has brought him for you — yes, Garry Owen, I assure you I saw him in the back lawn: they are all looking at him, mamma too! Come, come! Run, run!”
In the back lawn was a group of people, the groom, the helper, the gossoon, the coachman, and, distinguished above the rest, the saddler, with a new saddle on his back, and a side-saddle and bridle and bits glittering and hanging about him in most admired disorder. The group opened on Gerald’s approach, and full in the midst, on a rising ground, with the light of the setting sun upon him, stood Garry Owen, his present master the horse-dealer beside him, holding his bridle as he curved his neck proudly. Garry Owen was of a dark iron grey, with black mane, tail, and legs.
“Such a pretty colour,” said Cecilia, “and such a fine flowing tail — oh, what a whisk he gave it!”
“A remarkably pretty head,” said Gerald; “is not it, father?”
“And how gently he puts it down to let mamma stroke it,” said Cecilia; “dear nice little creature, I may pat him, may not I?”
“You may, miss; he is as gentle as the lamb, see, and as powerful as the lion,” said the horse-dealer; “but it’s the spirit that’s in him will please Master Gerald above all.”
“Yes, I do like a horse that has some spirit,” cried Gerald, vaulting upon his back.
“Then there it is! just suited! for it’s he that has spirit enough for you, and you that has the spirit for him, Master Gerald. — See how he sits him!”
“Without a saddle or a ha’porth!” said the saddler.
“What need, with such a seat on a horse as Master Gerald has got, and such command?”
“Let him go,” said Gerald.
“Take care,” said Cecilia.
“Never fear, miss,” said the horse-dealer; and off Gerald went in a fine canter.
“No fear of Master Gerald. See, see, see! See there now!” continued the master of the horse triumphantly, as Gerald, who really rode extremely well for a boy of his age, cantered, trotted, walked alternately, and showed all Garry Owen’s paces to the best advantage. Suddenly a halloo was heard, huntsmen in red jackets appeared galloping across the adjoining field, returning from the hunt; Garry Owen and Gerald leaped the ditch instantly.
“Oh! oh!” cried Cecilia, “is the horse running away with him?”
“Not at all, miss — no fear — for Master Gerald has none. See there, how he goes. Oh prince o’ ponies! Oh king of glory! See, up he is now with the red jackets — dash at all — over he goes — the finest leaper in the three counties — clears all before him, see! — there’s a leap! and now, miss, see how he is bringing him back now to us, fair and asy see! trotting him up as if nothing at all; then I declare it’s a sight to see!”
Gerald came up and sat, as Garry Owen stood still in the midst of them, patting the pony, delighted with him much, and with himself not more, but certainly not a little.
“Then he’s the finest rider ever I see of his years,” cried the horse-dealer in an ecstasy.
“The finest young gentleman rider that ever I see in all Ireland, without comparison, I say,” pronounced the saddler, shutting one eye and looking up at him with the other, with an indescribably odd doubtful smile. In this man’s countenance there was a mixed or quickly varying expression — demure, jocose, sarcastic, openly flattering, covertly laughing at the flattery, if not at the flattered; his face was one instant for the person he spoke to, the next for the bystanders. Aware at this moment who were standing by, he kept it as steady as he could. The horse-dealer, in eager earnest intent on his object, continued in his ecstatic tone.
“By the laws, then, I’d sooner bestow Garry Owen on Master Gerald than sell him at any price to any other.”
As Master Gerald’s father smiled somewhat incredulous, perhaps a little scornfully, the horse-dealer instantly softened his assertion, by adding:—”I should not say bestow, a poor man like me could not go to bestow, but I’d sooner sell him any price to Master Gerald, so I at would, and not a word of lie, than to any mortal living in the three counties, or three kingdoms entirely — and rason, for it’s Master Gerald that would do Garry Owen most justice, and would show him off best; the fine horse should get the fine rider, and ’tis undeniable the young gentleman is that same any how.”
“Kind father for him,” said the gamekeeper; “and the very moral of the master, Master Gerald is. The very sit of the father when first I seen him on a horse. Then may he be like him in all.”
“And ‘specially in having a good horse always under him,” said the horse-dealer. “Who would have a right to the raal good horse but the raal good gentleman born?”
“Which the family is, and was from father to son time out of mind, as all the world knows and says as well as myself,” added the saddler; “Father and son seldom comes a better.”
Gerald’s father, who had been for some time pacing up and down impatiently during this flow of flattery, had been more than once tempted to interrupt it. Disgusted and vexed as he was, and afraid that his son would be duped and swayed from his good purpose, he could hardly refrain from interference. Bu
t he said to himself, “My son must meet with flatterers, he should learn early to detect and resist flattery. I will leave him to himself.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 600
