Tales And Novels, Volume 1 by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Tales And Novels, Volume 1

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"This Welsh girl," thought she, "is my torment. Wherever I go she makes
me share the ridicule of her folly."

Clara Hope, one of the young ladies, saw and pitied Angelina's confusion.

"Gif over, an ye have any gude nature--gif over your whispering and
laughing," said Clara to her companions: "ken ye not ye make her so
bashful, she'd fain hide her face wi' her twa hands."

But it was in vain that the good-natured Clara Hope remonstrated: her
companions could not forbear tittering, as Betty Williams, upon Miss
Warwick's laying the blame of the mistake on her, replied in a strong
Welsh accent--"I will swear almost the name was Porett or Plait, where
our Miss Hodges tid always lodge in Pristol. Porett, or Plait, or Puffit,
or some of her names that pekin with a p and ent with at."

Angelina, quite _overpowered_, shrunk back, as Betty bawled out her
vindication, and she was yet more confused, when Monsieur Richelet, the
dancing-master, at this unlucky instant, came up to her, and with an
elegant bow, said, "It is not difficult to see by her air, that
mademoiselle dances superiorly. Mademoiselle vould she do me de
plaisir--de honneur to dance one minuet?"

"Oh, if she would but dance!" whispered some of the group of young
ladies.

"Excuse me, sir," said Miss Warwick.

"Not a minuet?--den a minuet de la cour, a cotillon, or contredanse, or
reel; vatever mademoiselle please vill do us honneur."

Angelina, with a mixture of impatience and confusion, repeated, "Excuse
me, sir--I am going--I interrupt--I beg I may not interrupt."

"A coot morrow to you all, creat and small," said Betty Williams,
curtsying awkwardly at the door as she went out before Miss Warwick.

The young ladies were now diverted so much beyond the bounds of decorum,
that Mrs. Porett was obliged to call them to order.

"Oh, my Araminta, what scenes have I gone through! to what derision have
I exposed myself for your sake!" said our heroine to herself.

Just as she was leaving the dancing-room, she was stopped short by Betty
Williams, who, with a face of terror, exclaimed, "'Tis a poy in the hall,
that I tare not pass for my lifes; he has a pasket full of pees in his
hand, and I cannot apide pees, ever since one tay when I was a chilt, and
was stung on the nose by a pee. The poy in the hall has a pasketful of
pees, ma'am," said Betty, with an imploring accent, to Mrs. Porett.

"A basketful of bees!" said Mrs. Porett, laughing: "Oh, you are
mistaken: I know what the boy has in his basket--they are only flowers;
they are not bees: you may safely go by them."

"Put I saw pees with my own eyes," persisted Betty.

"Only a basketful of the bee orchis, which I commissioned a little boy to
bring from St. Vincent's rocks for my young botanists," said Mrs. Porett
to Angelina: "you know the flower is so like a bee, that at first sight
you might easily mistake it." Mrs. Porett, to convince Betty Williams
that she had no cause for fear, went on before her into the hall; but
Betty still hung back, crying--

"It is a pasket full of pees! I saw the pees with my own eyes."

The noise she made excited the curiosity of the young ladies in the
dancing-room: they looked out to see what was the matter.

"Oh, 'tis the wee-wee French prisoner boy, with the bee orchises for us--
there, I see him standing in the hall," cried Clara Hope, and instantly
she ran, followed by several of her companions, into the hall.

"You see that they are not bees," said Mrs. Porett to Betty Williams, as
she took several of the flowers in her hand. Betty, half convinced, yet
half afraid, moved a few steps into the hall.

"You have no cause for dread," said Clara Hope; "poor boy, he has nought
in his basket that can hurt any body."

Betty Williams's heavy foot was now set upon the train of Clara's gown,
and, as the young lady sprang forwards, her gown, which was of thin
muslin, was torn so as to excite the commiseration of all her young
companions.

"What a terrible rent! and her best gown!" said they. "Poor Clara Hope!"

"Pless us! peg pardon, miss!" cried the awkward, terrified Betty; "peg
pardon, miss!"

"Pardon's granted," said Clara; and whilst her companions stretched out
her train, deploring the length and breadth of her misfortune, she went
on speaking to the little French boy. "Poor wee boy! 'tis a sad thing to
be in a strange country, far away from one's ane ane kin and happy hame--
poor wee thing," said she, slipping some money into his hand.

"What a heavenly countenance!" thought Angelina, as she looked at Clara
Hope: "Oh, that my Araminta may resemble her!"

"Plait il--take vat you vant--tank you," said the little boy, offering to
Clara Hope his basket of flowers, and a small box of trinkets, which he
held in his hand.

"Here's a many pretty toys--who'll buy?" cried Clara, turning to her
companions.

The young ladies crowded round the box and the basket.

"Is he in distress?" said Angelina; "perhaps I can be of some use to
him!" and she put her hand into her pocket, to feel for her purse.

"He's a very honest, industrious little boy," said Mrs. Porett, "and he
supports his parents by his active ingenuity."

"And, Louis, is your father sick still?" continued Clara Hope to the poor
boy.

"Bien malade! bien malade! very sick! very sick!" said he. The unaffected
language of real feeling and benevolence is easily understood, and is
never ridiculous; even in the broken English of little Louis, and the
broad Scotch tone of Clara, it was both intelligible and agreeable.

Angelina had been for some time past feeling in her pocket for her purse.

"'Tis gone--certainly gone!" she exclaimed: "I've lost it! lost my purse!
Betty, do you know any thing of it? I had it at Mrs. Plait's!--What shall
I do for this poor little fellow?--This trinket is of gold!" said she,
taking from her neck a locket--"Here, my little fellow, I have no money
to give you, take this--nay, you must, indeed."

"Tanks! tanks! bread for my poor fader! joy! joy!--too much joy! too
much!"

"You see you were wrong to laugh at her," whispered Clara Hope to her
companions: "I liked her lukes from the first."

Natural feeling, at this moment, so entirely occupied and satisfied
Angelina, that she forgot her sensibility for her unknown friend; and it
was not till one of the children observed the lock of hair in her locket
that she recollected her accustomed cant of--"_Oh, my Araminta! my
amiable Araminta!_ could I part with that hair, more precious than gold?"

"Pless us!" said Betty; "put, if she has lost her purse, who shall pay
for the coach, and what will become of our tinners?"

Angelina silenced Betty Williams with peremptory dignity.

Mrs. Porett, who was a good and sensible woman, and who had been
interested for our heroine, by her good-nature to the little French boy,
followed Miss Warwick as she left the room. "Let me detain you but for a
few minutes," said she, opening the door of a little study. "You have
nothing to fear from any impertinent curiosity on my part; but, perhaps,
I may be of some assistance to you."--Miss Warwick could not refuse to be
detained a few minutes by so friendly a voice.

"Madam, you have mentioned the name of Araminta several times since you
came into this house," said Mrs. Porett, with something of embarrassment
in her manner, for she was afraid of appearing impertinent. "I know, or
at least I knew, a lady who writes under that name, and whose real name
is Hodges."

"Oh, a thousand, thousand thanks!" cried Angelina: "tell me, where can I
find her?"

"Are you acquainted with her? You seem to be a stranger, young lady, in
Bristol. Are you acquainted with Miss Hodges's _whole_ history?"

"Yes, her _whole_ history; every feeling of her soul; every thought of
her mind!" cried Angelina, with enthusiasm. "We have corresponded for two
years past."

Mrs. Porett smiled. "It is not always possible," said she, "to judge of
ladies by their letters. I am not inclined to believe _above half_ what
the world says, according to Lord Chesterfield's allowance for scandalous
stories; but it may be necessary to warn you, as you seem very young,
that--"

"Madam," cried Angelina, "young as I am, I know that superior genius and
virtue are the inevitable objects of scandal. It is in vain to detain me
further."

"I am truly sorry for it," said Mrs. Porett; "but, perhaps, you will
allow me to tell you, that--"

"No, not a word; not a word more will I hear," cried our heroine; and she
hurried out of the house, and threw herself into the coach. Mrs. Porett
contrived, however, to make Betty Williams hear, that the most probable
means of gaining any intelligence of Miss Hodges, would be to inquire for
her at the shop of Mr. Beatson, who was her printer. To Mr. Beatson's
they drove--though Betty professed that she was half unwilling to inquire
for Miss Hodges from any one whose name did not begin with a p, and end
with a t.

"What a pity it is," said Mrs. Porett, when she returned to her
pupils--"what a pity it is that this young lady's friends should permit
her to go about in a hackney-coach, with such a strange, vulgar servant
girl as that! She is too young to know how quickly, and often how
severely, the world judges by appearances. Miss Hope, now we talk of
appearances, you forget that your gown is torn, and you do not know,
perhaps, that your friend, Lady Frances Somerset--"

"Lady Frances Somerset!" cried Clara Hope--"I love to hear her very
name."

"For which reason you interrupt me the moment I mention it--I have a
great mind not to tell you--that Lady Frances Somerset has invited you to
go to the play with her to-night:--'The Merchant of Venice, and the
Adopted Child.'"

"Gude-natured Lady Frances Somerset, I'm sure an' if Clara Hope had been
your adopted child twenty times over, you could not have been more kind
to her _nor_ you have been.--No, not had she been your are countrywoman,
and of your are clan--and all for the same reasons that make some neglect
and look down upon her--because Clara is not meikle rich, and is far away
from her ane ane friends.--Gude Lady Frances Somerset! Clara Hope luves
you in her heart, and she's as blythe wi' the thought o' ganging to see
you as if she were going to dear Inverary."

It is a pity, for the sake of our story, that Miss Warwick did not stay a
few minutes longer at Mrs. Porett's, that she might have heard this
eulogium on Lady Frances Somerset, and might have, a second time in one
day, discovered that she was on the very brink of meeting with the
persons she most dreaded to see; but, however temptingly romantic such an
incident would have been, we must, according to our duty as faithful
historians, deliver a plain unvarnished tale.

Miss Warwick arrived at Mr. Beatson's, and as soon as she had pronounced
the name of Hodges, the printer called to his devil for a parcel of
advertisements, which he put into her hand; they were proposals for
printing by subscription a new novel--"The Sorrows of Araminta."

"Oh, my Araminta! my amiable Araminta! have I found you at last?--_The
Sorrows of Araminta, a novel, in nine volumes_--Oh, charming!--_together
with a tragedy on the same plan_--Delightful!--_Subscriptions received at
Joseph Beatson's, printer and bookseller; and by Rachael Hodges_--Odious
name!--_at Mrs. Bertrand's_."

"_Bartrand!_--There now _you_, do ye hear that? the lady lives at Mrs.
Bartrand's: how will you make out now that Bartrand begins with a p, and
ends with a t, now?" said the hackney-coachman to Betty, who was standing
at the door.

"Pertrant! why," cried Betty, "what would you have?"

"Silence! O silence!" said Miss Warwick; and she continued
reading--"_Subscriptions received at Mrs. Bertrand's_."

"Pertrant, you hear, plockhead, you Irishman!" cried Betty Williams.

"Bartrand--you have no ears, Welshwoman as you are!" retorted Terence
O'Grady.

"Subscription two guineas, for the Sorrows of Araminta," continued our
heroine; but, looking up, she saw Betty Williams and the hackney-coachman
making menacing faces and gestures at one another.

"Fight it out in the passage, for Heaven's sake!" said Angelina; "if you
must fight, fight out of my sight."

"For shame, before the young lady!" said Mr. Beatson, holding the
hackney-coachman: "have done disputing so loud."

"I've done, but she is wrong," cried Terence.

"I've done, put he is wrong," said Betty.

Terence was so much provoked by the Welshwoman, that he declared he would
not carry her a step further in his coach--that his _beasts_ were tired,
and that he must be paid his fare, for that he neither could nor would
wait any longer. Betty Williams was desired by Angelina to pay him. She
hesitated; but after being assured by Miss Warwick that the debt should
be punctually discharged in a few hours, she acknowledged that she had
silver enough "in a little box at the bottom of her pocket;" and, after
much fumbling, she pulled out a snuff-box, which, she said, had been
given to her by her "creat crandmother."--Whilst she was paying the
coachman, the printer's devil observed one end of a piece of lace hanging
out of her pocket; she had, by accident, pulled it out along with the
snuff-box.

"And was this your great grandmother's too?" said the printer's devil,
taking hold of the lace.

Betty started. Angelina was busy, making inquiries from the printer, and
she did not see or hear what was passing close to her: the coachman was
intent upon the examination of his shillings. Betty, with great
assurance, reproved the printer's devil for touching such lace with his
plack fingers.

"'Twas not my Grandmother's--'tis the young lady's," said she: "let it
pe, pray--look how you have placked it, and marked it, with plack
fingers."

She put the stolen lace hastily into her pocket, and immediately went
out, as Miss Warwick desired, to call another coach.

Before we follow our heroine to Mrs. Bertrand's, we must beg leave to go,
and, if we can, to transport our readers with us, to Lady Frances
Somerset's house, at Clifton.

CHAPTER IV.

"Well, how I am to get up this hill again, Heaven knows!" said Lady Diana
Chillingworth, who had been prevailed upon to walk down Clifton Hill to
the Wells. "Heigho! that sister of mine, Lady Frances, walks, and talks,
and laughs, and admires the beauties of nature till I'm half dead."

"Why, indeed, Lady Frances Somerset, I must allow," said Miss Burrage,
"is not the fittest companion in the world for a person of your
ladyship's nerves; but then it is to be hoped that the glass of water
which you have just taken fresh at the pump will be of service, provided
the racketing to Bristol to the play don't counteract it, and undo all
again."

"How I dread going into that Bristol playhouse!" said Miss Burrage to
herself--"some of my precious relations may be there to claim me. My aunt
Dinah--God bless her for a starched quaker--wouldn't be seen at a play,
I'm sure--so she's safe;--but the odious sugar-baker's daughters might be
there, dizened out; and between the acts, their great tall figures might
rise in judgment against me--spy me out--stare and curtsy--pop--pop--pop
at me without mercy, or bawl out across the benches, 'Cousin Burrage!
Cousin Burrage!' And Lady Diana Chillingworth to hear it!--oh, I should
sink into the earth."

"What amusement," continued Miss Burrage, addressing herself to Lady Di.,
"what amusement Lady Frances Somerset can find at a Bristol playhouse,
and at this time of the year too, is to me really unaccountable."

"I do suppose," replied Lady Diana, "that my sister goes only to please
that child--(Clara Hope, I think they call her)--not to please me, I'm
sure;--but what is she doing all this time in the pump-room? does she
know we are waiting for her?--oh, here she comes.--Frances, I am half
dead."

"Half dead, my dear! well, here is something to bring you to life again,"
said Lady Frances: "I do believe I have found out Miss Warwick."

"I am sure, my dear, _that_ does not revive me--I've been almost plagued
to death with her already," said Lady Diana.

"There's no living in this world without plagues of some sort or
other--but the pleasure of doing good makes one forget them all: here,
look at this advertisement, my dear," said Lady Frances: "a gentleman,
whom I have just met with in the pump-room, was reading it in the
newspaper when I came in, and a whole knot of scandal-mongers were
settling who it could possibly be. One snug little man, a Welsh curate, I
believe, was certain it was the bar-maid of an inn at Bath, who is said
to have inveigled a young nobleman into matrimony. I left the Welshman in
the midst of a long story, about his father and a young lady, who lost
her shoe on the Welsh mountains, and I ran away with the paper to bring
it to you."

Lady Diana received the paper with an air of reluctance.

"Was not I very fortunate to meet with it?" said Lady Frances.

"I protest I see no good fortune in the business, from beginning to end."

"Ah, because you are not come to the end yet--look--'tis from Mrs. Hoel,
of the inn at Cardiffe, and by the date, she must have been there last
week."

"Who--Mrs. Hoel?"

"Miss Warwick, my dear--I beg pardon for my pronoun--but do read
this--eyes--hair--complexion--age--size--it certainly must be Miss
Warwick."

"And what then?" said Lady Di, with provoking coldness, walking on
towards home.

"Why, then, my dear, you know we can go to Cardiffe to-morrow morning,
find the poor girl, and, before any body knows any thing of the matter,
before her reputation is hurt, or you blamed, before any harm can happen,
convince the girl of her folly and imprudence, and bring her back to you
and common sense."

"To common sense, and welcome, if you can; but not to me."

"Not to you!--Nay; but, my dear, what will become of her?"

"Nay; but, my dear Frances, what will the world say?"

"Of her?"

"Of me."

"My dear Di., shall I tell you what the world would say?"

"No, Lady Frances, I'll tell _you_ what the world would say--that Lady
Diana Chillingworth's house was an asylum for runaways."

"An asylum for nonsense!--I beg your pardon, sister--but it always
provokes me to see a person afraid to do what they think right, because,
truly, 'the world will say it is wrong.' What signifies the uneasiness we
may suffer from the idle blame or tittle-tattle of the day, compared with
the happiness of a young girl's whole life, which is at stake?"

"Oh, Lady Frances, that is spoken like yourself--I love you in my
heart--that's right! that's right!" thought Clara Hope.

Lady Diana fell back a few paces, that she might consult one whose advice
she always found agreeable to her own opinions.

"In my opinion," whispered Miss Burrage to Lady Diana, "you are right,
quite right, to have nothing more to do with the _happiness_ of a young
lady who has taken such a step."

They were just leaving St. Vincent's parade, when they heard the sound of
music upon the walk by the river side, and they saw a little boy there,
seated at the foot of a tree, playing on the guitar, and singing--

"J'ai quitte mon pays et mes amis,
Pour jouer de la guitare,
Qui va clin, clin, qui va clin, clin,
Qui va clin, clin, clin, clin."

"Ha! my wee wee friend," said Clara Hope, "are you here?--I was just
thinking of you, just wishing for you. By gude luck, have you the weeny
locket about you that the young lady gave you this morning?--the weeny
locket, my bonny boy?"

"Plait-il?" said little Louis.

"He _don't_ understand one word," said Miss Burrage, laughing
sarcastically, "he don't understand one word of all your _bonnys_, and
_wee wees_ and _weenies_, Miss Hope; he, unfortunately, don't understand
broad Scotch, and maybe he mayn't be so great a proficient as you are in
_boarding-school_ French; but I'll try if he can understand _me_, if
you'll tell me what you want."

"Such a trinket as this," said Clara, showing a locket which hung from
her neck.

"Ah oui--yes, I comprehend now," cried the boy, taking from his
coat-pocket a small case of trinkets--"la voila!--here is vat de young
lady did give me--good young lady!" said Louis, and he produced the
locket.

"I declare," exclaimed Miss Burrage, catching hold of it, "'tis Miss
Warwick's locket! I'm sure of it--here's the motto--I've read it, and
laughed at it twenty times--L'Amie Inconnue."

"When I heard you all talking just now about that description of the
young lady in the newspaper, I cude not but fancy," said Clara Hope,
"that the lady whom I saw this morning must be Miss Warwick."

"Saw--where?" cried Lady Frances, eagerly.

"At Bristol--at our academy--at Mrs. Porett's," said Clara; "but mark me,
she is not there now--I do not ken where she may be now."

"Moi je sais!--I do know de demoiselle did stop in a coach at one house;
I was in de street--I can show you de house."

"Can you so, my good little fellow? then let us begone directly," said
Lady Frances.

"You'll excuse me, sister," said Lady Di.

"Excuse you!--_I_ will, but _the world_ will not. You'll be
abused, sister, shockingly abused."

This assertion made more impression upon Lady Di. Chillingworth than
could have been made either by argument or entreaty.

"One really does not know how to act--people take so much notice of every
thing that is said and done by persons of a certain rank: if you think
that I shall be so much abused--I absolutely do not know what to say."

"But I thought," interposed Miss Burrage, "that Lady Frances was going to
take you to the play to-night, Miss Hope?"

"Oh, never heed the play--never heed the play, or Clara Hope--never
heed taking me to the play: Lady Frances is going to do a better
thing.--Come on, my bonny boy," said she to the little French boy, who
was following them.

We must now return to our heroine, whom we left on her way to Mrs.
Bertrand's. Mrs. Bertrand kept a large confectionary and fruit shop in
Bristol.

"Please to walk through this way, ma'am--Miss Hodges is above stairs--she
shall be apprized directly--Jenny! run up stairs," said Mrs. Bertrand to
her maid--"run up stairs, and tell Miss Hodges here's a young lady wants
to see her in a great hurry--You'd best sit down, ma'am," continued Mrs.
Bertrand to Angelina, "till the girl has been up with the message."

"Oh, my Araminta! how my heart beats!" exclaimed Miss Warwick.

"How my mouth waters!" cried Betty Williams, looking round at the fruit
and confectionaries.

"Would you, ma'am, he pleased," said Mrs. Bertrand, "to take a glass of
ice this warm evening? cream-ice, or water-ice, ma'am? pine-apple or
strawberry ice?" As she spoke, Mrs. Bertrand held a salver, covered with
ices, toward Miss Warwick: but, apparently, she thought that it was not
consistent with the delicacy of friendship to think of eating or drinking
when she was thus upon the eve of her first interview with her Araminta.
Betty Williams, who was of a different _nature_ from our heroine, saw the
salver recede with excessive surprise and regret; she stretched out her
hand after it, and seized a glass of raspberry-ice; but no sooner had she
tasted it than she made a frightful face, and let the glass fall,
exclaiming--

"Pless us! 'tis not as good as cooseherry fool."

Mrs. Bertrand next offered her a cheesecake, which Betty ate voraciously.

"She's actually a female Sancho Panza!" thought Angelina: her own
more striking resemblance to the female Quixote never occurred to our
heroine--so blind are we to our own failings.

"Who is the young lady?" whispered the mistress of the fruit shop to
Betty Williams, whilst Miss Warwick was walking--we should say
_pacing_--up and down the room, in _anxious solicitude, and evident
agitation_.

"Hur's a young lady," replied Betty, stopping to take a mouthful of
cheesecake between every member of her sentence, "a young lady--that
has--lost hur--"

"Her heart--so I thought."

"Hur purse!" said Betty, with an accent, which showed that she thought
this the more serious loss of the two.

"Her purse!--that's bad indeed:--you pay for your own cheesecake and
raspberry-ice, and for the glass that you broke," said Mrs. Bertrand.

"Put hur has a great deal of money in hur trunk, I pelieve, at
Llanwaetur," said Betty.

"Surely Miss Hodges does not know I am here," cried Miss Warwick--"her
Angelina!"

"Ma'am, she'll be down immediately, I do suppose," said Mrs. Bertrand.
"What was it you pleased called for--angelica, ma'am, did you say? At
present we are quite out, I'm ashamed to say, of angelica, ma'am--Well,
child," continued Mrs. Bertrand to her maid, who was at this moment seen
passing by the back door of the shop in great haste.

"Ma'am--anan," said the maid, turning back her cap from off her ear.

"Anan! deaf doll! didn't you hear me tell you to tell Miss Hodges a lady
wanted to speak to her in a great hurry?"

"No, mam," replied the girl, who spoke in the broad Somersetshire
dialect: "I heard you zay, _up to Miss Hodges_; zoo I thought it was the
bottle o'brandy, and zoo I took alung with the tea-kettle--but I'll go up
again now, and zay miss bes in a hurry, az she zays."

"Brandy!" repeated Miss Warwick, on whom the word seemed to make a great
impression.

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