Tales And Novels, Volume 1 by Maria Edgeworth

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

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"I am, indeed, fully convinced of your integrity, of the generosity, the
simplicity of your mind. May I ask whether you formed any conjecture,
whether you know whom that letter was from?"

Helen, with an ingenuous look, replied--"Yes, sir, I did form a
conjecture--I thought it was from you."

"From me!" exclaimed Mr. Mountague. "I must undeceive you there: the
letter was not mine. I am eager," continued he, smiling, "to undeceive
you. I wish I might flatter myself this explanation could ever be half as
interesting to you as it is to me. That letter was not mine, and I can
never, in future, be on any other terms with Lady Augusta than those of a
common acquaintance."

Here they were interrupted by the sudden entrance of mademoiselle,
followed by Dashwood, to whom she was talking with great earnestness. Mr.
Mountague, when he had collected his thoughts sufficiently to think of
Lady Augusta, wrote the following answer to her letter:--

"Your ladyship may be perfectly at ease with respect to your note. Miss
Helen Temple has not read it, nor has she, I am convinced, the slightest
suspicion of its contents or its author. I beg leave to assure your
ladyship, that I am sensible of the honour of your confidence, and that
you shall never have any reason to repent of having trusted in my
discretion. Yet permit me, even at the hazard of appearing impertinent,
at the still greater hazard of incurring your displeasure, to express my
most earnest hope that nothing will tempt you to form a connexion, which
I am persuaded would prove fatal to the happiness of your future life. I
am, with much respect, Your ladyship's obedient servant, F. MOUNTAGUE."

Lady Augusta read this answer to her note with the greatest eagerness:
the first time she ran her eye over it, joy, to find her secret yet
undiscovered, suspended every other feeling; but, upon a second perusal,
her ladyship felt extremely displeased by the cold civility of the style,
and somewhat alarmed at the concluding paragraph. With no esteem, and
little affection for Dashwood, she had suffered herself to imagine that
her passion for him was _uncontrollable_.

What degree of felicity she was likely to enjoy with a man destitute
equally of fortune and principle, she had never attempted to calculate;
but there was something awful in the words--"I earnestly hope that
nothing will tempt you to form a connexion which would prove fatal to
your future happiness." Whilst she was pondering upon these words,
Dashwood met her in the park, where she was walking alone. "Why so
grave?" exclaimed he, with anxiety.

"I am only thinking--that--I am afraid--I think this is a silly business:
I wish, Mr. Dashwood, you wouldn't think any more of it, and give me back
my letters."

Dashwood vehemently swore that her letters were dearer to him than life,
and that the "last pang should tear them from his heart."

"But, if we go on with all this," resumed Lady Augusta, "it will at least
break my mother's heart, and mademoiselle's into the bargain; besides, I
don't half believe you; I really--"

"I really, what?" cried he, pouring forth protestations of passion, which
put Mr. Mountague's letter entirely out of her head.

A number of small motives sometimes decide the mind in the most important
actions of our lives; and faults are often attributed to passion which
arise from folly. The pleasure of duping her governess, the fear of
witnessing Helen's triumph over her lover's recovered affections, and the
idea of the bustle and eclat of an elopement, all mixed together, went
under the general denomination of love!--Cupid is often blamed for deeds
in which he has no share.

"But," resumed Lady Augusta, after making the last pause of expiring
prudence, "what shall we do about mademoiselle?"

"Poor mademoiselle!" cried Dashwood, leaning back against a tree to
support himself, whilst he laughed violently--"what do you think she is
about at this instant?--packing up her clothes in a band-box."

"Packing up her clothes in a band-box!"

"Yes; she verily believes that I am dying with impatience to carry her
off to Scotland, and at four o'clock to-morrow morning she trips down
stairs out of the garden-door, of which she keeps the key, flies across
the park, scales the gate, gains the village, and takes refuge with her
good friend, Miss Lacy, the milliner, where she is to wait for me. Now,
in the mean time, the moment the coast is clear, I fly to you, my _real_
angel."

"Oh, no, upon my word," said Lady Augusta, so faintly, that Dashwood went
on exactly in the same tone.

"I fly to you, my angel, and we shall be half way on our trip to Scotland
before mademoiselle's patience is half exhausted, and before _Miladi_
S---- is quite awake."

Lady Augusta could not forbear smiling at this idea; and thus, by an
_unlucky_ stroke of humour, was the grand event of her life decided.

Marmontel's well-known story, called _Heureusement_, is certainly not a
moral tale: to counteract its effects, he should have written
_Malheureusement_, if he could.

Nothing happened to disconcert the measures of Lady Augusta and Dashwood.

The next morning Lady S---- came down, according to her usual custom,
late to breakfast. Mrs. Temple, Helen, Emma, Lord George, Mr. Mountague,
&c., were assembled. "Has not mademoiselle made breakfast for us yet?"
said Lady S----. She sat down, and expected every moment to see Mlle.
Panache and her daughter make their appearance; but she waited in vain.
Neither mademoiselle, Lady Augusta, nor Dashwood, were any where to be
found. Every body round the breakfast-table looked at each other in
silence, waiting the event. "They are out walking, I suppose," said Lady
S----, which supposition contented her for the first five minutes; but
then she exclaimed, "It's very strange they don't come back!"

"Very strange--I mean rather strange," said Lord George, helping himself,
as he spoke, to his usual quantity of butter, and then drumming upon the
table; whilst Mr. Mountague, all the time, looked down, and preserved a
profound silence.

At length the door opened, and Mlle. Panache, in a riding habit, made her
appearance. "_Bon jour, miladi! Bon jour!_" said she, looking round at
the silent party, with a half terrified, half astonished countenance. _Je
vous demande mille pardons--Qu'est ce que c'est?_ I have only been to
take a walk dis morning into de village to de milliner's. She has
disappointed me of my tings, dat kept me waiting; but I am come back in
time for breakfast, I hope?"

"But where is my daughter?" cried Lady S----, roused at last from her
natural indolence--"where is Lady Augusta?"

"_Bon Dieu!_ Miladi, I don't know. _Bon Dieu!_ in her bed, I suppose.
_Bon Dieu!_" exclaimed she a third time, and turned as pale as ashes.
"But where den is Mr. Dashwood?" At this instant a note, directed to
mademoiselle, was brought into the room: the servant said that Lady
Augusta's maid had just found it upon her lady's toilette--mademoiselle
tore open the note.

"Excuse me to my mother--_you_ can best plead my excuse.

"You will not see me again till I am

'Augusta Dashwood.'"

"_Ah scelerat! Ah scelerat! Il m'a trahi!_" screamed mademoiselle: she
threw down the note, and sunk upon the sofa in real hysterics; whilst
Lady S----, seeing in one and the same moment her own folly and her
daughter's ruin, fixed her eyes upon the words "Augusta Dashwood," and
fainted. Mr. Mountague led Lord George out of the room with him, whilst
Mrs. Temple, Helen, and her sister, ran to the assistance of the unhappy
mother and the detected governess.

As soon as mademoiselle had recovered tolerable _composure_, she
recollected that she had betrayed too violent emotion on this occasion.
"_Il m'a trahi_," were words, however, that she could not recall; it was
in vain she attempted to fabricate some apology for herself. No apology
could avail: and whilst Lady S----, in silent anguish, wept for her own
and her daughter's folly, the governess, in loud and gross terms, abused
Dashwood, and reproached her pupil with having shown duplicity,
ingratitude, and a _bad heart_.

"A bad education!" exclaimed Lady S----, with a voice of mingled anger
and sorrow. "Leave the room, mademoiselle; leave my house. How could I
choose such a governess for my daughter! Yet, indeed," added her
ladyship, turning to Mrs. Temple, "she was well recommended to me, and
how could I foresee all this?"

To such an appeal, at such a time, there was no reply to be made: it is
cruel to point out errors to those who feel that they are irreparable;
but it is benevolent to point them out to others, who have yet their
choice to make.

THE KNAPSACK [1]

[Footnote 1: In the Travels of M. Beanjolin into Sweden, he mentions
having, in the year 1790, met carriages laden with the knapsacks of
Swedish soldiers, who had fallen in battle in Finland. These carriages
were escorted by peasants, who were relieved at every stage, and thus the
property of the deceased was conveyed from one extremity of the kingdom
to the other, and faithfully restored to their relations. The Swedish
peasants are so remarkably honest, that scarcely any thing is ever lost
in these convoys of numerous and ill-secured packages.]

_DRAMATIS PERSONAE_

COUNT HELMAAR, _a Swedish Nobleman_.
CHRISTIERN, _a Swedish Soldier_.
ALEFTSON, _Count Helmaar's Fool_.
THOMAS, _a Footman_.

ELEONORA, _a Swedish Lady, beloved by Count Helmaar_.
CHRISTINA, _Sister to Helmaar_.
ULRICA, _an old Housekeeper_.
CATHERINE, _Wife to Christiern_.

KATE _and_ ULRIC, _the Son and Daughter of Catherine--they are six and
seven years old_.

_Serjeant, and a Troop of Soldiers, a Train of Dancers, a Page, Peasants,
&c_.

ACT I.

SCENE--_A cottage in Sweden_.--CATHERINE, _a young and handsome woman, is
sitting at her spinning wheel.--A little Boy and Girl, of six and seven
years of age, are seated on the ground eating their dinner_.

CATHERINE _sings, while she is spinning_.

Haste from the wars, oh, haste to me,
The wife that fondly waits for thee;
Long are the years, and long each day,
While my loved soldier's far away.
Haste from the wars, &c.

Lone ev'ry field, and lone the bow'r;
Pleasant to me nor sun nor show'r:
The snows are gone, the flow'rs are gay--
Why is my life of life away?
Haste from the wars, &c.

_Little Girl_. When will father come home?

_Little Boy_. When will he come, mother? when? To-day? to-morrow?

_Cath_. No, not to-day, nor to-morrow, but soon, I hope, very soon; for
they say the wars are over.

_Little Girl_. I am glad of that, and when father comes home, I'll give
him some of my flowers.

_Little Boy (who is still eating)_. And I'll give him some of my bread
and cheese, which he'll like better than flowers, if he is as hungry as I
am, and that to be sure he will be, after coming such a long, long
journey.

_Little Girl_. Long, long journey! how long?--how far is father off,
mother?--where is he?

_Little Boy_. I know, he is in--in--in--in--in Finland? how far off,
mother?

_Cath_. A great many miles, my dear; I don't know how many.

_Little Boy_. Is it not two miles to the great house, mother, where we go
to sell our faggots?

_Cath_. Yes, about two miles--and now you had best set out towards the
great house, and ask Mrs. Ulrica, the housekeeper, to pay you the little
bill she owes you for faggots--there's good children; and when you have
been paid for your faggots, you can call at the baker's, in the village,
and bring home some bread for to-morrow (_patting the little boy's
head_)--you that love bread and cheese so much must work hard to get it.

_Little Boy_. Yes, so I will work hard, then I shall have enough for
myself and father too, when he comes. Come along--come (_to his
sister_)--and, as we come home through the forest, I'll show you where we
can get plenty of sticks for to-morrow, and we'll help one another.

_Little Girl sings_.

That's the best way,
At work and at play,
To help one another--I heard mother say--
To help one another--I heard mother say--

[_The children go off, singing these words_.]

_Cath. (alone_.) Dear, good children, how happy their father will be to
see them, when he comes back!--(_She begins to eat the remains of the
dinner, which the children have left_.) The little rogue was so hungry,
he has not left me much; but he would have left me all, if he had thought
that I wanted it: he shall have a _good large bowl_ of milk for supper.
It was but last night he skimmed the cream off his milk for me, because
he thought I liked it. Heigho!--God knows how long they may have milk to
skim--as long as I can work they shall never want; but I'm not so strong
as I used to be; but then I shall get strong, and all will be well, when
my husband comes back (_a drum beats at a distance_). Hark! a drum!--some
news from abroad, perhaps--nearer and nearer (_she sinks upon a
chair_)--why cannot I run to see--to ask (_the drum beats louder and
louder_)--fool that I am! they will be gone! they will be all gone! (_she
starts up_.)

[_Exit hastily_.]

SCENE _changes to a high road, leading to a village.--A party of ragged,
tired soldiers, marching slowly. Serjeant ranges them_.

_Serj_. Keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, we have not a great way
further to go:--keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, through yonder
village. (_The drum beats_.)

[_Soldiers exeunt_.]

_Serj_. (_alone_.) Poor fellows, my heart bleeds to see them! the sad
remains, these, of as fine a regiment as ever handled a musket. Ah! I've
seen them march quite another guess sort of way, when they marched, and I
amongst them, to face the enemy--heads up--step firm--thus it was--quick
time--march!--(_he marches proudly_)--My poor fellows, how they lag now
(_looking after them_)--ay, ay, there they go, slower and slower; they
don't like going through the village; nor I neither; for, at every
village we pass through, out come the women and children, running after
us, and crying, "Where's my father?--What's become of my husband?"--Stout
fellow as I am, and a Serjeant too, that ought to know better, and set
the others an example, I can't stand these questions.

_Enter_ CATHERINE, _breathless_.

_Cath_. I--I--I've overtaken him at last. Sir--Mr. Serjeant, one word!
What news from Finland?

_Serj_. The best--the war's over. Peace is proclaimed.

_Cath. (clasping her hands joyfully_.) Peace! happy sound!--Peace! The
war's over!--Peace!--And the regiment of Helmaar--(_The Serjeant appears
impatient to get away_)--Only one word, good serjeant: when will the
regiment of Helmaar be back?

_Serj_. All that remain of it will be home next week.

_Cath_. Next week?--But, all that _remain_, did you say?--Then many have
been killed?

_Serj_. Many, many--too many. Some honest peasants are bringing home the
knapsacks of those who have fallen in battle. 'Tis fair that what little
they had should come home to their families. Now, I pray you, let me pass
on.

_Cath_. One word more: tell me, do you know, in the regiment of Helmaar,
one Christiern Aleftson?

_Serj, (with eagerness_.) Christiern Aleftson! as brave a fellow, and as
good as ever lived, if it be the same that I knew.

_Cath_. As brave a fellow, and as good as ever lived! Oh, that's he! he
is my husband--where is he? where is he?

_Serj, (aside_.) She wrings my heart!--(_Aloud_)--He was--

_Cath_. _Was!_

_Serj_. He is, I hope, safe.

_Cath_. You _hope!_--don't look away--I must see your face: tell me all
you know.

_Serj_. I know nothing for certain. When the peasants come with the
knapsacks, you will hear all from them. Pray you, let me follow my men;
they are already at a great distance.

[_Exit Serj. followed by Catherine_.]

_Cath_. I will not detain you an instant--only one word more--

[_Exit_.]

SCENE.--_An apartment in Count Helmaar's Castle.--A train of
dancers.--After they have danced for some time,

Enter a Page_.

_Page_. Ladies! I have waited, according to your commands, till Count
Helmaar appeared in the ante-chamber--he is there now, along with the
ladies Christina and Eleonora.

_1st Dancer_. Now is our time--Count Helmaar shall hear our song to
welcome him home.

_2nd Dancer_. None was ever more welcome.

_3rd Dancer_. But stay till I have breath to sing.

SONG.

I.

Welcome, Helmaar, welcome home;
In crowds your happy neighbours come,
To hail with joy the cheerful morn,
That sees their Helmaar's safe return.

II.

No hollow heart, no borrow'd face.
Shall ever Helmaar's hall disgrace:
Slaves alone on tyrants wait;
Friends surround the good and great.

Welcome Helmaar, &c.

_Enter_ ELEONORA, CHRISTINA, _and_ COUNT HELMAAR.

_Helmaar_. Thanks, my friends, for this kind welcome.

_1st Dancer (looking at a black fillet on Helmaar's head_). He has been
wounded.

_Christina_. Yes--severely wounded.

_Helmaar_. And had it not been for the fidelity of the soldier who
carried me from the field of battle, I should never have seen you more,
my friends, nor you, my charming Eleonora. (_A noise of one singing
behind the scenes_.)--What disturbance is that without?

_Christina_. Tis only Aleftson, the fool:--in your absence, brother, he
has been the cause of great diversion in the castle:--I love to play upon
him, it keeps him in tune;--you can't think how much good it does him.

_Helmaar_. And how much good it does you, sister:--from your childhood
you had always a lively wit, and loved to exercise it; but do you waste
it upon fools?

_Christina_. I'm sometimes inclined to think this Aleftson is more knave
than fool.

_Eleon_. By your leave, Lady Christina, he is no knave, or I am much
mistaken. To my knowledge, he has carried his whole salary, and all the
little presents he has received from us, to his brother's wife and
children. I have seen him chuck his money, thus, at those poor children,
when they have been at their plays, and then run away, lest their mother
should make them give it back.

_Enter_ ALEFTSON, _the fool, in a fool's coat, fool's cap and bells,
singing_.

I.

There's the courtier, who watches the nod of the great;
Who thinks much of his pension, and nought of the state:
When for ribands and titles his honour he sells--
What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

II.

There's the gamester, who stakes on the turn of a die
His house and his acres, the devil knows why:
His acres he loses, his forests he sells--
What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

III.

There's the student so crabbed and wonderful wise,
With his plus and his minus, his x's and y's:
Pale at midnight he pores o'er his magical spells--
What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

IV.

The lover, who's ogling, and rhyming, and sighing,
Who's musing, and pining, and whining, and dying:
When a thousand of lies ev'ry minute he tells--
What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

V.

There's the lady so fine, with her airs and her graces,
With a face like an angel's--if angels have faces:
She marries, and Hymen the vision dispels--
What's her husband, my friends, but a fool without bells?

_Christina, Eleonora, Helmaar, &c_.--Bravo! bravissimo!--excellent
fool!--Encore.

[_The fool folds his arms, and begins to cry bitterly_.]

_Christina_. What now, Aleftson? I never saw you sad before--What's the
matter?--Speak.

[_Fool sobs, but gives no answer_.]

_Helm_. Why do you weep so bitterly?

_Aleft_. Because I am a fool.

_Helm_. Many should weep, if that were cause sufficient.

_Eleon_. But, Aleftson, you have all your life, till now, been a merry
fool.

_Fool_. Because always, till now, I was a fool, but now I am grown wise:
and 'tis difficult, to all but you, lady, to be merry and wise.

_Christina_. A pretty compliment; 'tis a pity it was paid by a fool.

_Fool_. Who else should pay compliments, lady, or who else believe them?

_Christina_. Nay, I thought it was the privilege of a fool to speak the
truth without offence.

_Fool_. Fool as you take me to be, I'm not fool enough yet to speak truth
to a lady, and think to do it without offence.

_Eleon_. Why, you have said a hundred severe things to _me_ within this
week, and have I ever been angry with you?

_Fool_. Never; for, out of the whole hundred, not one was true. But have
a care, lady--fool as I am, you'd be glad to stop a fool's mouth with
your white hand this instant, rather than let him tell the truth of you.

_Christina_ (_laughing, and all the other ladies, except Eleonora,
exclaim_)--Speak on, good fool; speak on--

_Helm_. I am much mistaken, or the lady Eleonora fears not to hear the
truth from either wise men or fools--Speak on.

_Fool_. One day, not long ago, when there came news that our count there
was killed in Finland--I, being a fool, was lying laughing, and thinking
of nothing at all, on the floor, in the west drawing-room, looking at the
count's picture--In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears.

_Eleon_. (stopping his mouth.) Oh! tell any thing but _that_, good fool.

_Helmaar_ (_kneels and kisses her hand_). Speak on, excellent fool.

_Christina and ladies_. Speak on, excellent fool--In came the Lady
Eleonora, all in tears.

_Fool_. In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears--(_pauses and looks
round_). Why now, what makes you all so curious about these tears?--Tears
are but salt water, let them come from what eyes they will--my tears are
as good as hers--in came John Aleftson, all in tears, just now, and
nobody kneels to me--nobody kisses my hands--nobody cares half a straw
for my tears--(_folds his arms and looks melancholy_). I am not one of
those--I know the cause of my tears too well.

_Helm_. Perhaps they were caused by my unexpected return--hey?

_Fool_ (_scornfully_). No--I am not such a fool as that comes to. Don't I
know that, when you are at home, the poor may hold up their heads, and no
journeyman-gentleman of an agent dares then to go about plaguing those
who live in cottages? No, no,--I am not such a fool as to cry because
Count Helmaar is come back; but the truth is, I cried because I am tired
and ashamed of wearing this thing--(_throwing down his fool's cap upon
the floor, changes his tone entirely_)--_I!_--who am brother to the man
who saved Count Helmaar's life--I to wear a fool's cap and bells--Oh
shame! shame!

[_The ladies look at one another with signs of astonishment._]

_Christina_ (_aside_). A lucid interval--poor fool!--I will torment him
no more--he has feeling--'twere better he had none.

_Eleon_. Hush!--hear him!

_Aleft_. (_throwing himself at the counts feet_). Noble count, I have
submitted to be thought a fool; I have worn this fool's cap in your
absence, that I might indulge my humour, and enjoy the liberty of
speaking my mind freely to the people of all conditions. Now that you are
returned, I have no need of such a disguise--I may now speak the truth
without fear, and without a cap and bells.--I resign my salary, and give
back the ensign of my office--(_presents the fool's cap_).

[_Exit_.]

_Christina_. He might well say, that none but fools should pay
compliments--this is the best compliment that has been paid you, brother.

_Eleon_. And observe, he has resigned his salary.

_Helm_. From this moment let it be doubled:--he made an excellent use of
money when he was a fool--may he make half as good a use of it now he is
a wise man.

_Christina_. Amen--and now I hope we are to have some more dancing.

[_Exeunt_.]

ACT II.

SCENE--_By moonlight--a forest--a castle illuminated at a distance.--A
group of peasants seated on the ground, each with a knapsack beside
him.--One peasant lies stretched on the ground_.

_1st Peasant_. Why, what I say is, that the wheel of the cart
being broken, and the horse dead lame, and Charles there in that
plight--(_points to the sleeping peasant_)--it is a folly to think of
getting on further this evening.

_2nd Peasant_. And what I say is, it's folly to sleep here, seeing I
know the country, and am certain sure we have not above one mile at
furthest to go, before we get to the end of our journey.

_1st Peasant_ (_pointing to the sleeper_). He can't walk a mile--he's
done for--dog tired--

_3rd Peasant_. Are you _certain_ sure we have only one mile further to
go?

_2nd Peasant_. Certain sure--

_All, except the sleeper and the 1st Peasant_. Oh, let us go on, then,
and we can carry the knapsacks on our backs for this one mile.

_1st Peasant_. You must carry him, then, knapsack and all.

_All together_. So we will.

_2nd Peasant_. But first, do you see, let's waken him; for a sleeping
man's twice as heavy as one that's awake--Hollo, friend! waken!
waken!--(_he shakes the sleeper, who snores loudly_)--Good Lord, he
snores loud enough to waken all the birds in the wood.

[_All the peasants shout in the sleeper's ear, and he starts up, shaking
himself._]

_Charles_. Am I awake?--(_stretching_.)

_2nd Peasant_. No, not yet, man--Why, don't you know where you are? Ay;
here's the moon--and these be trees; and--I be a man, and what do you
call this? (_holding up a knapsack_.)

_Charles_. A knapsack, I say, to be sure:--I'm as broad awake as the best
of you.

_2nd Peasant_. Come on, then; we've a great way further to go before you
sleep again.

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