Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales


This story was related in tones and gestures which were so new and
strange to English ears and eyes, that even the solemnity of our verger
gave way to laughter.

Mr. Marshal sent a summons for the pawnbroker, that he might learn from
him how he came by the dog-collar. The pawnbroker, when he found from
Mr. Marshal that he could by no other means save himself from being
committed to prison, confessed that the collar had been sold to him by
Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies.

A warrant was immediately despatched for his majesty; and Mr. Hill was a
good deal alarmed by the fear of its being known in Hereford that he was
on the point of swearing examinations against an innocent man upon the
evidence of a dog-stealer and a gipsy.

Bampfylde the Second made no sublime appearance when he was brought
before Mr. Marshal, nor could all his astrology avail upon this occasion.
The evidence of the pawnbroker was so positive as to the fact of his
having sold to him the dog-collar, that there was no resource left for
Bampfylde but an appeal to Mr. Hill's mercy. He fell on his knees, and
confessed that it was he who stole the dog, which used to bark at him at
night so furiously, that he could not commit certain petty depredations
by which, as much as by telling fortunes, he made his livelihood.

"And so," said Mr. Marshal, with a sternness of manner which till now he
had never shown, "to screen yourself, you accused an innocent man; and by
your vile arts would have driven him from Hereford, and have set two
families for ever at variance, to conceal that you had stolen a dog."

The king of the gipsies was, without further ceremony, committed to the
house of correction. We should not omit to mention that, on searching
his hat, the Irish haymaker's purse was found, which some of his
majesty's train had emptied. The whole set of gipsies decamped upon the
news of the apprehension of their monarch.

Mr. Hill stood in profound silence, leaning upon his walking-stick,
whilst the committal was making out for Bampfylde the Second. The fear
of ridicule was struggling with the natural positiveness of his temper.
He was dreadfully afraid that the story of his being taken in by the king
of the gipsies would get abroad; and, at the same time, he was unwilling
to give up his prejudice against the Irish glover.

"But, Mr. Marshal," cried he, after a long silence, "the hole under the
foundation of the cathedral has never been accounted for--that is, was,
and ever will be, an ugly mystery to me; and I never can have a good
opinion of this Irishman till it is cleared up, nor can I think the
cathedral in safety."

"What!" said Mr. Marshal, with an arch smile, "I suppose the verses of
the oracle still work upon your imagination, Mr. Hill. They are
excellent in their kind. I must have them by heart, that when I am asked
the reason why Mr. Hill has taken an aversion to an Irish glover, I may
be able to repeat them:--

"Now, take my word,
Wise men of Hereford,
None in safety may be,
Till the bad man doth flee."

"You'll oblige me, sir," said the verger, "if you would never repeat
those verses, sir, nor mention, in any company, the affair of the king of
the gipsies."

"I will oblige you," replied Mr. Marshal, "if you will oblige me. Will
you tell me honestly whether, now that you find this Mr. O'Neill is
neither a dog-killer nor a puller-down of bark-ricks, you feel that you
could forgive him for being an Irishman, if the mystery, as you call it,
of the hole under the cathedral was cleared up?"

"But that is not cleared up, I say, sir," cried Mr. Hill, striking his
walking-stick forcibly upon the ground with both his hands. "As to the
matter of his being an Irishman, I have nothing to say to it; I am not
saying anything about that, for I know we all are born where it pleases
God, and an Irishman may be as good as another. I know that much, Mr.
Marshal, and I am not one of those illiberal-minded, ignorant people that
cannot abide a man that was not born in England. Ireland is now in his
majesty's dominions. I know very well, Mr. Marshal; and I have no manner
of doubt, as I said before, that an Irishman born may be as good, almost,
as an Englishman born."

"I am glad," said Mr. Marshal, "to hear you speak--almost as reasonably
as an Englishman born and every man ought to speak; and I am convinced
that you have too much English hospitality to persecute an inoffensive
stranger, who comes amongst us trusting to our justice and good nature."

"I would not persecute a stranger, God forbid!" replied the verger, "if
he was, as you say, inoffensive."

"And if he was not only inoffensive, but ready to do every service in his
power to those who are in want of his assistance, we should not return
evil for good, should we?"

"That would be uncharitable, to be sure; and, moreover, a scandal," said
the verger.

"Then," said Mr. Marshal, "will you walk with me as far as the Widow
Smith's, the poor woman whose house was burnt last winter? This
haymaker, who lodged near her, can show us the way to her present abode."

During his examination of Paddy M'Cormack, who would tell his whole
history, as he called it, _out of the face_, Mr. Marshal heard several
instances of the humanity and goodness of O'Neill, which Paddy related to
excuse himself for that warmth of attachment to his cause that had been
manifested so injudiciously by pulling down the rick of bark in revenge
for the rest. Amongst other things, Paddy mentioned his countryman's
goodness to the Widow Smith. Mr. Marshal was determined, therefore, to
see whether he had, in this instance, spoken the truth; and he took Hill
with him, in hopes of being able to show him the favourable side of
O'Neill's character.

Things turned out just as Mr. Marshal expected. The poor widow and her
family, in the most simple and affecting manner, described the distress
from which they had been relieved by the good gentleman; and lady--the
lady was Phoebe Hill; and the praises that were bestowed upon Phoebe were
delightful to her father's ear, whose angry passions had now all
subsided.

The benevolent Mr. Marshal seized the moment when he saw Mr. Hill's heart
was touched, and exclaimed, "I must be acquainted with this Mr. O'Neill.
I am sure we people of Hereford ought to show some hospitality to a
stranger who has so much humanity. Mr. Hill, will you dine with him to-
morrow at my house?"

Mr. Hill was just going to accept of this invitation, when the
recollection of all he had said to his club about the hole under the
cathedral came across him, and, drawing Mr. Marshal aside, he whispered,
"But, sir, sir, that affair of the hole under the cathedral has not been
cleared up yet."

At this instant the Widow Smith exclaimed, "Oh! here comes my little
Mary" (one of her children, who came running in); "this is the little
girl, sir, to whom the lady has been so good. Make your curtsey, child.
Where have you been all this while?"

"Mammy," said the child, "I've been showing the lady my rat."

"Lord bless her! Gentlemen, the child has been wanting me this many a
day to go to see this tame rat of hers; but I could never get time,
never--and I wondered, too, at the child's liking such a creature. Tell
the gentlemen, dear, about your rat. All I know is that, let her have
but never such a tiny bit of bread for breakfast or supper, she saves a
little of that little for this rat of hers; she and her brothers have
found it out somewhere by the cathedral."

"It comes out of a hole under the wall of the cathedral," said one of the
older boys; "and we have diverted ourselves watching it, and sometimes we
have put victuals for it--so it has grown, in a manner, tame-like."

Mr. Hill and Mr. Marshal looked at one another during this speech; and
the dread of ridicule again seized on Mr. Hill, when he apprehended that,
after all he had said, the mountain might at last bring forth--a rat. Mr.
Marshal, who instantly saw what passed in the verger's mind, relieved him
from this fear by refraining even from a smile on this occasion. He only
said to the child, in a grave manner, "I am afraid, my dear, we shall be
obliged to spoil your diversion. Mr. Verger, here, cannot suffer rat-
holes in the cathedral; but, to make you amends for the loss of your
favourite, I will give you a very pretty little dog, if you have a mind."

The child was well pleased with this promise; and, at Mr. Marshal's
desire, she then went along with him and Mr. Hill to the cathedral, and
they placed themselves at a little distance from that hole which had
created so much disturbance. The child soon brought the dreadful enemy
to light; and Mr. Hill, with a faint laugh, said, "I'm glad it's no
worse, but there were many in our club who were of my opinion; and, if
they had not suspected O'Neill too, I am sure I should never have given
you so much trouble, sir, as I have done this morning. But I hope, as
the club know nothing about that vagabond, that king of the gipsies, you
will not let any one know anything about the prophecy, and all that? I
am sure I am very sorry to have given you so much trouble, Mr. Marshal."

Mr. Marshal assured him that he did not regret the time which he had
spent in endeavouring to clear up all those mysteries and suspicions; and
Mr. Hill gladly accepted his invitation to meet O'Neill at his house the
next day. No sooner had Mr. Marshal brought one of the parties to reason
and good humour than he went to prepare the other for a reconciliation.
O'Neill and his mother were both people of warm but forgiving tempers--the
arrest was fresh in their minds; but when Mr. Marshal represented to them
the whole affair, and the verger's prejudices, in a humorous light, they
joined in the good-natured laugh; and O'Neill declared that, for his
part, he was ready to forgive and to forget everything if he could but
see Miss Phoebe in the Limerick gloves.

Phoebe appeared the next day, at Mr. Marshal's, in the Limerick gloves;
and no perfume ever was so delightful to her lover as the smell of the
rose-leaves in which they had been kept.

Mr. Marshal had the benevolent pleasure of reconciling the two families.
The tanner and the glover of Hereford became, from bitter enemies, useful
friends to each other; and they were convinced by experience that nothing
could be more for their mutual advantage than to live in union.




MADAME DE FLEURY


CHAPTER I


"There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,
The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall--
How can you, mothers, vex your infants so?"--POPE

"D'abord, madame, c'est impossible!--Madame ne descendra pas ici?" said
Francois, the footman of Madame de Fleury, with a half expostulatory,
half indignant look, as he let down the step of her carriage at the
entrance of a dirty passage, that led to one of the most
miserable-looking houses in Paris.

"But what can be the cause of the cries which I hear in this house?" said
Madame de Fleury.

"'Tis only some child who is crying," replied Francois; and he would have
put up the step, but his lady was not satisfied.

"'Tis nothing in the world," continued he, with a look of appeal to the
coachman, "it _can_ be nothing, but some children who are locked up there
above. The mother, the workwoman my lady wants, is not at home: that's
certain."

"I must know the cause of these cries; I must see these children" said
Madame de Fleury, getting out of her carriage.

Francois held his arm for his lady as she got out.

"Bon!" cried he, with an air of vexation. "Si madame la vent absolument,
a la bonne heure!--Mais madame sera abimee. Madame verra que j'ai
raison. Madame ne montera jamais ce vilain escalier. D'ailleurs c'est
au cinquieme. Mais, madame, c'est impossible."

Notwithstanding the impossibility, Madame de Fleury proceeded; and
bidding her talkative footman wait in the entry, made her way up the
dark, dirty, broken staircase, the sound of the cries increasing every
instant, till, as she reached the fifth storey, she heard the shrieks of
one in violent pain. She hastened to the door of the room from which the
cries proceeded; the door was fastened, and the noise was so great that,
though she knocked as loud as she was able, she could not immediately
make herself heard. At last the voice of a child from within answered,
"The door is locked--mamma has the key in her pocket, and won't be home
till night; and here's Victoire has tumbled from the top of the big
press, and it is she that is shrieking so."

Madame de Fleury ran down the stairs which she had ascended with so much
difficulty, called to her footman, who was waiting in the entry,
despatched him for a surgeon, and then she returned to obtain from some
people who lodged in the house assistance to force open the door of the
room in which the children were confined.

On the next floor there was a smith at work, filing so earnestly that he
did not hear the screams of the children. When his door was pushed open,
and the bright vision of Madame de Fleury appeared to him, his
astonishment was so great that he seemed incapable of comprehending what
she said. In a strong provincial accent he repeated, "_Plait-il_?" and
stood aghast till she had explained herself three times; then suddenly
exclaiming, "Ah! c'est ca;"--he collected his tools precipitately, and
followed to obey her orders. The door of the room was at last forced
half open, for a press that had been overturned prevented its opening
entirely. The horrible smells that issued did not overcome Madame de
Fleury's humanity: she squeezed her way into the room, and behind the
fallen press saw three little children: the youngest, almost an infant,
ceased roaring, and ran to a corner; the eldest, a boy of about eight
years old, whose face and clothes were covered with blood, held on his
knee a girl younger than himself, whom he was trying to pacify, but who
struggled most violently and screamed incessantly, regardless of Madame
de Fleury, to whose questions she made no answer.

"Where are you hurt, my dear?" repeated Madame de Fleury in a soothing
voice. "Only tell me where you feel pain?"

The boy, showing his sister's arm, said, in a surly tone--"It is this
that is hurt--but it was not I did it."

"It was, it _was_!" cried the girl as loud as she could vociferate: "it
was Maurice threw me down from the top of the press."

"No--it was you that were pushing me, Victoire, and you fell
backwards.--Have done screeching, and show your arm to the lady."

"I can't," said the girl.

"She won't," said the boy.

"She cannot," said Madame de Fleury, kneeling down to examine it. "She
cannot move it; I am afraid that it is broken."

"Don't touch it! don't touch it!" cried the girl, screaming more
violently.

"Ma'am, she screams that way for nothing often," said the boy. "Her arm
is no more broke than mine, I'm sure; she'll move it well enough when
she's not cross."

"I am afraid," said Madame de Fleury, "that her arm is broken."

"Is it indeed?" said the boy, with a look of terror.

"Oh! don't touch it--you'll kill me; you are killing me," screamed the
poor girl, whilst Madame de Fleury with the greatest care endeavoured to
join the bones in their proper place, and resolved to hold the arm till
the arrival of the surgeon.

From the feminine appearance of this lady, no stranger would have
expected such resolution; but with all the natural sensibility and
graceful delicacy of her sex, she had none of that weakness or affection
which incapacitates from being useful in real distress. In most sudden
accidents, and in all domestic misfortunes, female resolution and
presence of mind are indispensably requisite: safety, health, and life
often depend upon the fortitude of women. Happy they who, like Madame de
Fleury, possess strength of mind united with the utmost gentleness of
manner and tenderness of disposition!

Soothed by this lady's sweet voice, the child's rage subsided; and no
longer struggling, the poor little girl sat quietly on her lap, sometimes
writhing and moaning with pain.

The surgeon at length arrived: her arm was set: and he said "that she had
probably been saved much future pain by Madame de Fleury's presence of
mind."

"Sir,--will it soon be well?" said Maurice to the surgeon.

"Oh yes, very soon, I dare say," said the little girl. "To-morrow,
perhaps; for now that it is tied up it does not hurt me to signify--and
after all, I do believe, Maurice, it was not you threw me down."

As she spoke, she held up her face to kiss her brother.--"That is right,"
said Madame de Fleury; "there is a good sister."

The little girl put out her lips, offering a second kiss, but the boy
turned hastily away to rub the tears from his eyes with the back of his
hand.

"I am not cross now: am I, Maurice?"

"No, Victoire; I was cross myself when I said _that_."

As Victoire was going to speak again, the surgeon imposed silence,
observing that she must be put to bed, and should be kept quiet. Madame
de Fleury laid her upon the bed, as soon as Maurice had cleared it of the
things with which it was covered; and as they were spreading the ragged
blanket over the little girl, she whispered a request to Madame de Fleury
that she would "stay till her mamma came home, to beg Maurice off from
being whipped, if mamma should be angry."

Touched by this instance of goodness, and compassionating the desolate
condition of these children, Madame de Fleury complied with Victoire's
request; resolving to remonstrate with their mother for leaving them
locked up in this manner. They did not know to what part of the town
their mother was gone; they could tell only "that she was to go to a
great many different places to carry back work, and to bring home more,
and that she expected to be in by five." It was now half after four.

Whilst Madame de Fleury waited, she asked the boy to give her a full
account of the manner in which the accident had happened.

"Why, ma'am," said Maurice, twisting and untwisting a ragged handkerchief
as he spoke, "the first beginning of all the mischief was, we had nothing
to do, so we went to the ashes to make dirt pies; but Babet would go so
close that she burnt her petticoat, and threw about all our ashes, and
plagued us, and we whipped her. But all would not do, she would not be
quiet; so to get out of her reach, we climbed up by this chair on the
table to the top of the press, and there we were well enough for a little
while, till somehow we began to quarrel about the old scissors, and we
struggled hard for them till I got this cut."

Here he unwound the handkerchief, and for the first time showed the
wound, which he had never mentioned before.

"Then," continued he, "when I got the cut, I shoved Victoire, and she
pushed at me again, and I was keeping her off, and her foot slipped, and
down she fell, and caught by the press-door, and pulled it and me after
her, and that's all I know."

"It is well that you were not both killed," said Madame de Fleury. "Are
you often left locked up in this manner by yourselves, and without
anything to do?"

"Yes, always, when mamma is abroad, except sometimes we are let out upon
the stairs or in the street; but mamma says we get into mischief there."

This dialogue was interrupted by the return of the mother. She came
upstairs slowly, much fatigued, and with a heavy bundle under her arm.

"How now! Maurice, how comes my door open? What's all this?" cried she,
in an angry voice; but seeing a lady sitting upon her child's bed, she
stopped short in great astonishment. Madame de Fleury related what had
happened, and averted her anger from Maurice by gently expostulating upon
the hardship and hazard of leaving her young children in this manner
during so many hours of the day.

"Why, my lady," replied the poor woman, wiping her forehead, "every hard-
working woman in Paris does the same with her children; and what can I do
else? I must earn bread for these helpless ones, and to do that I must
be out backwards and forwards, and to the furthest parts of the town,
often from morning till night, with those that employ me; and I cannot
afford to send the children to school, or to keep any kind of a servant
to look after them; and when I'm away, if I let them run about these
stairs and entries, or go into the sheets, they do get a little exercise
and air, to be sure, such as it is on which account I do let them out
sometimes; but then a deal of mischief comes of that, too: they learn all
kinds of wickedness, and would grow up to be no better than pickpockets,
if they were let often to consort with the little vagabonds they find in
the streets. So what to do better for them I don't know."

The poor mother sat down upon the fallen press, looked at Victoire, and
wept bitterly. Madame de Fleury was struck with compassion; but she did
not satisfy her feelings merely by words or comfort or by the easy
donation of some money--she resolved to do something more, and something
better.



CHAPTER II


"Come often, then; for haply in my bower
Amusement, knowledge, wisdom, thou may'st gain:
If I one soul improve, I have not lived in vain."--BEATTIE.

It is not so easy to do good as those who have never attempted it may
imagine; and they who without consideration follow the mere instinct of
pity, often by their imprudent generosity create evils more pernicious to
society than any which they partially remedy. "Warm Charity, the general
friend," may become the general enemy, unless she consults her head as
well as her heart. Whilst she pleases herself with the idea that she
daily feeds hundreds of the poor, she is perhaps preparing want and
famine for thousands. Whilst she delights herself with the anticipation
of gratitude for her bounties, she is often exciting only unreasonable
expectations, inducing habits of dependence and submission to slavery.

Those who wish to do good should attend to experience, from whom they may
receive lessons upon the largest scale that time and numbers can afford.

Madame de Fleury was aware that neither a benevolent disposition nor a
large fortune were sufficient to enable her to be of real service,
without the constant exercise of her judgment. She had, therefore,
listened with deference to the conversation of well-informed men upon
those subjects on which ladies have not always the means or the wish to
acquire extensive and accurate knowledge. Though a Parisian belle, she
had read with attention some of those books which are generally thought
too dry or too deep for her sex. Consequently, her benevolence was
neither wild in theory nor precipitate nor ostentatious in practice.

Touched with compassion for a little girl whose arm had been accidentally
broken, and shocked by the discovery of the confinement and the dangers
to which numbers of children in Paris were doomed, she did not make a
parade of her sensibility. She did not talk of her feelings in fine
sentences to a circle of opulent admirers, nor did she project for the
relief of the little sufferers some magnificent establishment which she
could not execute or superintend. She was contented with attempting only
what she had reasonable hopes of accomplishing.

The gift of education she believed to be more advantageous than the gift
of money to the poor, as it ensures the means both of future subsistence
and happiness. But the application even of this incontrovertible
principle requires caution and judgment. To crowd numbers of children
into a place called a school, to abandon them to the management of any
person called a schoolmaster or a schoolmistress, is not sufficient to
secure the blessings of a good education. Madame de Fleury was sensible
that the greatest care is necessary in the choice of the person to whom
young children are to be entrusted; she knew that only a certain number
can be properly directed by one superintendent, and that, by attempting
to do too much, she might do nothing, or worse than nothing. Her school
was formed, therefore, on a small scale, which she could enlarge to any
extent, if it should be found to succeed. From some of the families of
poor people, who, in earning their bread, are obliged to spend most of
the day from home, she selected twelve little girls, of whom Victoire was
the eldest, and she was between six and seven.

The person under whose care Madame de Fleury wished to place these
children was a nun of the _Soeurs de la Charite_, with whose simplicity
of character, benevolence, and mild, steady temper she was thoroughly
acquainted. Sister Frances was delighted with the plan. Any scheme that
promised to be of service to her follow-creatures was sure of meeting
with her approbation; but this suited her taste peculiarly, because she
was extremely fond of children. No young person had ever boarded six
months at her convent without becoming attached to good Sister Frances.

The period of which we are writing was some years before convents were
abolished; but the strictness of their rules had in many instances been
considerably relaxed. Without much difficulty, permission was obtained
from the abbess for our nun to devote her time during the day to the care
of these poor children, upon condition that she should regularly return
to her convent every night before evening prayers. The house which
Madame de Fleury chose for her little school was in an airy part of the
town; it did not face the street, but was separated from other buildings
at the back of a court, retired from noise and bustle. The two rooms
intended for the occupation of the children were neat and clean, but
perfectly simple, with whitewashed walls, furnished only with wooden
stools and benches, and plain deal tables. The kitchen was well lighted
(for light is essential to cleanliness), and it was provided with
utensils; and for these appropriate places were allotted, to give the
habit and the taste of order. The schoolroom opened into a garden larger
than is usually seen in towns. The nun, who had been accustomed to
purchase provisions for her convent, undertook to prepare daily for the
children breakfast and dinner; they were to sup and sleep at their
respective homes. Their parents were to take them to Sister Frances
every morning when they went out to work, and to call for them upon their
return home every evening. By this arrangement, the natural ties of
affection and intimacy between the children and their parents would not
be loosened; they would be separate only at the time when their absence
must be inevitable. Madame de Fleury thought that any education which
estranges children entirely from their parents must be fundamentally
erroneous; that such a separation must tend to destroy that sense of
filial affection and duty, and those principles of domestic
subordination, on which so many of the interests and much of the virtue
and happiness of society depend. The parents of these poor children were
eager to trust them to her care, and they strenuously endeavoured to
promote what they perceived to be entirely to their advantage. They
promised to take their daughters to school punctually every morning--a
promise which was likely to be kept, as a good breakfast was to be ready
at a certain hour, and not to wait for anybody. The parents looked
forward with pleasure, also, to the idea of calling for their little
girls at the end of their day's labour, and of taking them home to their
family supper. During the intermediate hours the children were
constantly to be employed, or in exercise. It was difficult to provide
suitable employments for their early age; but even the youngest of those
admitted could be taught to wind balls of cotton, thread, and silk for
haberdashers; or they could shell peas and beans, &c., for a neighbouring
_traiteur_; or they could weed in a garden. The next in age could learn
knitting and plain work, reading, writing, and arithmetic. As the girls
should grow up, they were to be made useful in the care of the house.
Sister Frances said she could teach them to wash and iron, and that she
would make them as skilful in cookery as she was herself. This last was
doubtless a rash promise; for in most of the mysteries of the culinary
art, especially in the medical branches of it, in making savoury messes
palatable to the sick, few could hope to equal the neat-handed Sister
Frances. She had a variety of other accomplishments; but her humility
and good sense forbade her upon the present occasion to mention these.
She said nothing of embroidery, or of painting, or of cutting out paper,
or of carving in ivory, though in all these she excelled: her cuttings-
out in paper were exquisite as the finest lace; her embroidered
housewives, and her painted boxes, and her fan-mounts, and her curiously-
wrought ivory toys, had obtained for her the highest reputation in the
convent amongst the best judges in the world. Those only who have
philosophically studied and thoroughly understand the nature of fame and
vanity can justly appreciate the self-denial or magnanimity of Sister
Frances, in forbearing to enumerate or boast of these things. She
alluded to them but once, and in the slightest and most humble manner.