The Mimic

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Title:     The Mimic
Author: Maria Edgeworth [More Titles by Edgeworth]

CHAPTER I

Mr. and Mrs. Montague spent the summer of the year 1795 at Clifton with their son Frederick, and their two daughters Sophia and Marianne. They had taken much care of the education of their children; nor were they ever tempted, by any motive of personal convenience or temporary amusement, to hazard the permanent happiness of their pupils.

Sensible of the extreme importance of early impressions, and of the powerful influence of external circumstances in forming the characters and the manners, they were now anxious that the variety of new ideas and new objects which would strike the minds of their children should appear in a just point of view.

"Let children see and judge for themselves," is often inconsiderately said. Where children see only a part they cannot judge of the whole; and from the superficial view which they can have in short visits and desultory conversation, they can form only a false estimate of the objects of human happiness, a false notion of the nature of society, and false opinions of characters.

For the above reasons, Mr. and Mrs. Montague were particularly cautious in the choice of their acquaintances, as they were well aware that whatever passed in conversation before children became part of their education.

When they came to Clifton they wished to have a house entirely to themselves, but, as they came late in the season, almost all the lodging houses were full, and for a few weeks they were obliged to remain in a house where some of the apartments were already occupied.

During the first fortnight they scarcely saw or heard anything of one of the families who lodged on the same floor with them. An elderly quaker, and his sister Bertha, were their silent neighbours. The blooming complexion of the lady had indeed attracted the attention of the children, as they caught a glimpse of her face when she was getting into her carriage to go out upon the Downs. They could scarcely believe that she came to the Wells on account of her health.

Besides her blooming complexion, the delicate white of her garments had struck them with admiration; and they observed that her brother carefully guarded her dress from the wheel of the carriage, as he handed her in. From this circumstance, and from the benevolent countenance of the old gentleman, they concluded that he was very fond of his sister, and that they were certainly very happy, except that they never spoke, and could be seen only for a moment.

Not so the maiden lady who occupied the ground floor. On the stairs, in the passages, at her window, she was continually visible; and she appeared to possess the art of being present in all these places at once. Her voice was eternally to be heard, and it was not particularly melodious. The very first day she met Mrs. Montague's children on the stairs, she stopped to tell Marianne that she was a charming dear, and a charming little dear; to kiss her, to inquire her name, and to inform her that her own name was "Mrs. Theresa Tattle," a circumstance of which there was little danger of their long remaining in ignorance; for, in the course of one morning, at least twenty single and as many double raps at the door were succeeded by vociferations of "Mrs. Theresa Tattle's servant!" "Mrs. Theresa Tattle at home?" "Mrs. Theresa Tattle not at home!"

No person at the Wells was oftener at home and abroad than Mrs. Tattle. She had, as she deemed it, the happiness to have a most extensive acquaintance residing at Clifton. She had for years kept a register of arrivals. She regularly consulted the subscriptions to the circulating libraries, and the lists at the Ball and the Pump-rooms: so that, with a memory unencumbered with literature, and free from all domestic cares, she contrived to retain a most astonishing and correct list of births, deaths and marriages, together with all the anecdotes, amusing, instructive, or scandalous, which are necessary to the conversation of a water drinking place, and essential to the character of a "very pleasant woman."

"A very pleasant woman," Mrs. Tattle was usually called; and, conscious of her accomplishments, she was eager to introduce herself to the acquaintance of her new neighbours; having, with her ordinary expedition, collected from their servants, by means of her own, all that could be known, or rather, all that could be told about them. The name of Montague, at all events, she knew was a good name, and justified in courting the acquaintance. She courted it first by nods, and becks and smiles at Marianne whenever she met her; and Marianne, who was a very little girl, began presently to nod and smile in return, persuaded that a lady who smiled so much, could not be ill-natured. Besides, Mrs. Theresa's parlour door was sometimes left more than half open, to afford a view of a green parrot. Marianne sometimes passed very slowly by this door. One morning it was left quite wide open, when she stopped to say "Pretty Poll"; and immediately Mrs. Tattle begged she would do her the honour to walk in and see "Pretty Poll," at the same time taking the liberty to offer her a piece of iced plum-cake.

The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour to wait upon Mrs. Montague, "to apologize for the liberty she taken in inviting Mrs. Montague's charming Miss Marianne into her apartment to see Pretty Poll, and for the still greater liberty she had taken in offering her a piece of plum-cake--inconsiderate creature that she was!--which might possibly have disagreed with her, and which certainly were liberties she never should have been induced to take, if she had not been unaccountably bewitched by Miss Marianne's striking though highly flattering resemblance to a young gentleman (an officer) with whom she had danced, now nearly twelve years ago, of the name of Montague, a most respectable young man, and of a most respectable family, with which, in a remote degree, she might presume to say, she herself was someway connected, having the honour to be nearly related to the Joneses of Merionethshire, who were cousins to the Mainwarings of Bedfordshire, who married into the family of the Griffiths, the eldest branch of which, she understood, had the honour to be cousin-german to Mr. Montague; on which account she had been impatient to pay a visit, so likely to be productive of most agreeable consequences, by the acquisition of an acquaintance whose society must do her infinite honour."

Having thus happily accomplished her first visit, there seemed little probability of escaping Mrs. Tattle's further acquaintance. In the course of the first week she only hinted to Mr. Montague that "some people thought his system of education rather odd; that she should be obliged to him if he would, some time or other, when he had nothing else to do, just sit down and make her understand his notions, that she might have something to say to her acquaintance, as she always wished to have when she heard any friend attacked, or any friend's opinions."

Mr. Montague declining to sit down and make this lady understand a system of education only to give her something to say, and showing unaccountable indifference about the attacks with which he was threatened, Mrs. Tattle next addressed herself to Mrs. Montague, prophesying, in a most serious whisper, "that the charming Miss Marianne would shortly and inevitably grow quite crooked, if she were not immediately provided with a back- board, a French dancing-master, and a pair of stocks."

This alarming whisper could not, however, have a permanent effect upon Mrs. Montague's understanding, because three days afterwards Mrs. Theresa, upon the most anxious inspection, entirely mistook the just and natural proportions of the hip and shoulder.

This danger vanishing, Mrs. Tattle presently, with a rueful length of face, and formal preface, "hesitated to assure Mrs. Montague, that she was greatly distressed about her daughter Sophy; that she was convinced her lungs were affected; and that she certainly ought to drink the waters morning and evening; and above all things, must keep one of the patirosa lozenges constantly in her mouth, and directly consult Dr. Cardamum, the best physician in the world, and the person she would send for herself upon her death-bed; because, to her certain knowledge, he had recovered a young lady, a relation of her own, after she had lost one whole GLOBE* of her lungs."

*Lobe.

The medical opinion of a lady of so much anatomical precision could not have much weight. Neither was this universal adviser more successful in an attempt to introduce a tutor to Frederick, who, she apprehended, must want some one to perfect him in the Latin and Greek, and dead languages, of which, she observed, it would be impertinent for a woman to talk; only she might venture to repeat what she had heard said by good authority, that a competency of the dead tongues could be had nowhere but at a public school, or else from a private tutor who had been abroad (after the advantage of a classical education, finished in one of the universities) with a good family; without which introduction it was idle to think of reaping solid advantages from any continental tour; all which requisites, from personal knowledge, she could aver to be concentrated in the gentleman she had the honour to recommend, as having been tutor to a young nobleman, who had now no further occasion for him, having, unfortunately for himself and his family, been killed in an untimely duel.

All Mrs. Theresa Tattle's suggestions being lost upon these stoical parents, her powers were next tried upon the children, and her success soon became apparent. On Sophy, indeed, she could not make any impression, though she had expended on her some of her finest strokes of flattery. Sophy, though very desirous of the approbation of her friends, was not very desirous of winning the favour of strangers. She was about thirteen--that dangerous age at which ill educated girls, in their anxiety to display their accomplishments, are apt to become dependent for applause upon the praise of every idle visitor; when the habits not being formed, and the attention being suddenly turned to dress and manners, girls are apt to affect and imitate, indiscriminately, everything that they conceive to be agreeable.

Sophy, whose taste had been cultivated at the same time with her powers of reasoning, was not liable to fall into these errors. She found that she could please those whom she wished to please, without affecting to be anything but what she really was; and her friends listened to what she said, though she never repeated the sentiments, or adopted the phrases, which she might easily have copied from the conversation of those who were older or more fashionable than herself.

This word FASHIONABLE, Mrs. Theresa Tattle knew, had usually a great effect, even at thirteen; but she had not observed that it had much power upon Sophy; nor were her remarks concerning grace and manners much attended to. Her mother had taught Sophy that it was best to let herself alone, and not to distort either her person or her mind in acquiring grimace, which nothing but the fashion of the moment can support, and which is always detected and despised by people of real good sense and politeness.

"Bless me!" said Mrs. Tattle, to herself, "if I had such a tall daughter, and so unformed, before my eyes from morning to night, it would certainly break my poor heart. Thank heaven, I am not a mother! if I were, Miss Marianne for me!"

Miss Marianne had heard so often from Mrs. Tattle that she was very charming, that she could not help believing it; and from being a very pleasing, unaffected little girl, she in a short time grew so conceited, that she could neither speak, look, nor be silent without imagining that everybody was, or ought to be, looking at her; and when Mrs. Theresa saw that Mrs. Montague looked very grave upon these occasions, she, to repair the ill she had done, would say, after praising Marianne's hair or her eyes, "Oh, but little ladies should never think about their beauty, you know. Nobody loves anybody for being handsome, but for being good." People must think children are very silly, or else they can never have reflected upon the nature of belief in their own minds, if they imagine that children will believe the words that are said to them, by way of moral, when the countenance, manner, and every concomitant circumstance tell them a different tale. Children are excellent physiognomists--they quickly learn the universal language of looks; and what is said OF them always makes a greater impression than what is said TO them, a truth of which those prudent people surely cannot be aware who comfort themselves, and apologize to parents, by saying, "Oh, but I would not say so and so to the child."

Mrs. Theresa had seldom said to Frederick Montague, "that he had a vast deal of drollery, and was a most incomparable mimic;" but she had said so of him in whispers, which magnified the sound to his imagination, if not to his ear. He was a boy of much vivacity, and had considerable abilities; but his appetite for vulgar praise had not yet been surfeited. Even Mrs. Theresa Tattle's flattery pleased him, and he exerted himself for her entertainment so much that he became quite a buffoon. Instead of observing characters and manners, that he might judge of them, and form his own, he now watched every person he saw, that he might detect some foible, or catch some singularity in their gesture or pronunciation, which he might successfully mimic.

Alarmed by the rapid progress of these evils, Mr. and Mrs. Montague, who, from the first day that they had been honoured with Mrs. Tattle's visit, had begun to look out for new lodgings, were now extremely impatient to decamp. They were not people who, from the weak fear of offending a silly acquaintance, would hazard the happiness of their family. They had heard of a house in the country which was likely to suit them, and they determined to go directly to look at it. As they were to be absent all day, they foresaw that their officious neighbour would probably interfere with their children. They did not choose to exact any promise from them which they might be tempted to break, and therefore they only said at parting, "If Mrs. Theresa Tattle should ask you to come to her, do as you think proper."

Scarcely had Mrs. Montague's carriage got out of hearing when a note was brought, directed to "Frederick Montague, Junior, Esq.," which he immediately opened, and read as follows:--

"Mrs. Theresa Tattle presents her very best compliments to the entertaining Mr. Frederick Montague; she hopes he will have the charity to drink tea with her this evening, and bring his charming sister, Miss Marianne, with him, as Mrs. Theresa will be quite alone with a shocking headache, and is sensible her nerves are affected; and Dr. Cardamum says that (especially in Mrs. T. T.'s case) it is downright death to nervous patients to be alone an instant. She therefore trusts Mr. Frederick will not refuse to come and make her laugh. Mrs. Theresa has taken care to provide a few macaroons for her little favourite, who said she was particularly fond of them the other day. Mrs. Theresa hopes they will all come at six, or before, not forgetting Miss Sophy, if she will condescend to be of the party."

At the first reading of this note, "the entertaining" Mr. Frederick, and the "charming" Miss Marianne laughed heartily, and looked at Sophy, as if they were afraid that she should think it possible they could like such gross flattery; but upon a second perusal, Marianne observed that it certainly was very good-natured of Mrs. Theresa to remember the macaroons; and Frederick allowed that it was wrong to laugh at the poor woman because she had the headache. Then twisting the note in his fingers, he appealed to Sophy:--

"Well, Sophy, leave off drawing for an instant," said Frederick, "and tell us what answer can we send?"

"Can!--we can send what answer we please."

"Yes, I know that," said Frederick. "I would refuse if I could; but we ought not to do anything rude, should we? So I think we might as well go, because we could not refuse, if we would, I say."

"You have made such confusion," replied Sophy, "between 'couldn't' and 'wouldn't' and 'shouldn't,' that I can't understand you; surely they are all different things."

"Different! no," cried Frederick--"could, would, should, might, and ought, are all the same thing in the Latin grammar; all of 'em signs of the potential mood, you know."

Sophy, whose powers of reasoning were not to be confounded, even by quotations from the Latin grammar, looked up soberly from her drawing, and answered "that very likely those words might be signs of the same thing in the Latin grammar, but she believed that they meant perfectly different things in real life."

"That's just as people please," said her sophistical brother. "You know words mean nothing in themselves. If I choose to call my hat my cadwallader, you would understand me just as well, after I had once explained it to you, that by cadwallader I meant this black thing that I put upon my head; cadwallader and hat would then be just the same thing to you."

"Then why have two words for the same thing?" said Sophy; "and what has this to do with 'could' and 'should'? You wanted to prove--"

"I wanted to prove," interrupted Frederick, "that it's not worth while to dispute for two hours about two words. Do keep to the point, Sophy, and don't dispute with me."

"I was not disputing, I was reasoning."

"Well, reasoning or disputing. Women have no business to do either; for, how should they know how to chop logic like men?"

At this contemptuous sarcasm upon her sex, Sophy's colour rose.

"There!" cried Frederick, exulting, "now we shall see a philosopheress in a passion; I'd give sixpence, half-price, for a harlequin entertainment, to see Sophy in a passion. Now, Marianne, look at her brush dabbing so fast in the water!"

Sophy, who could not easily bear to be laughed at, with some little indignation, said, "Brother, I wish--"

"There! there!" cried Frederick, pointing to the colour which rose in her cheeks almost to her temples--"rising! rising! rising! look at the thermometer! blood heat! blood! fever heat! boiling water heat! Marianne."

"Then," said Sophy, smiling, "you should stand a little farther off, both of you. Leave the thermometer to itself a little while. Give it time to cool. It will come down to 'temperate' by the time you look again."

"Oh, brother!" cried Marianne, "she's so good-humoured, don't tease her any more, and don't draw heads upon her paper, and don't stretch her india-rubber, and don't let us dirty any more of her brushes. See! the sides of her tumbler are all manner of colours."

"Oh, I only mixed red, blue, green and yellow, to show you, Marianne, that all colours mixed together make white. But she is temperate now, and I won't plague her; she shall chop logic, if she likes it, though she is a woman."

"But that's not fair, brother," said Marianne, "to say 'woman' in that way. I'm sure Sophy found out how to tie that difficult knot, which papa showed us yesterday, long before you did, though you are a man."

"Not long," said Frederick. "Besides, that was only a conjuring trick."

"It was very ingenious, though," said Marianne; "and papa said so. Besides, she understood the 'Rule of Three,' which was no conjuring trick, better than you did, though she is a woman; and she can reason, too, mamma says."

"Very well, let her reason away," said the provoking wit. "All I have to say is, that she'll never be able to make a pudding."

"Why not, pray, brother?" inquired Sophy, looking up again, very gravely.

"Why, you know papa himself, the other day at dinner, said that the woman who talks Greek and Latin as well as I do, is a fool after all; and that she had better have learned something useful; and Mrs. Tattle said, she'd answer for it she did not know how to make a pudding."

"Well! but I am not talking Greek and Latin, am I?"

"No, but you are drawing, and that's the same thing."

"The same thing! Oh, Frederick!" said little Marianne, laughing.

"You may laugh; but I say it is the same sort of thing. Women who are always drawing and reasoning, never know how to make puddings. Mrs. Theresa Tattle said so, when I showed her Sophy's beautiful drawing yesterday."

"Mrs. Theresa Tattle might say so," replied Sophy, calmly; "but I do not perceive the reason, brother, why drawing should prevent me from learning how to make a pudding."

"Well, I say you'll never learn how to make a good pudding."

"I have learned," continued Sophy, who was mixing her colours, "to mix such and such colours together to make the colour that I want; and why should I not be able to learn to mix flour and butter, and sugar and egg, together, to produce the taste that I want."

"Oh, but mixing will never do, unless you know the quantities, like a cook; and you would never learn the right quantities."

"How did the cook learn them? Cannot I learn them as she did?"

"Yes, but you'd never do it exactly, and mind the spoonfuls right, by the recipe, like a cook."

"Indeed! indeed! but she would," cried Marianne, eagerly: "and a great deal more exactly, for mamma has taught her to weigh and measure things very carefully: and when I was ill she always weighed the bark in nicely, and dropped my drops so carefully: better than the cook. When mamma took me down to see the cook make a cake once, I saw her spoonfuls, and her ounces, and her handfuls: she dashed and splashed without minding exactness or the recipe, or anything. I'm sure Sophy would make a much better pudding, if exactness only were wanting."

"Well, granting that she could make the best pudding in the whole world, what does that signify? I say she never would: so it comes to the same thing."

"Never would! how can you tell that, brother?"

"Why, now look at her, with her books, and her drawings, and all this apparatus. Do you think she would ever jump up, with all her nicety, too, and put by all these things, to go down into the greasy kitchen, and plump up to the elbows in suet, like a cook, for a plum-pudding?"

"I need not plump up to the elbows, brother," said Sophy, smiling: "nor is it necessary that I should be a cook: but, if it were necessary, I hope I should be able to make a pudding."

"Yes, yes," cried Marianne, warmly; "and she would jump up, and put by all her things in a minute if it were necessary, and run down stairs and up again like lightning, or do anything that was ever so disagreeable to her, even about the suet, with all her nicety, brother, I assure you, as she used to do anything, everything for me, when I was ill last winter. Oh, brother, she can do anything; and she could make the best plum- pudding in the whole world, I'm sure, in a minute, if it were necessary."

CHAPTER II

A knock at the door, from Mrs. Theresa Tattle's servant, recalled Marianne to the business of the day.

"There," said Frederick, "we have sent no answer all this time. It's necessary to think of that in a minute."

The servant came with his mistress' compliments, to let the young ladies and Mr. Frederick know that she was waiting tea for them.

"Waiting! then we must go," said Frederick.

The servant opened the door wider, to let him pass, and Marianne thought she must follow her brother: so they went downstairs together, while Sophy gave her own message to the servant, and quietly stayed at her usual occupations.

Mrs. Tattle was seated at her tea-table, with a large plate of macaroons beside her when Frederick and Marianne entered. She was "delighted" they were come, and "grieved" not to see Miss Sophy along with them. Marianne coloured a little; for though she had precipitately followed her brother, and though he had quieted her conscience for a moment by saying "You know papa and mamma told us to do what we thought best," yet she did not feel quite pleased with herself: and it was not till after Mrs. Theresa had exhausted all her compliments, and half her macaroons, that she could restore her spirits to their usual height.

"Come, Mr. Frederick," said she after tea, "you promised to make me laugh; and nobody can make me laugh so well as yourself."

"Oh, brother," said Marianne, "show Mrs. Theresa Dr. Carbuncle eating his dinner; and I'll be Mrs. Carbuncle."

Marianne. Now, my dear, what shall I help you to?

Frederick. "My dear!" she never calls him my dear, you know, but always Doctor.

Mar. Well then, doctor, what will you eat to-day?

Fred. Eat, madam! eat! nothing! nothing! I don't see anything here I can eat, ma'am.

Mar. Here's eels, sir; let me help you to some eel--stewed eel;--you used to be fond of stewed eel.

Fred. Used, ma'am, used! But I'm sick of stewed eels. You would tire one of anything. Am I to see nothing but eels? And what's this at the bottom?

Mar. Mutton, doctor, roast mutton; if you'll be so good as to cut it.

Fred. Cut it, ma'am! I can't cut it, I say; it's as hard as a deal board. You might as well tell me to cut the table, ma'am. Mutton, indeed! not a bit of fat. Roast mutton, indeed! not a drop of gravy. Mutton, truly! quite a cinder. I'll have none of it. Here, take it away; take it downstairs to the cook. It's a very hard case, Mrs. Carbuncle, that I can never have a bit of anything that I can eat at my own table, Mrs. Carbuncle, since I was married, ma'am, I that am the easiest man in the whole world to please about my dinner. It's really very extraordinary, Mrs. Carbuncle! What have you at that corner there, under the cover?

Mar. Patties, sir; oyster patties.

Fred. Patties, ma'am! kickshaws! I hate kickshaws. Not worth putting under a cover, ma'am. And why not have glass covers, that one may see one's dinner before one, before it grows cold with asking questions, Mrs. Carbuncle, and lifting up covers? But nobody has any sense: and I see no water plates anywhere, lately.

Mar. Do, pray, doctor, let me help you to a bit of chicken before it gets cold, my dear.

Fred. (aside). "My dear," again, Marianne!

Mar. Yes, brother, because she is frightened, you know, and Mrs. Carbuncle always says "my dear" to him when she's frightened, and looks so pale from side to side; and sometimes she cries before dinner's done, and then all the company are quite silent, and don't know what to do."

"Oh, such a little creature; to have so much sense, too!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, with rapture. "Mr. Frederick, you'll make me die with laughing! Pray go on, Dr. Carbuncle."

Fred. Well, ma'am, then if I must eat something, send me a bit of fowl; a leg and wing, the liver wing, and a bit of the breast, oyster sauce, and a slice of that ham, if you please, ma'am.

(Dr. Carbuncle eats voraciously, with his head down to his plate, and, dropping the sauce, he buttons up his coat tight across the breast.)

Fred. Here; a plate, knife and fork, bit o' bread, a glass of Dorchester ale!

"Oh, admirable!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, clapping her hands.

"Now, brother, suppose that it is after dinner," said Marianne; "and show us how the doctor goes to sleep."

Frederick threw himself back in an arm-chair, leaning his head back, with his mouth open, snoring; nodded from time to time, crossed and uncrossed his legs, tried to awake himself by twitching his wig, settling his collar, blowing his nose and rapping on the lid of his snuff-box.

All which infinitely diverted Mrs. Tattle, who, when she could stop herself from laughing, declared "It made her sigh, too, to think of the life poor Mrs. Carbuncle led with that man, and all for nothing, too; for her jointure was nothing, next to nothing, though a great thing, to be sure, her friends thought for her, when she was only Sally Ridgeway before she was married. Such a wife as she makes," continued Mrs. Theresa, lifting up her hands and eyes to heaven, "and so much as she has gone through, the brute ought to be ashamed of himself if he does not leave her something extraordinary in his will; for turn it which way she will, she can never keep a carriage, or live like anybody else, on her jointure, after all, she tells me, poor soul! A sad prospect, after her husband's death, to look forward to, instead of being comfortable, as her friends expected; and she, poor young thing! knowing no better when they married her! People should look into these things, beforehand, or never marry at all, I say, Miss Marianne."

Miss Marianne, who did not clearly comprehend this affair of the jointure, or the reason why Mrs. Carbuncle would be so unhappy after her husband's death, turned to Frederick, who was at that instant studying Mrs. Theresa as a future character to mimic. "Brother," said Marianne, "now sing an Italian song for us like Miss Croker. Pray, Miss Croker, favour us with a song. Mrs. Theresa Tattle has never had the pleasure of hearing you sing; she's quite impatient to hear you sing."

"Yes, indeed, I am," said Mrs. Theresa.

Frederick put his hands before him affectedly; "Oh, indeed, ma'am! indeed, ladies! I really am so hoarse, it distresses me so to be pressed to sing; besides, upon my word, I have quite left off singing. I've never sung once, except for very particular people, this winter."

Mar. But Mrs. Theresa Tattle is a very particular person. I'm sure you'll sing for her.

Fred. Certainly, ma'am, I allow that you use a powerful argument; but I assure you now, I would do my best to oblige you, but I absolutely have forgotten all my English songs. Nobody hears anything but Italian now, and I have been so giddy as to leave my Italian music behind me. Besides, I make it a rule never to hazard myself without an accompaniment.

Mar. Oh, try, Miss Croker, for once.

[Frederick sings, after much preluding.]

Violante in the pantry,
Gnawing of a mutton-bone;
How she gnawed it,
How she claw'd it,
When she found herself alone!

"Charming!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle; "so like Miss Croker, I'm sure I shall think of you, Mr. Frederick, when I hear her asked to sing again. Her voice, however, introduces her to very pleasant parties, and she's a girl that's very much taken notice of, and I don't doubt will go off vastly well. She's a particular favourite of mine, you must know; and I mean to do her a piece of service the first opportunity, by saying something or other, that shall go round to her relations in Northumberland, and make them do something for her; as well they may, for they are all rolling in gold, and won't give her a penny."

Mar. Now, brother, read the newspaper like Counsellor Puff.

"Oh, pray do, Mr. Frederick, for I declare I admire you of all things! You are quite yourself to-night. Here's a newspaper, sir, pray let us have Counsellor Puff. It's not late."

[Frederick reads in a pompous voice.]

"As a delicate white hand has ever been deemed a distinguishing ornament in either sex, Messrs. Valiant and Wise conceive it to be their duty to take the earliest opportunity to advertise the nobility and gentry of Great Britain in general, and their friends in particular, that they have now ready for sale, as usual, at the Hippocrates' Head, a fresh assortment of new-invented, much admired, primrose soap. To prevent impositions and counterfeits, the public are requested to take notice, that the only genuine primrose soap is stamped on the outside, 'Valiant and Wise.'"

"Oh, you most incomparable mimic! 'tis absolutely the counsellor himself. I absolutely must show you, some day, to my friend Lady Battersby; you'd absolutely make her die with laughing; and she'd quite adore you," said Mrs. Theresa, who was well aware that every pause must be filled with flattery. "Pray go on, pray go on. I shall never be tired, if I sit looking at you these hundred years."

Stimulated by these plaudits, Frederick proceeded to show how Colonel Epaulette blew his nose, flourished his cambric handkerchief, bowed to Lady Diana Periwinkle, and admired her work, saying, "Done by no hands, as you may guess, but those of Fairly Fair." Whilst Lady Diana, he observed, simpered so prettily, and took herself so quietly for Fairly Fair, not perceiving that the colonel was admiring his own nails all the while.

Next to Colonel Epaulette, Frederick, at Marianne's particular desire, came into the room like Sir Charles Slang.

"Very well, brother," cried she, "your hand down to the very bottom of your pocket, and your other shoulder up to your ear; but you are not quite wooden enough, and you should walk as if your hip were out of joint. There now, Mrs. Tattle, are not those good eyes? They stare so like his, without seeming to see anything all the while."

"Excellent! admirable! Mr. Frederick. I must say that you are the best mimic of your age I ever saw, and I'm sure Lady Battersby will think so too. That is Sir Charles to the very life. But with all that, you must know he's a mighty pleasant, fashionable young man when you come to know him, and has a great deal of sense under all that, and is of a very good family--the Slangs, you know. Sir Charles will come into a fine fortune himself next year, if he can keep clear of gambling, which I hear is his foible, poor young man! Pray go on. I interrupt you, Mr. Frederick."

"Now, brother," said Marianne.

"No, Marianne, I can do no more. I'm quite tired, and I will do no more," said Frederick, stretching himself at full length upon a sofa.

Even in the midst of laughter, and whilst the voice of flattery yet sounded in his ear, Frederick felt sad, displeased with himself, and disgusted with Mrs. Theresa.

"What a deep sigh was there!" said Mrs. Theresa; "what can make you sigh so bitterly? You, who make everybody else laugh. Oh, such another sigh again!"

"Marianne," cried Frederick, "do you remember the man in the mask?"

"What man in the mask, brother?"

"The man--the actor--the buffoon, that my father told us of, who used to cry behind the mask that made everybody else laugh."

"Cry! bless me," said Mrs. Theresa, "mighty odd! very extraordinary! but one can't be surprised at meeting with extraordinary characters amongst that race of people, actors by profession, you know; for they are brought up from the egg to make their fortune, or at least their bread by their oddities. But, my dear Mr. Frederick, you are quite pale, quite exhausted; no wonder--what will you have? a glass of cowslip-wine?"

"Oh no, thank you, ma'am," said Frederick.

"Oh yes; indeed you must not leave me without taking something; and Miss Marianne must have another macaroon. I insist upon it," said Mrs. Theresa, ringing the bell. "It is not late, and my man Christopher will bring up the cowslip-wine in a minute."

"But, Sophy! and papa and mamma, you know, will come home presently," said Marianne.

"Oh! Miss Sophy has her books and drawings. You know she's never afraid of being alone. Besides, to-night it was her own choice. And as to your papa and mamma, they won't be home to-night, I'm pretty sure; for a gentleman, who had it from their own authority, told me where they were going, which is further off than they think; but they did not consult me; and I fancy they'll be obliged to sleep out; so you need not be in a hurry about them. We'll have candles."

The door opened just as Mrs. Tattle was going to ring the bell again for candles and the cowslip-wine. "Christopher! Christopher!" said Mrs. Theresa, who was standing at the fire, with her back to the door, when it opened, "Christopher! pray bring--Do you hear?" but no Christopher answered; and, upon turning round, Mrs. Tattle, instead of Christopher, beheld two little black figures, which stood perfectly still and silent. It was so dark, that their forms could scarcely be discerned.

"In the name of heaven, who and what may you be? Speak, I conjure you! what are ye?"

"The chimney-sweepers, ma'am, an' please your ladyship."

"Chimney-sweepers!" repeated Frederick and Marianne, bursting out a- laughing.

"Chimney-sweepers!" repeated Mrs. Theresa, provoked at the recollection of her late solemn address to them. "Chimney-sweepers! and could not you say so a little sooner? Pray, what brings you here, gentlemen, at this time of night?"

"The bell rang, ma'am,", answered a squeaking voice.

"The bell rang! yes, for Christopher. The boy's mad, or drunk."

"Ma'am," said the tallest of the chimney-sweepers, who had not yet spoken, and who now began in a very blunt manner; "ma'am, your brother desired us to come up when the bell rang; so we did."

"My brother? I have no brother, dunce," said Mrs. Theresa.

"Mr. Eden, madam."

"Ho, ho!" said Mrs. Tattle, in a more complacent tone, "the boy takes me for Miss Bertha Eden, I perceive"; and, flattered to be taken in the dark by a chimney-sweeper for a young and handsome lady, Mrs. Theresa laughed, and informed him "that they had mistaken the room; and they must go up another pair of stairs, and turn to the left."

The chimney-sweeper with the squeaking voice bowed, thanked her ladyship for this information, said, "Good night to ye, quality"; and they both moved towards the door.

"Stay," said Mrs. Tattle, whose curiosity was excited; "what can the Edens want with chimney-sweepers at this time o' night, I wonder? Christopher, did you hear anything about it?" said the lady to her footman, who was now lighting the candles.

"Upon my word, ma'am," said the servant, "I can't say; but I'll step down below and inquire. I heard them talking about it in the kitchen; but I only got a word here and there, for I was hunting for the snuff-dish, as I knew it must be for candles when I heard the bell ring, ma'am; so I thought to find the snuff-dish before I answered the bell, for I knew it must be for candles you rang. But, if you please, I'll step down now, ma'am, and see about the chimney-sweepers."

"Yes, step down, do; and, Christopher, bring up the cowslip-wine, and some more macaroons for my little Marianne."

Marianne withdrew rather coldly from a kiss which Mrs. Tattle was going to give her; for she was somewhat surprised at the familiarity with which this lady talked to her footman. She had not been accustomed to these familiarities in her father and mother, and she did not like them.

"Well," said Mrs. Tattle to Christopher, who was now returned, "what is the news?"

"Ma'am, the little fellow with the squeaking voice has been telling me the whole story. The other morning, ma'am, early, he and the other were down the hill sweeping in Paradise Row. Those chimneys, they say, are difficult; and the square fellow, ma'am, the biggest of the two boys, got wedged in the chimney. The other little fellow was up at the top at the time, and he heard the cry; but in his fright, and all, he did not know what to do, ma'am; for he looked about from the top of the chimney, and not a soul could he see stirring, but a few that he could not make attend to his screech; the boy within almost stifling too. So he screeched, and screeched, all he could; and by the greatest chance in life, ma'am, old Mr. Eden was just going down the hill to fetch his morning walk."

"Ay," interrupted Mrs. Theresa, "friend Ephraim is one of your early risers."

"Well," said Marianne, impatiently.

"So, ma'am, hearing the screech, he turns and sees the sweep; and at once he understands the matter--"

"I'm sure he must have taken some time to understand it," interposed Mrs. Tattle, "for he's the slowest creature breathing, and the deafest in company. Go on, Christopher. So the sweep did make him hear."

"So he says, ma'am; and so the old gentleman went in and pulled the boy out of the chimney, with much ado, ma'am."

"Bless me!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa; "but did old Eden go up the chimney himself after the boy, wig and all?

"Why, ma'am," said Christopher, with a look of great delight, "that was all as one, as the very 'dentical words I put to the boy myself, when he telled me his story. But, ma'am, that was what I couldn't get out of him, neither, rightly, for he is a churl--the big boy that was stuck in the chimney, I mean; for when I put the question to him about the wig, laughing like, he wouldn't take it laughing like at all; but would only make answer to us like a bear, 'He saved my life, that's all I know'; and this over again, ma'am, to all the kitchen round, that cross-questioned him. But I finds him stupid and ill-mannered like, for I offered him a shilling, ma'am, myself, to tell about the wig; but he put it back in a way that did not become such as he, to no lady's butler, ma'am; whereupon I turns to the slim fellow (and he's smarterer, and more mannerly, ma'am, with a tongue in his head for his betters), but he could not resolve me my question either; for he was up at the top of the chimney the best part o' the time: and when he came down Mr. Eden had his wig on, but had his arm all bare and bloody, ma'am."

"Poor Mr. Eden!" exclaimed Marianne.

"Oh, miss," continued the servant, "and the chimney-sweep himself was so bruised, and must have been killed."

"Well, well! but he's alive now; go on with your story, Christopher," said Mrs. T. "Chimney-sweepers get wedged in chimneys every day; it's part of their trade, and it's a happy thing when they come off with a few bruises.* To be sure," added she, observing that both Frederick and Marianne looked displeased at this speech, "to be sure, if one may believe this story, there was some real danger."

*This atrocious practice is now happily superseded by the use of sweeping machines.

"Real danger! yes, indeed," said Marianne; "and I'm sure I think Mr. Eden was very good."

"Certainly it was a most commendable action, and quite providential. So I shall take an opportunity of saying, when I tell the story in all companies; and the boy may thank his kind stars, I'm sure, to the end of his days, for such an escape--But pray, Christopher," said she, persisting in her conversation with Christopher, who was now laying the cloth for supper, "pray, which house was it in Paradise Row? where the Eagles or the Miss Ropers lodge? or which?"

"It was at my Lady Battersby's, ma'am."

"Ha! ha!" cried Mrs. Theresa, "I thought we should get to the bottom of the affair at last. This is excellent! This will make an admirable story for my Lady Battersby the next time I see her. These Quakers are so sly! Old Eden, I know, has long wanted to obtain an introduction into that house; and a charming charitable expedient hit upon! My Lady Battersby will enjoy this, of all things."

CHAPTER III

"Now," continued Mrs. Theresa, turning to Frederick, as soon as the servant had left the room, "now, Mr. Frederick Montague, I have a favour- -such a favour--to ask of you; it's a favour which only you can grant; you have such talents, and would do the thing so admirably; and my Lady Battersby would quite adore you for it. She will do me the honour to be here to spend an evening to-morrow. I'm convinced Mr. and Mrs. Montague will find themselves obliged to stay out another day, and I so long to show you off to her ladyship; and your Doctor Carbuncle, and your Counsellor Puff, and your Miss Croker, and all your charming characters. You must let me introduce you to her ladyship to-morrow evening. Promise me."

"Oh, ma'am," said Frederick, "I cannot promise you any such thing, indeed. I am much obliged to you; but indeed I cannot come."

"Why not, my dear sir? why not? You don't think I mean you should promise, if you are certain your papa and mamma will be home."

"If they do come home, I will ask them about it," said Frederick, hesitating; for though he by no means wished to accept the invitation, he had not yet acquired the necessary power of decidedly saying No.

"Ask them!" repeated Mrs. Theresa. "My dear sir, at your age, must you ask your papa and mamma about such things?"

"Must! no, ma'am," said Frederick; "but I said I would. I know I need not, because my father and mother always let me judge for myself almost about everything."

"And about this, I am sure," cried Marianne. "Papa and mamma, you know, just as they were going away, said, 'If Mrs. Theresa asks you to come, do as you think best'"

"Well, then," said Mrs. Theresa, "you know it rests with yourselves, if you may do as you please."

"To be sure I may, madam," said Frederick, colouring from that species of emotion which is justly called false shame, and which often conquers real shame; "to be sure, ma'am, I may do as I please."

"Then I may make sure of you," said Mrs. Theresa; "for now it would be downright rudeness to tell a lady you won't do as she pleases. Mr. Frederick Montague, I'm sure, is too wellbred a young gentleman to do so unpolite, so ungallant a thing!"

The jargon of politeness and gallantry is frequently brought by the silly acquaintance of young people to confuse their simple morality and clear good sense. A new and unintelligible system is presented to them, in a language foreign to their understanding, and contradictory to their feelings. They hesitate between new motives and old principles. From the fear of being thought ignorant, they become affected; and from the dread of being thought to be children act like fools. But all this they feel only when they are in the company of such people as Mrs. Theresa Tattle.

"Ma'am," Frederick began, "I don't mean to be rude; but I hope you'll excuse me from coming to drink tea with you to-morrow, because my father and mother are not acquainted with Lady Battersby, and maybe they might not like--"

"Take care, take care," said Mrs. Theresa, laughing at his perplexity: "you want to get off from obliging me, and you don't know how. You had very nearly made a most shocking blunder in putting it all upon poor Lady Battersby. Now you know it's impossible that Mr. and Mrs. Montague could have in nature the slightest objection to introducing you to my Lady Battersby at my own house; for, don't you know, that, besides her ladyship's many unquestionable qualities, which one need not talk of, she is cousin, but once removed, to the Trotters of Lancashire--your mother's great favourites? And there is not a person at the Wells, I'll venture to say, could be of more advantage to your sister Sophy, in the way of partners, when she comes to go the balls, which it's to be supposed she will, some time or other; and as you are so good a brother, that's a thing to be looked to, you know. Besides, as to yourself, there's nothing her ladyship delights in so much as in a good mimic; and she'll quite adore you!"

"But I don't want her to adore me, ma'am," said Frederick, bluntly; then, correcting himself, added, "I mean for being a mimic."

"Why not, my love? Between friends, can there be any harm in showing one's talents? You that have such talents to show. She'll keep your secret, I'll answer for her; and," added she, "you needn't be afraid of her criticism; for, between you and me, she's no great critic; so you'll come. Well, thank you, that's settled. How you have made me beg and pray! but you know your own value, I see; as you entertaining people always do. One must ask a wit, like a fine singer, so often. Well, but now for the favour I was going to ask you."

Frederick looked surprised; for he thought that the favour of his company was what she meant: but she explained herself farther.

"As to the old Quaker who lodges above, old Ephraim Eden--my Lady Battersby and I have so much diversion about him. He is the best character, the oddest creature! If you were but to see him come into the rooms with those stiff skirts, or walking with his eternal sister Bertha, and his everlasting broad-brimmed hat! One knows him a mile off! But then his voice and way, and altogether, if one could get them to the life, they'd be better than anything on the stage; better even than anything I've seen to-night; and I think you'd make a capital Quaker for my Lady Battersby; but then the thing is, one can never get to hear the old quiz talk. Now you, who have so much invention and cleverness--I have no invention myself; but could you not hit upon some way of seeing him, so that you might get him by heart? I'm sure you, who are so quick, would only want to see him, and hear him, for half a minute, to be able to take him off, so as to kill one with laughing. But I have no invention."

"Oh, as to the invention," said Frederick, "I know an admirable way of doing the thing, if that is all; but then remember, I don't say I will do the thing, for I will not. But I know a way of getting up into his room, and seeing him, without his knowing me to be there."

"Oh, tell it me, you charming, clever creature!"

"But, remember, I do not say I will do it."

"Well, well, let us hear it; and you shall do as you please afterwards. Merciful goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, "do my ears deceive me? I declare I looked round, and thought I heard the squeaking chimney-sweeper was in the room!"

"So did I, Frederick, I declare," cried Marianne, laughing, "I never heard anything so like his voice in my life."

Frederick imitated the squeaking voice of this chimney-sweeper to great perfection.

"Now," continued he, "this fellow is just my height. The old Quaker, if my face were blackened, and if I were to change clothes with the chimney- sweeper, I'll answer for it, would never know me."

"Oh, it's an admirable invention! I give you infinite credit for it!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. "It shall, it must be done. I'll ring, and have the fellow up this minute."

"Oh, no; do not ring," said Frederick, stopping her hand, "I don't mean to do it. You know you promised that I should do as I pleased. I only told you my invention."

"Well, well; but only let me ring, and ask whether the chimney-sweepers are below. You shall do as you please afterwards."

"Christopher, shut the door. Christopher," said she to the servant who came up when she rang, "pray are the sweeps gone yet?"

"No, ma'am."

"But have they been up to old Eden yet?"

"Oh, no, ma'am; nor be not to go till the bell rings; for Miss Bertha, ma'am, was asleep a-lying down, and her brother wouldn't have her wakened on no account whatsomever. He came down hisself to the kitchen to the sweeps, though; but wouldn't have, as I heard him say, his sister waked for no account. But Miss Bertha's bell will ring when she wakens for the sweeps, ma'am. 'Twas she wanted to see the boy as her brother saved, and I suppose sent for him to give him something charitable, ma'am."

"Well, never mind your suppositions," said Mrs. Theresa; "run down this very minute to the little squeaking chimney-sweep, and send him up to me. Quick, but don't let the other bear come up with him."

Christopher, who had curiosity, as well as his mistress, when he returned with the chimney-sweeper, prolonged his own stay in the room by sweeping the hearth, throwing down the tongs and shovel, and picking them up again.

"That will do, Christopher! Christopher, that will do, I say," Mrs. Theresa repeated in vain. She was obliged to say, "Christopher, you may go," before he would depart.

"Now," said she to Frederick, "step in here to the next room with this candle, and you'll be equipped in an instant. Only just change clothes with the boy; only just let me see what a charming chimney-sweeper you'd make. You shall do as you please afterwards."

"Well, I'll only change clothes with him, just to show you for one minute."

"But," said Marianne to Mrs. Theresa whilst Frederick was changing his clothes, "I think Frederick is right about--"

"About what, love?"

"I think he is in the right not to go up, though he can do it so easily, to see that gentleman; I mean on purpose to mimic and laugh at him afterwards. I don't think that would be quite right."

"Why, pray, Miss Marianne?"

"Why, because he is so good-natured to his sister. He would not let her be wakened."

"Dear, it's easy to be good in such little things; and he won't have long to be good to her neither; for I don't think she will trouble him long in this world, anyhow."

"What do you mean?" said Marianne.

"That she'll die, child."

"Die! die with that beautiful colour in her cheeks! How sorry her poor, poor brother will be! But she will not die, I'm sure, for she walks about and runs upstairs so lightly! Oh, you must be quite mistaken, I hope."

"If I'm mistaken, Dr. Panado Cardamum's mistaken too, then, that's my comfort. He says, unless the waters work a miracle, she stands a bad chance; and she won't follow my advice, and consult the doctor for her health."

"He would frighten her to death, perhaps," said Marianne. "I hope Frederick won't go up to disturb her."

"Lud, child, you are turned simpleton all of a sudden; how can your brother disturb her more than the real chimney-sweeper?"

"But I don't think it's right," persisted Marianne, "and I shall tell him so."

"Nay, Miss Marianne, I don't commend you now. Young ladies should not be so forward to give opinions and advice to their elder brothers unasked; and I presume that Mr. Frederick and I must know what's right as well as Miss Marianne. Hush! here he is. Oh, the capital figure!" cried Mrs. Theresa. "Bravo, bravo!" cried she, as Frederick entered in the chimney- sweeper's dress; and as he spoke, saying, "I'm afraid, please your ladyship, to dirt your ladyship's carpet," she broke out into immoderate raptures, calling him "her charming chimney-sweeper!" and repeating that she knew beforehand the character would do for him.

Mrs. Theresa instantly rang the bell, in spite of all expostulation-- ordered Christopher to send up the other chimney-sweeper--triumphed in observing that Christopher did not know Frederick when he came into the room; and offered to lay any wager that the other chimney-sweeper would mistake him for his companion. And so he did; and when Frederick spoke, the voice was so very like, that it was scarcely possible that he should have perceived the difference.

Marianne was diverted by this scene; but she started, when in the midst of it they heard a bell ring.

"That's the lady's bell, and we must go," said the blunt chimney-sweeper.

"Go, then, about your business," said Mrs. Theresa, "and here's a shilling for you, to drink, my honest fellow. I did not know you were so much bruised when I first saw you. I won't detain you. Go," said she, pushing Frederick towards the door. Marianne sprang forward to speak to him; but Mrs. Theresa kept her off; and, though Frederick resisted, the lady shut the door upon him by superior force, and, having locked it, there was no retreat. Mrs. Tattle and Marianne waited impatiently for Frederick's return.

"I hear them," cried Marianne, "I hear them coming downstairs." They listened again, and all was silent. At length they suddenly heard a great noise of many steps in the hall.

"Merciful!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, "it must be your father and mother come back." Marianne ran to unlock the room door, and Mrs. Theresa followed her into the hall. The hall was rather dark, but under the lamp a crowd of people, all the servants in the house having gathered together.

As Mrs. Theresa approached, the crowd opened in silence, and in the midst she beheld Frederick, with blood streaming from his face. His head was held by Christopher; and the chimney-sweeper was holding a basin for him. "Merciful! what will become of me?" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. "Bleeding! he'll bleed to death! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? A key, a large key down his back--a key--has nobody a key? Mr. and Mrs. Montague will be here before he has done bleeding. A key! cobwebs! a puff ball! for mercy's sake! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? Gracious me! he'll bleed to death, I believe."

"He'll bleed to death! Oh, my brother!" cried Marianne, catching hold of the words; and terrified, she ran upstairs, crying, "Sophy, oh, Sophy! come down this minute, or he'll be dead! My brother's bleeding to death! Sophy! Sophy! come down, or he'll be dead!"

"Let go the basin, you," said Christopher, pulling the basin out of the chimney-sweeper's hand, who had all this time stood in silence; "you are not fit to hold the basin for a gentleman."

"Let him hold it," said Frederick; "he did not mean to hurt me."

"That's more than he deserves. I'm certain sure he might have known well enough it was Mr. Frederick all the time, and he'd no business to go to fight--such a one as he--with a gentleman."

"I did not know he was a gentleman!" said the chimney-sweeper, "how could I?"

"How could he, indeed!" said Frederick; "he shall hold the basin."

"Gracious me! I'm glad to hear him speak like himself again, at anyrate," cried Mrs. Theresa. "And here comes Miss Sophy, too."

"Sophy!" cried Frederick. "Oh, Sophy, don't you come--don't look at me; you'll despise me."

"My brother! where? where?" said Sophy, looking, as she thought, at the two chimney-sweepers.

"It's Frederick," said Marianne: "that's my brother."

"Miss Sophy, don't be alarmed," Mrs. Theresa began; "but gracious goodness! I wish Miss Bertha--"

At this instant a female figure in white appeared upon the stairs; she passed swiftly on, whilst everyone gave way before her. "Oh, Miss Bertha!" cried Mrs. Theresa, catching hold of her gown to stop her, as she came near Frederick. "Oh, Miss Eden, your beautiful India muslin! take care of the chimney sweeper, for heaven's sake." But she pressed forward.

"It's my brother, will he die?" cried Marianne, throwing her arms round her, and looking up as if to a being of a superior order. "Will he bleed to death?"

"No, my love!" answered a sweet voice: "do not frighten thyself."

"I've done bleeding," said Frederick.

"Dear me, Miss Marianne, if you would not make such a rout," cried Mrs. Tattle. "Miss Bertha, it's nothing but a frolic. You see Mr. Frederick Montague only in a masquerade dress. Nothing in the world but a frolic, ma'am. You see he's stopped bleeding. I was frightened out of my wits at first. I thought it was his eye, but I see it's only his nose. All's well that ends well. Mr. Frederick, we'll keep your counsel. Pray, ma'am, let us ask no questions; it's only a boyish frolic. Come, Mr. Frederick, this way, into my room, and I'll give you a towel and some clean water, and you can get rid of this masquerade dress. Make haste, for fear your father and mother should drop in upon us."

"Do not be afraid of thy father and mother. They are surely thy best friends," said a voice. It was the voice of an elderly gentleman, who now stood behind Frederick.

"Oh, sir, oh, Mr. Eden," said Frederick, turning to him.

"Don't betray me! for goodness' sake!" whispered Mrs. Tattle, "say nothing about me."

"I'm not thinking about you. Let me speak," cried he, pushing away her hand, which stopped his mouth. "I shall say nothing about you, I promise you," said Frederick, with a look of contempt.

"No, but for your own sake, my dear sir, your papa and mamma. Bless me! is not that Mrs. Montague's carriage?"

"My brother, ma'am," said Sophy, "is not afraid of my father and mother's coming back. Let him speak; he was going to speak the truth."

"To be sure, Miss Sophia, I wouldn't hinder him from speaking the truth; but it's not proper, I presume, ma'am, to speak truth at all times, and in all places, and before everybody, servants and all. I only wanted, ma'am, to hinder your brother from exposing himself. A hall, I apprehend, is not a proper place for explanation."

"Here," said Mr. Eden, opening the door of his room, which was on the opposite side of the hall to Mrs. Tattle's. "Here is a place," said he to Frederick, "where thou mayst speak the truth at all times, and before everybody."

"Nay, my room's at Mr. Frederick Montague's service, and my door's open too. This way, pray," said she, pulling his arm. But Frederick broke from her, and followed Mr. Eden.

"Oh, sir, will you forgive me?" cried he.

"Forgive thee!--and what have I to forgive!"

"Forgive, brother, without asking what," said Bertha, smiling.

"He shall know all!" cried Frederick; "all that concerns myself, I mean. Sir, I disguised myself in this dress; I came up to your room to-night on purpose to see you, without your knowing it, that I might mimic you. The chimney-sweeper, where is he?" said Frederick, looking round; and he ran into the hall to see for him. "May he come in? he may--he is a brave, an honest, good, grateful boy. He never guessed who I was. After we left you we went down to the kitchen together, and there, fool as I was, for the pleasure of making Mr. Christopher and the servants laugh, began to mimic you. This boy said he would not stand by and hear you laughed at; that you had saved his life; that I ought to be ashamed of myself; that you had just given me half a crown; and so you had; but I went on, and told him I'd knock him down if he said another word. He did; I gave the first blow; we fought; I came to the ground; the servants pulled me up again. They found out, I don't know how, that I was not a chimney- sweeper. The rest you saw. And now can you forgive me, sir?" said Frederick to Mr. Eden, seizing hold of his hand.

"The other hand, friend," said the Quaker, gently withdrawing his right hand, which everybody now observed was much swelled, and putting it into his bosom again. "This, and welcome," offering his other hand to Frederick, and shaking his with a smile.

"Oh, that other hand!" said Frederick, "that was hurt, I remember. How ill I have behaved--extremely ill! But this is a lesson that I shall never forget as long as I live. I hope for the future I shall behave like a gentleman."

"And like a man--and like a good man, I am sure thou wilt," said the good Quaker, shaking Frederick's hand affectionately; "or I am much mistaken, friend, in that black countenance."

"You are not mistaken," cried Marianne. "Frederick will never be persuaded again by anybody to do what he does not think right: and now, brother, you may wash your black countenance."

Just when Frederick had got rid of half his black countenance, a double knock was heard at the door. It was Mr. and Mrs. Montague. "What will you do now?" whispered Mrs. Theresa to Frederick, as his father and mother came into the room.

"A chimney-sweeper covered with blood!" exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Montague.

"Father, I am Frederick," said he, stepping forward towards them, as they stood in astonishment.

"Frederick! my son!"

"Yes, mother, I'm not hurt half so much as I deserve; I'll tell you--"

"Nay," interrupted Bertha, "let my brother tell the story this time. Thou hast told it once, and told it well; no one but my brother could tell it better."

"A story never tells so well the second time, to be sure," said Mrs. Theresa; "but Mr. Eden will certainly make the best of it."

Without taking any notice of Mrs. Tattle, or her apprehensive looks, Mr. Eden explained all he knew of the affair in a few words. "Your son," concluded he, "will quickly put off his dirty dress. The dress hath not stained the mind; that is fair and honourable. When he found himself in the wrong, he said so; nor was he in haste to conceal his adventure from his father; this made me think well of both father and son. I speak plainly, friend, for that is best. But what is become of the other chimney-sweeper? He will want to go home," said Mr. Eden, turning to Mrs. Theresa. Without making any reply, she hurried out of the room as fast as possible, and returned in a few moments, with a look of extreme consternation.

"Here is a catastrophe indeed! Now, indeed, Mr. Frederick, your papa and mamma have reason to be angry. A new suit of clothes!--the bare faced villain! gone! no sign of them in my closet, or anywhere. The door was locked; he must have gone up the chimney, out upon the leads, and so escaped; but Christopher is after him. I protest, Mrs. Montague, you take it too quietly. The wretch!--a new suit of clothes, blue coat and buff waistcoat. I never heard of such a thing! I declare, Mr. Montague, you are vastly good, not to be in a passion," added Mrs. Theresa.

"Madam," replied Mr. Montague, with a look of much civil contempt, "I think the loss of a suit of clothes, and even the disgrace that my son has been brought to this evening, fortunate circumstances in his education. He will, I am persuaded, judge and act for himself more wisely in future. Nor will he be tempted to offend against humanity, for the sake of being called 'The best mimic in the world.'"

[The end]
Maria Edgeworth's short story: Mimic

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