_Just._ Yes, child, by all means; and now I shall hear what possessed him to leave the box. I don't understand--there's something deep in all this; I don't understand it. Now I do desire, Mrs. Landlady, n.o.body may speak a single word whilst I am cross-examining the thief.

(_Landlady puts her finger upon her lips--Everybody looks eagerly towards the door._)

_Re-enter_ LUCY, _with a huge wicker cage in her hand, containing a magpie--The Justice drops the committal out of his hand._

_Just._ Hey!--what, Mrs. Landlady--the old magpie? hey?

_Land._ Ay, your worship, my old magpie. Who'd have thought it? Miss was very clever--it was she caught the thief. Miss was very clever.

_Old M._ Very good! very good!

_Just._ Ay, darling, her father's own child! How was it, child? Caught the thief, _with the mainour_, hey? Tell us all; I will hear all--that's poz.

_Lucy._ Oh! then first I must tell you how I came to suspect Mr. Magpie.

Do you remember, papa, that day last summer when I went with you to the bowling-green at the 'Saracen's Head'?

_Land._ Oh, of all days in the year! but I ask pardon, miss.

_Lucy._ Well, that day I heard my uncle and another gentleman telling stories of magpies hiding money; and they laid a wager about this old magpie and they tried him--they put a shilling upon the table, and he ran away with it and hid it; so I thought that he might do so again, you know, this time.

_Just._ Right, right. It's a pity, child, you are not upon the Bench--ha! ha! ha!

_Lucy._ And when I went to his old hiding-place, there it was; but you see, papa, he did not take the box.

_Just._ No, no, no! because the thief was a magpie. No _man_ would have taken the money and left the box. You see I was right; no _man_ would have left the box, hey?

_Lucy._ Certainly not, I suppose; but I'm so very glad, old man, that you have obtained your money.

_Just._ Well then, child, here--take my purse, and add that to it. We were a little too hasty with the committal--hey?

_Land._ Ay, and I fear I was, too; but when one is touched about the credit of one's house, one's apt to speak warmly.

_Old M._ Oh, I'm the happiest old man alive! You are all convinced that I told you no lies. Say no more--say no more. I am the happiest man!

Miss, you have made me the happiest man alive! Bless you for it!

_Land._ Well, now, I'll tell you what. I know what I think--you must keep that there magpie, and make a show of him, and I warrant he'll bring you many an honest penny; for it's a _true story_, and folks would like to hear it, I hopes----

_Just._ (_eagerly_). And, friend, do you hear? You'll dine here to-day, you'll dine here. We have some excellent ale. I will have you drink my health--that's poz!--hey? You'll drink my health, won't you--hey?

[Ill.u.s.tration: _'And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.'_]

_Old M._ (_bows_). Oh! and the young lady's, if you please.

_Just._ Ay, ay, drink her health--she deserves it. Ay, drink my darling's health.

_Land._ And please your worship, it's the right time, I believe, to speak of the goose-pie now; and a charming pie it is, and it's on the table.

_Will._ And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.

_Just._ Then let us say no more, but do justice immediately to the goose-pie; and, darling, put me in mind to tell this story after dinner.

(_After they go out, the Justice stops._)

'Tell this story'--I don't know whether it tells well for me; but I'll never be positive any more--_that's poz_!

THE MIMIC

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 amus.e.m.e.nt, to hazard the permanent happiness of their pupils.

Sensible of the extreme importance of early impressions, and of the powerful influence of external circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed in conversation before their 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 pa.s.sages, 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 circ.u.mstance 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 unenc.u.mbered 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 pa.s.sed 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 apologise for the liberty she had 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.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour to wait upon Mrs. Montague._]

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 a.s.sure 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_[14] of her lungs.'