Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  ‘Well,’ says he, joking like with Jason, ‘I wish we could settle it all with a stroke of my grey goose quill. What signifies making me wade through all this ocean of papers here; can’t you now, who understand drawing out an account, debtor and creditor, just sit down here at the corner of the table and get it done out for me, that I may have a clear view of the balance, which is all I need be talking about, you know?’

  ‘Very true, Sir Condy; nobody understands business better than yourself,’ says Jason.

  ‘So I’ve a right to do, being born and bred to the bar,’ says Sir Condy. ‘Thady, do step out and see are they bringing in the things for the punch, for we’ve just done all we have to do for this evening.’

  I goes out accordingly, and when I came back Jason was pointing to the balance, which was a terrible sight to my poor master.

  ‘Pooh! pooh! pooh!’ says he. ‘Here’s so many noughts they dazzle my eyes, so they do, and put me in mind of all I suffered larning of my numeration table, when I was a boy at the day-school along with you, Jason — units, tens, hundreds, tens of hundreds. Is the punch ready, Thady?’ says he, seeing me.

  ‘Immediately; the boy has the jug in his hand; it’s coming upstairs, please your honour, as fast as possible,’ says I, for I saw his honour was tired out of his life; but Jason, very short and cruel, cuts me off with—’Don’t be talking of punch yet awhile; it’s no time for punch yet a bit — units, tens, hundreds,’ goes he on, counting over the master’s shoulder, units, tens, hundreds, thousands.

  ‘A-a-ah! hold your hand,’ cries my master. ‘Where in this wide world am I to find hundreds, or units itself, let alone thousands?’

  ‘The balance has been running on too long,’ says Jason, sticking to him as I could not have done at the time, if you’d have given both the Indies and Cork to boot; ‘the balance has been running on too long, and I’m distressed myself on your account, Sir Condy, for money, and the thing must be settled now on the spot, and the balance cleared off,’ says Jason.

  ‘I’ll thank you if you’ll only show me how,’ says Sir Condy.

  ‘There’s but one way,’ says Jason, ‘and that’s ready enough. When there’s no cash, what can a gentleman do but go to the land?’

  ‘How can you go to the land, and it under custodiam to yourself already?’ says Sir Condy; ‘and another custodiam hanging over it? And no one at all can touch it, you know, but the custodees.’

  ‘Sure, can’t you sell, though at a loss? Sure you can sell, and I’ve a purchaser ready for you,’ says Jason.

  ‘Have you so?’ says Sir Condy. ‘That’s a great point gained. But there’s a thing now beyond all, that perhaps you don’t know yet, barring Thady has let you into the secret.’

  ‘Sarrah bit of a secret, or anything at all of the kind, has he learned from me these fifteen weeks come St. John’s Eve,’ says I, ‘for we have scarce been upon speaking terms of late. But what is it your honour means of a secret?’

  ‘Why, the secret of the little keepsake I gave my Lady Rackrent the morning she left us, that she might not go back empty-handed to her friends.’

  ‘My Lady Rackrent, I’m sure, has baubles and keepsakes enough, as those bills on the table will show,’ says Jason; ‘but whatever it is,’ says he, taking up his pen, ‘we must add it to the balance, for to be sure it can’t be paid for.’

  ‘No, nor can’t till after my decease,’ says Sir Condy; ‘that’s one good thing.’ Then colouring up a good deal, he tells Jason of the memorandum of the five hundred a-year jointure he had settled upon my lady; at which Jason was indeed mad, and said a great deal in very high words, that it was using a gentleman who had the management of his affairs, and was, moreover, his principal creditor, extremely ill to do such a thing without consulting him, and against his knowledge and consent. To all which Sir Condy had nothing to reply, but that, upon his conscience, it was in a hurry and without a moment’s thought on his part, and he was very sorry for it, but if it was to do over again he would do the same; and he appealed to me, and I was ready to give my evidence, if that would do, to the truth of all he said.

  So Jason with much ado was brought to agree to a compromise.

  ‘The purchaser that I have ready,’ says he, ‘will be much displeased, to be sure, at the encumbrance on the land, but I must see and manage him. Here’s a deed ready drawn up; we have nothing to do but to put in the consideration money and our names to it.’

  ‘And how much am I going to sell! — the lands of O’Shaughlin’s Town, and the lands of Gruneaghoolaghan, and the lands of Crookagnawaturgh,’ says he, just reading to himself. ‘And — oh, murder, Jason! sure you won’t put this in — the castle, stable, and appurtenances of Castle Rackrent?’

  ‘Oh, murder!’ says I, clapping my hands; ‘this is too bad, Jason.’

  ‘Why so?’ said Jason. ‘When it’s all, and a great deal more to the back of it, lawfully mine, was I to push for it.’

  ‘Look at him,’ says I, pointing to Sir Condy, who was just leaning back in his arm-chair, with his arms falling beside him like one stupefied; ‘is it you, Jason, that can stand in his presence, and recollect all he has been to us, and all we have been to him, and yet use him so at the last?’

  ‘Who will you find to use him better, I ask you?’ said Jason; ‘if he can get a better purchaser, I’m content; I only offer to purchase, to make things easy, and oblige him; though I don’t see what compliment I am under, if you come to that. I have never had, asked, or charged more than sixpence in the pound, receiver’s fees, and where would he have got an agent for a penny less?’

  ‘Oh, Jason! Jason! how will you stand to this in the face of the county, and all who know you?’ says I; ‘and what will people think and say when they see you living here in Castle Rackrent, and the lawful owner turned out of the seat of his ancestors, without a cabin to put his head into, or so much as a potato to eat?’

  Jason, whilst I was saying this, and a great deal more, made me signs, and winks, and frowns; but I took no heed, for I was grieved and sick at heart for my poor master, and couldn’t but speak.

  ‘Here’s the punch,’ says Jason, for the door opened; ‘here’s the punch!’

  Hearing that, my master starts up in his chair, and recollects himself, and Jason uncorks the whisky.

  ‘Set down the jug here,’ says he, making room for it beside the papers opposite to Sir Condy, but still not stirring the deed that was to make over all.

  Well, I was in great hopes he had some touch of mercy about him when I saw him making the punch, and my master took a glass; but Jason put it back as he was going to fill again, saying: ‘No, Sir Condy, it shan’t be said of me I got your signature to this deed when you were half-seas over: you know your name and handwriting in that condition would not, if brought before the courts, benefit me a straw; wherefore, let us settle all before we go deeper into the punch-bowl.’

  ‘Settle all as you will,’ said Sir Condy, clapping his hands to his ears; ‘but let me hear no more. I’m bothered to death this night.’

  ‘You’ve only to sign,’ said Jason, putting the pen to him.

  ‘Take all, and be content,’ said my master. So he signed; and the man who brought in the punch witnessed it, for I was not able, but crying like a child; and besides, Jason said, which I was glad of, that I was no fit witness, being so old and doting. It was so bad with me, I could not taste a drop of the punch itself, though my master himself, God bless him! in the midst of his trouble, poured out a glass for me, and brought it up to my lips.

  ‘Not a drop; I thank your honour’s honour as much as if I took it, though.’ And I just set down the glass as it was, and went out, and when I got to the street door the neighbours’ childer, who were playing at marbles there, seeing me in great trouble, left their play, and gathered about me to know what ailed me; and I told them all, for it was a great relief to me to speak to these poor childer, that seemed to have some natural feeling left in them; and when they were made sensible that Sir
Condy was going to leave Castle Rackrent for good and all, they set up a whillaluh that could be heard to the farthest end of the street; and one — fine boy he was — that my master had given an apple to that morning, cried the loudest; but they all were the same sorry, for Sir Condy was greatly beloved amongst the childer, for letting them go a-nutting in the demesne, without saying a word to them, though my lady objected to them. The people in the town, who were the most of them standing at their doors, hearing the childer cry, would know the reason of it; and when the report was made known, the people one and all gathered in great anger against my son Jason, and terror at the notion of his coming to be landlord over them, and they cried, ‘No Jason! no Jason! Sir Condy! Sir Condy! Sir Condy Rackrent for ever!’ And the mob grew so great and so loud, I was frightened, and made my way back to the house to warn my son to make his escape, or hide himself for fear of the consequences. Jason would not believe me till they came all round the house, and to the windows with great shouts. Then he grew quite pale, and asked Sir Condy what had he best do?

  ‘I’ll tell you what you had best do,’ said Sir Condy, who was laughing to see his fright; ‘finish your glass first, then let’s go to the window and show ourselves, and I’ll tell ’em — or you shall, if you please — that I’m going to the Lodge for change of air for my health, and by my own desire, for the rest of my days.’

  ‘Do so,’ said Jason, who never meant it should have been so but could not refuse him the Lodge at this unseasonable time: Accordingly, Sir Condy threw up the sash and explained matters, and thanked all his friends, and bid them look in at the punchbowl, and observe that Jason and he had been sitting over it very good friends; so the mob was content, and he sent them out some whisky to drink his health, and that was the last time his honour’s health was ever drunk at Castle Rackrent.

  The very next day, being too proud, as he said to me, to stay an hour longer in a house that did not belong to him, he sets off to the Lodge, and I along with him not many hours after. And there was great bemoaning through all O’Shaughlin’s Town, which I stayed to witness, and gave my poor master a full account of when I got to the Lodge. He was very low, and in his bed, when I got there, and complained of a great pain about his heart; but I guessed it was only trouble and all the business, let alone vexation, he had gone through of late; and knowing the nature of him from a boy, I took my pipe, and whilst smoking it by the chimney began telling him how he was beloved and regretted in the county, and it did him a deal of good to hear it.

  ‘Your honour has a great many friends yet that you don’t know of, rich and poor, in the county,’ says I; ‘for as I was coming along the road I met two gentlemen in their own carriages, who asked after you, knowing me, and wanted to know where you was and all about you, and even how old I was. Think of that.’

  Then he wakened out of his doze, and began questioning me who the gentlemen were. And the next morning it came into my head to go, unknown to anybody, with my master’s compliments, round to many of the gentlemen’s houses, where he and my lady used to visit, and people that I knew were his great friends, and would go to Cork to serve him any day in the year, and I made bold to try to borrow a trifle of cash from them. They all treated me very civil for the most part, and asked a great many questions very kind about my lady and Sir Condy and all the family, and were greatly surprised to learn from me Castle Rackrent was sold, and my master at the Lodge for health; and they all pitied him greatly, and he had their good wishes, if that would do; but money was a thing they unfortunately had not any of them at this time to spare. I had my journey for my pains, and I, not used to walking, nor supple as formerly, was greatly tired, but had the satisfaction of telling my master, when I got to the Lodge, all the civil things said by high and low.

  ‘Thady,’ says he, ‘all you’ve been telling me brings a strange thought into my head. I’ve a notion I shall not be long for this world anyhow, and I’ve a great fancy to see my own funeral afore I die.’ I was greatly shocked, at the first speaking, to hear him speak so light about his funeral, and he to all appearance in good health; but recollecting myself, answered:

  ‘To be sure it would be as fine a sight as one could see, I dared to say, and one I should be proud to witness, and I did not doubt his honour’s would be as great a funeral as ever Sir Patrick O’Shaughlin’s was, and such a one as that had never been known in the county afore or since.’ But I never thought he was in earnest about seeing his own funeral himself till the next day he returns to it again.

  ‘Thady,’ says he, ‘as far as the wake goes, sure I might without any great trouble have the satisfaction of seeing a bit of my own funeral.’ [A ‘wake’ in England is a meeting avowedly for merriment; in Ireland it is a nocturnal meeting avowedly for the purpose of watching and bewailing the dead, but in reality for gossiping and debauchery. [See GLOSSARY 28]]

  ‘Well, since your honour’s honour’s SO bent upon it,’ says I, not willing to cross him, and he in trouble, ‘we must see what we can do.’

  So he fell into a sort of sham disorder, which was easy done, as he kept his bed, and no one to see him; and I got my shister, who was an old woman very handy about the sick, and very skilful, to come up to the Lodge to nurse him; and we gave out, she knowing no better, that he was just at his latter end, and it answered beyond anything; and there was a great throng of people, men, women, and childer, and there being only two rooms at the Lodge, except what was locked up full of Jason’s furniture and things, the house was soon as full and fuller than it could hold, and the heat, and smoke, and noise wonderful great; and standing amongst them that were near the bed, but not thinking at all of the dead, I was startled by the sound of my master’s voice from under the greatcoats that had been thrown all at top, and I went close up, no one noticing.

  ‘Thady,’ says he, ‘I’ve had enough of this; I’m smothering, and can’t hear a word of all they’re saying of the deceased.’

  ‘God bless you, and lie still and quiet,’ says I, ‘a bit longer, for my shister’s afraid of ghosts, and would die on the spot with fright was she to see you come to life all on a sudden this way without the least preparation.’

  So he lays him still, though well nigh stifled, and I made all haste to tell the secret of the joke, whispering to one and t’other, and there was a great surprise, but not so great as we had laid out it would. ‘And aren’t we to have the pipes and tobacco, after coming so far to-night?’ said some; but they were all well enough pleased when his honour got up to drink with them, and sent for more spirits from a shebeen-house [‘Shebeen-house,’ a hedge alehouse. Shebeen properly means weak, small-beer, taplash.], where they very civilly let him have it upon credit. So the night passed off very merrily, but to my mind Sir Condy was rather upon the sad order in the midst of it all, not finding there had been such a great talk about himself after his death as he had always expected to hear.

  The next morning, when the house was cleared of them, and none but my shister and myself left in the kitchen with Sir Condy, one opens the door and walks in, and who should it be but Judy M’Quirk herself! I forgot to notice that she had been married long since, whilst young Captain Moneygawl lived at the Lodge, to the captain’s huntsman, who after a whilst ‘listed and left her, and was killed in the wars. Poor Judy fell off greatly in her good looks after her being married a year or two; and being smoke-dried in the cabin, and neglecting herself like, it was hard for Sir Condy himself to know her again till she spoke; but when she says, ‘It’s Judy M’Quirk, please your honour; don’t you remember her?’

  ‘Oh, Judy, is it you?’ says his honour. ‘Yes, sure, I remember you very well; but you’re greatly altered, Judy.’

  ‘Sure it’s time for me,’ says she. ‘And I think your honour, since I seen you last — but that’s a great while ago — is altered too.’

  ‘And with reason, Judy,’ says Sir Condy, fetching a sort of a sigh. ‘But how’s this, Judy?’ he goes on. ‘I take it a little amiss of you that you were not at my wake l
ast night.’