Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Mr. Carv. And I trust you find your advantage in it, sir. Pray, how does the distillery business go on?

  O’Bla. Swimmingly! ever since that time, Mr. Carver, your interest at the castle helped me at the dead lift, and got that fine took off. ’Tis to your purtiction, encouragement, and advice entirely, I owe my present unexampled prosperity, which you prophesied; and Mr. Carver’s prophecies seldom, I may say never, fail to be accomplished.

  Mr. Carv. I own there is some truth in your observation. I confess I have seldom been mistaken or deceived in my judgment of man, woman, or child.

  O’Bla. Who can say so much?

  Mr. Carv. For what reason, I don’t pretend to say; but the fact ostensibly is, that the few persons I direct with my advice are unquestionably apt to prosper in this world.

  O’Bla. Mighty apt! for which rason I would wish to trouble you for your unprecedently good advice on another pint, if it, would not be too great a liberty.

  Mr. Carv. No liberty at all, my good Gerald — I am always ready to advise — only to-day — certainly, the fair day of Ballynavogue, there are so many calls upon me, both in a public and private capacity, so much business of vital importance!

  O’Bla. (aside) Vital importance! — that is his word on all occasions. (Aloud) May be then, (oh! where was my head?) may be you would not have breakfasted all this time? and we’ve the kittle down always in this house, (rising) Pat! — Jack! — Mick! — Jenny! put the kittle down.

  Mr. Carv. Sit down, sit still, my worthy fellow. Breakfasted at Bob’s Fort, as I always do.

  O’Bla. But a bit of cake — a glass of wine, to refrish and replinish nature.

  Mr. Carv. Too early — spoil my dinner. But what was I going to say?

  O’Bla. (aside) Burn me, if I know; and I pray all the saints you may never recollect.

  Mr. Carv. I recollect. How many times do you think I was stopped on horseback coming up the street of Ballynavogue? — Five times by weights and measures imperiously calling for reformation, sir. Thirteen times, upon my veracity, by booths, apple-stalls, nuisances, vagabonds, and drunken women. Pigs without end, sir — wanting ringing, and all squealing in my ears, while I was settling sixteen disputes about tolls and customs. Add to this, my regular battle every fair-day with the crane, which ought to be any where but where it is; and my perputual discoveries of fraudulent kegs, and stones in the butter! Now, sir, I only ask, can you wonder that I wipe my forehead? (wiping his forehead).

  O’Bla. In troth, Mr. Carver, I cannot! But these are the pains and penalties of being such a man of consequence as you evidently are; — and I that am now going to add to your troubles too by consulting you about my little pint!

  Mr. Carv. A point of law, I dare to say; for people somehow or other have got such a prodigious opinion of my law. (Takes snuff.)

  O’Bla. (aside) No coming to the pint till he has finished his own panygeric.

  Mr. Carv. And I own I cannot absolutely turn my back on people. Yet as to poor people, I always settle them by telling them, it is my principle that law is too expensive for the poor: I tell them, the poor have nothing to do with the laws.

  O’Bla. Except the penal.

  Mr. Carv. True, the civil is for us, men of property; and no man should think of going to law, without he’s qualified. There should be licenses.

  O’Bla. No doubt. Pinalties there are in plinty; still those who can afford should indulge. In Ireland it would as ill become a gentleman to be any way shy of a law-shute, as of a duel.

  Mr. Carv. Yet law is expensive, sir, even to me.

  O’Bla. But ’tis the best economy in the end; for when once you have cast or non-shuted your man in the courts, ’tis as good as winged him in the field. And suppose you don’t get sixpence costs, and lose your cool hundred by it, still it’s a great advantage; for you are let alone to enjoy your own in pace and quiet ever after, which you could not do in this county without it. But the love of the law has carried me away from my business: the pint I wanted to consult you about is not a pint of law; ’tis another matter.

  Mr. Carv. (looking at his watch) I must be at Bob’s Fort, to seal my despatches for the castle. And there’s another thing I say of myself.

  O’Bla. (aside) Remorseless agotist!

  Mr. Carv. I don’t know how the people all have got such an idea of my connexions at the castle, and my influence with his Excellency, that I am worried with eternal applications: they expect I can make them all gaugers or attorney-generals, I believe. How do they know I write to the castle?

  O’Bla. Oh! the post-office tells asy by the big sales (seals) to your despatches — (aside) — which, I’ll engage, is all the castle ever, rades of them, though Carver has his Excellency always in his mouth, God help him!

  Mr. Carv. Well, you wanted to consult me, Gerald?

  O’Bla. And you’ll give me your advice, which will be conclusive, law, and every thing to me. You know the McBrides — would they be safe?

  Mr. Carv. Very safe, substantial people.

  O’Bla. Then here’s the thing, Mr. Carver: as you recommend them, and as they are friends of yours — I will confess to you that, though it might not in pint of interest be a very prudent match, I am thinking that Honor McBride is such a prudent girl, and Mrs. Carver has taken her by the hand, so I’d wish to follow Mrs. Carver’s example for life, in taking Honor by the hand for better for worse.

  Mr. Carv. In my humble opinion you cannot do better; and I can tell you a secret — Honor will have no contemptible fortune in that rank of life.

  O’Bla. Oh, fortune’s always contemptible in marriage.

  Mr. Carv. Fortune! sir?

  O’Bla. (aside) Overshot. (Aloud) In comparison with the patronage and protection or countenance she’d have from you and your family, sir.

  Mr. Carv. That you may depend upon, my good Gerald, as far as we can go; but you know we are nothing.

  O’Bla. Oh, I know you’re every thing — every thing on earth — particularly with ould McBride; and you know how to speak so well and iloquent, and I’m so tongue-tied and bashful on such an occasion.

  Mr. Carv. Well, well, I’ll speak for you.

  O’Bla. A thousand thanks down to the ground.

  Mr. Carv. (patting him on the back as he rises) My poor Gerald.

  O’Bla. Then I am poor Gerald in point of wit, I know; but you are too good a friend to be calling me poor to ould McBride — you can say what I can’t say.

  Mr. Carv. Certainly, certainly; and you may depend on me. I shall speak my decided opinion; and I fancy McBride has sense enough to be ruled by me.

  O’Bla. I am sure he has — only there’s a Randal Rooney, a wild young man, in the case. I’d be sorry the girl was thrown I away upon Randal.

  Mr. Carv. She has too much sense: the father will settle that, and I’ll settle the father. {Mr. CARVER going.

  O’Bla. (following, aside) And who has settled you?

  Mr. Carv. Don’t stir — don’t stir — men of business must be nailed to a spot — and I’m not ceremonious. {Exit Mr. CARVER.

  O’Bla. Pinned him by all that’s cliver! {Exit O’BLANEY.

  SCENE III.

  Mrs. CARVER’S Dressing-room.

  Mrs. CARVER sitting at work. — BLOOMSBURY standing.

  Bloom. Certainly, ma’am, what I always said was, that for the commonalty, there’s no getting out of an Irish cabin a girl fit to be about a lady such as you, Mrs. Carver, in the shape of a waiting-maid or waiting-maid’s assistant, on account they smell so of smoke, which is very distressing; but this Honor McBride seems a bettermost sort of girl, ma’am; if you can make up your mind to her vice.

  Mrs. Carv. Vice?

  Bloom. That is, vicious pronounciations in regard to their Irish brogues.

  Mrs. Carv. Is that all? — I am quite accustomed to the accent.

  Bloom. Then, ma’am, I declare now, I’ve been forced to stuff my hears with cotton wool hever since I comed to Ireland. But this here Honor McBride has a mighty pr
etty vice, if you don’t take exceptions to a little nationality; nor she if not so smoke-dried: she’s really a nice, tidy-looking like girl considering. I’ve taken tea with the family often, and they live quite snug for Hirish. I’ll assure you, ma’am, quite bettermost people for Hibernians, as you always said, ma’am.

  Mrs. Carv. I have a regard for old Matthew, though he is something of a miser, I fear.

  Bloom. So, ma’am, shall I call the girl up, that we may see and talk to her? I think, ma’am, you’ll find she will do; and I reckon to keep her under my own eye and advice from morning till night: for when I seed the girl so willing to larn, I quite took a fancy to her, I own — as it were.

  Mrs. Carv. Well, Bloomsbury, let me see this Honor McBride.

  Bloom. (calling) One of you there! please call up Honor McBride.

  Mrs. Carv. She has been waiting a great while, I fear; I don’t like to keep people waiting.

  Bloom. (watching for HONOR as she speaks) Dear heart, ma’am, in this here country, people does love waiting for waiting’s sake, that’s sure — they got nothing else to do. Here, Honor — walk in, Honor, — rub your shoes always.

  Enter HONOR, timidly.

  Mrs. Carv. (in an encouraging voice) Come in, my good girl.

  Bloom. Oh! child, the door: the peoples never shut a door in, Ireland! Did not I warn you? — says I, “Come when you’re called — do as you’re bid — shut the door after you, and you’ll never be chid.” Now what did I tell you, child?

  Honor. To shut the door after me when I’d come into a room.

  Bloom. When I’d come — now that’s not dic’snary English.

  Mrs. Carv. Good Bloomsbury, let that pass for the present — come a little nearer to me, my good girl.

  Honor. Yes, ma’am.

  Bloom. Take care of that china pyramint with your cloak — walk on to Mrs. Carver — no need to be afraid — I’ll stand your friend.

  Mrs. Carv. I should have thought, Honor McBride, you were in too comfortable a way at home, to think of going into service.

  Honor. (sighs) No better father, nor brother, nor (than) I have, ma’am, I thank your ladyship; but some things come across.

  Mrs. Carv. (aside) Oh! it is a blushing case, I see: I must talk to her alone, by-and-by. (Aloud) I don’t mean, my good girl, to pry into your family affairs.

  Honor. Oh! ma’am, you’re too good. (Aside) The kind-hearted Lady, how I love her already! (She wipes the tears from her eyes.)

  Bloom. Take care of the bow-pot at your elbow, child; for if you break the necks of them moss roses —

  Honor. I ax their pardon.

  Mrs. Carv. Better take the flower-pot out of her way, Bloomsbury.

  Bloom. (moving the flower-pot) There, now: but, Honor, keep your eyes on my lady, never turn your head, and keep your hands always afore you, as I show you. Ma’am, she’ll larn manners in time — Lon’on was not built in a day. It i’n’t to be expected of she!

  Mrs. Carv. It is not to be expected indeed that she should learn every thing at once; so one thing at a time, good Bloomsbury, and one person at a time. Leave Honor to me for the present.

  Bloom. Certainly, ma’am; I beg pardon — I was only saying —

  Mrs. Carv. Since it is, it seems, necessary, my good girl, that you should leave home, I am glad that you are not too proud to go into service.

  Honor. Oh! into your service, ma’am, — I’d be too proud if you’d be kind enough to accept me.

  Mrs. Carv. Then as to wages, what do you expect?

  Honor. Any thing at all you please, ma’am.

  Bloom. (pressing down her shoulder) And where’s your curtsy? We shall bring these Irish knees into training by and by, I hopes.

  Honor. I’m awk’ard and strange, ma’am — I never was from home afore.

  Mrs. Carv. Poor girl — we shall agree very well, I hope.

  Honor. Oh yes, any thing at all, ma’am; I’m not greedy — nor needy, thanks above! but it’s what I’d wish to be under your protection if it was plasing, and I’ll do my very best, madam. (Curtsies.)

  Mrs. Carv. Nobody can expect more, and I hope and trust you’ll find mine an easy place — Bloomsbury, you will tell her, what will be required of her. (Mrs. Carver looks at her watch.) At twelve o’clock I shall be returned from my walk, and then, Honor, you will come into my cabinet here; I want to say a few words to you. {Exeunt omnes.

  SCENE IV.

  The High Road — A Cottage in view — Turf-stack, Hay-rick, &c.

  Catty Rooney alone, walking backwards and forwards.

  Catty. ’Tis but a stone’s throw to Ballynavogue. But I don’t like to be going into the fair on foot, when I been always used to go in upon my pillion behind my husband when living, and my son Randal, after his death. Wait, who comes here?—’Tis Gerald O’Blaney’s, the distiller’s, young man, Pat Coxe: now we’ll larn all — and whether O’Blaney can lend me the loan of a horse or no. A good morrow to you, kindly, Mr. Pat Coxe.

  Enter PAT COXE.

  Pat. And you the same, Mrs. Rooney, tinfold. Mr. O’Blaney has his sarvices to you, ma’am: no, not his sarvices, but his compliments, that was the word — his kind compliments, that was the very word.

  Catty. The counshillor’s always very kind to me, and genteel.

  Pat. And was up till past two in the morning, last night, madam, he bid me say, looking over them papers you left with him for your shuit, ma’am, with the McBrides, about the bit of Ballynascraw bog; and if you call upon the counshillor in the course of the morning, he’ll find, or make, a minute, for a consultation, he says. But mane time, to take no step to compromise, or make it up, for your life, ma’am.

  Catty. No fear, I’ll not give up at law, or any way, to a McBride, while I’ve a drop of blood in my veins — and it’s good thick Irish blood runs in these veins.

  Pat. No doubt, ma’am — from the kings of Ireland, as all the world knows, Mrs. Rooney.

  Catty. And the McBrides have no blood at-all-at-all.

  Pat. Not a drop, ma’am — so they can’t stand before you.

  Catty. They ought not, any way! — What are they? Cromwellians at the best. Mac Brides! Scotch! — not Irish native, at-all-at-all. People of yesterday, graziers — which tho’ they’ve made the money, can’t buy the blood. My anshestors sat on a throne, when the McBrides had only their hunkers to sit upon; and if I walk now when they ride, they can’t look down upon me — for every body knows who I am — and what they are.

  Pat. To be sure, ma’am, they do — the whole country talks of nothing else, but the shame when you’d be walking and they riding.

  Catty. Then could the counshillor lend me the horse?

  Pat. With all the pleasure in life, ma’am, only every horse he has in the world is out o’ messages, and drawing turf and one thing or another to-day — and he is very sorry, ma’am.

  Catty. So am I, then — I’m unlucky the day. But I won’t be saying so, for fear of spreading ill luck on my faction. Pray now what kind of a fair is it? — Would there be any good signs of a fight, Mr. Pat Coxe?

  Pat. None in life as yet, ma’am — only just buying and selling. The horse-bastes, and horned-cattle, and pigs squeaking, has it all to themselves. But it’s early times yet — it won’t be long so.

  Catty. No McBrides, no Ballynavogue boys gathering yet?

  Pat. None to signify of the McBrides, ma’am, at all.

  Catty. Then it’s plain them McBrides dare not be showing their faces, or even their backs, in Ballynavogue. But sure all our Ballynascraw boys, the Roonies, are in it as usual, I hope?

  Pat. Oh, ma’am, there is plinty of Roonies. I marked Big Briny of Cloon, and Ulick of Eliogarty, and little Charley of Killaspugbrone.

  Catty. All good men — no better. Praise be where due.

  Pat. And scarce a McBride I noticed. But the father and son — ould Matthew, and flourishing Phil, was in it, with a new pair of boots and the silver-hilted whip.

  Catty. The spalpeen! turned into a buckeen,
that would be a squireen, — but can’t.

  Pat. No, for the father pinches him.

  Catty. That’s well — and that ould Matthew is as obstinate a neger as ever famished his stomach. What’s he doing in Ballynavogue the day?

  Pat. Standing he is there, in the fair-green with his score of fat bullocks, that he has got to sell.

  Catty. Fat bullocks! Them, I reckon, will go towards Honor McBride’s portion, and a great fortin she’ll be for a poor man — but I covet none of it for me or mine.

  Pat. I’m sure of that, ma’am, — you would not demane yourself to the likes.

  Catty. Mark me, Pat Coxe, now — with all them fat bullocks at her back, and with all them fresh roses in her cheeks — and I don’t say but she’s a likely girl, if she wa’n’t a McBride; but with all that, and if she was the best spinner in the three counties — and I don’t say but she’s good, if she wa’n’t a McBride; — but was she the best of the best, and the fairest of the fairest, and had she to boot the two stockings full of gould, Honor McBride shall never be brought home, a daughter-in-law to me! My pride’s up.

  Pat. (aside) And I’m instructed to keep it up. — (Aloud) True for ye, ma’am, and I wish that all had as much proper pride, as ought to be having it.

  Catty. There’s maning in your eye, Pat — give it tongue.

  Pat. If you did not hear it, I suppose there’s no truth in it.

  Catty. What? — which?

  Pat. That your son Randal, Mrs. Rooney, is not of your way of thinking about Honor McBride, may be’s.

  Catty. Tut! No matter what way of thinking he is — a young slip of a boy like him does not know what he’ll think to-morrow. He’s a good son to me; and in regard to a wife, one girl will do him as well as another, if he has any sinse — and I’ll find him a girl that will plase him, I’ll engage.

  Pat. May be so, ma’am — no fear: only boys do like to be plasing themselves, by times — and I noticed something.

  Catty. What did you notice? — till me, Pat, dear, quick.

  Pat. No—’tis bad to be meddling and remarking to get myself ill-will; so I’ll keep myself to myself: for Randal’s ready enough with his hand as you with the tongue — no offence, Mrs. Rooney, ma’am.