Catty. Niver fear — only till me the truth, Pat, dear.
Pat. Why, then, to the best of my opinion, I seen Honor McBride just now giving Randal Rooney the meeting behind the chapel; and I seen him putting a ring on her finger.
Catty. (clasping her hands) Oh, murder! — Oh! the unnat’ral monsters that love makes of these young men; and the traitor, to use me so, when he promised he’d never make a stolen match unknown’st to me.
Pat. Oh, ma’am, I don’t say — I wouldn’t swear — it’s a match yet.
Catty. Then I’ll run down and stop it — and catch ‘em.
Pat. You haven’t your jock on, ma’am — (she turns towards the house) — and it’s no use — for you won’t catch ‘em: I seen them after, turning the back way into Nick Flaherty’s.
Catty. Nick Flaherty’s, the publican’s? oh, the sinners! And this is the saint that Honor McBride would be passing herself upon us for? And all the edication she got at Mrs. Carver’s Sunday school! Oh, this comes of being better than one’s neighbours! A fine thing to tell Mrs. Carver, the English lady, that’s so nice, and so partial to Miss Honor McBride! Oh, I’ll expose her!
Pat. Oh! sure, Mrs. Rooney, you promised you’d not tell, (Standing so as to stop CATTY.)
Catty. Is it who told me? No — I won’t mintion a sintence of your name. But let me by — I won’t be put off now I’ve got the scent. I’ll hunt ’em out, and drag her to shame, if they’re above ground, or my name’s not Catty Rooney! Mick! Mick! little Mick! (calling at the cottage door) bring my blue jock up the road after me to Ballynavogue. Don’t let me count three till you’re after me, or I’ll bleed ye! (Exit CATTY, shaking her closed hand, and repeating) I’ll expose Honor McBride — I’ll expose Honor! I will, by the blessing!
Pat. (alone) Now, if Randal Rooney would hear, he’d make a jelly of me, and how I’d trimble; or the brother, if he comed across me, and knewed. But they’ll niver know. Oh, Catty won’t say a sintence of my name, was she carded! No, Catty’s a scould, but has a conscience. Then I like conscience in them I have to dale with sartainly. {Exit.
SCENE V.
Mrs. CARVER’S Dressing-room, HONOR McBRIDE and MISS BLOOMSBURY discovered.
Honor. How will I know, Miss Bloomsbury, when it will be twelve o’clock?
Bloom. You’ll hear the clock strike: but I suspect you’se don’t understand the clock yet — well, you’ll hear the workmen’s bell.
Honor. I know, ma’am, oh, I know, true — only I was flurried, so I forgot.
Bloom. Flurried! but never be flurried. Now mind and keep your head upon your shoulders, while I tell you all your duty — you’ll just ready this here room, your lady’s dressing-room; not a partical of dust let me never find, petticlarly behind the vindor shuts.
Honor. Vindor shuts! — where, ma’am?
Bloom. The shuts of the vindors — did you never hear of a vindor, child?
Honor. Never, ma’am.
Bloom. (pointing to a window) Don’t tell me! why, your head is a wool-gathering! Now, mind me, pray — see here, always you put that there, — and this here, and that upon that, — and this upon this, and this under that, — and that under this — you can remember that much, child, I supposes?
Honor. I’ll do my endeavour, ma’am, to remember all.
Bloom. But mind, now, my good girl, you takes petticlar care of this here pyramint of japanned china — and very petticlar care of that there great joss — and the very most petticularest care of this here right reverend Mandolin. (Pointing to, and touching a Mandarin, so as to make it shake. HONOR starts back.)
Bloom. It i’n’t alive. Silly child, to start at a Mandolin shaking his head and beard at you. But, oh! mercy, if there i’n’t enough to make him shake his head. Stand there! — stand here! — now don’t you see?
Honor. Which, ma’am?
Bloom. “Which, ma’am!” you’re no witch, indeed, if you don’t see a cobweb as long as my arm. Run, run, child, for the pope’s head.
Honor. Pope’s head, ma’am?
Bloom. Ay, the pope’s head, which you’ll find under the stairs. Well, a’n’t you gone? what do you stand there like a stuck pig, for? — Never see a pope’s head? — never ‘ear of a pope’s head?
Honor. I’ve heard of one, ma’am — with the priest; but we are protestants.
Bloom. Protestants! what’s that to do? I do protest, I believe that little head of yours is someway got wrong on your shoulders to-day. {The clock strikes — HONOR, who is close to it, starts.
Bloom. Start again! — why, you’re all starts and fits. Never start, child! so ignoramus like! ’tis only the clock in your ear, — twelve o’clock, hark! — The bell will ring now in a hurry. Then you goes in there to my lady — stay, you’ll never be able, I dare for to say, for to open the door without me; for I opine you are not much usen’d to brass locks in Hirish cabins — can’t be expected. See here, then! You turns the lock in your hand this’n ways — the lock, mind now; not the key nor the bolt for your life, child, else you’d bolt your lady in, and there’d be my lady in Lob’s pound, and there’d be a pretty kettle, of fish! — So you keep, if you can, all I said to you in your head, if possible — and you goes in there — and I goes out here.
{Exit BLOOMSBURY.
Honor. (curtsying) Thank ye, ma’am. Then all this time I’m sensible I’ve been behaving and looking little better than like a fool, or an innocent. — But I hope I won’t be so bad when the lady shall speak to me. (The bell rings.) Oh, the bell summons me in here. — (Speaks with her hand on the lock of the door) The lock’s asy enough — I hope I’ll take courage — (sighs) — Asier to spake before one nor two, any way — and asier tin times to the mistress than the maid. {Exit HONOR.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
GERALD O’BLANEY’S Counting-house.
O’BLANEY alone.
O’Bla. Then I wonder that ould Matthew McBride is not here yet. But is not this Pat Coxe coming up yonder? Ay. Well, Pat, what success with Catty?
Enter PAT COXE, panting.
Take breath, man alive — What of Catty?
Pat. Catty! Oh, murder! No time to be talking of Catty now! Sure the shupervizor’s come to town.
O’Bla. Blood! — and the malt that has not paid duty in the cellar! Run, for your life, to the back-yard, give a whistle to call all the boys that’s ricking o’ the turf, away with ’em to the cellar, out with every sack of malt that’s in it, through the back-yard, throw all into the middle of the turf-stack, and in the wink of an eye build up the rick over all, snoog (snug).
Pat. I’ll engage we’ll have it done in a crack. {Exit PAT.
O’Bla. (calling after him) Pat! Pat Coxe! man!
Re-enter PAT.
O’Bla. Would there be any fear of any o’ the boys informin?
Pat. Sooner cut their ears off! {Exit PAT.
Enter Old McBRIDE, at the opposite side.
Old McB. (speaking in a slow, drawling brogue) Would Mr. Gerald O’Blaney, the counsellor, be within?
O’Bla. (quick brogue) Oh, my best friend, Matthew McBride, is it you, dear? Then here’s Gerald O’Blaney, always at your sarvice. But shake hands; for of all men in Ireland, you are the man I was aching to lay my eyes on. And in the fair did ye happen to meet Carver of Bob’s Fort?
Old McB. (speaking very slowly) Ay. did I — and he was a-talking to me, and I was a-talking to him — and he’s a very good gentleman, Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort — so he is — and a gentleman that knows how things should be; and he has been giving of me, Mr. O’Blaney, a great account of you, and how you’re thriving in the world — and so as that.
O’Bla. Nobody should know that better than Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort — he knows all my affairs. He is an undeniable honest gentleman, for whom I profess the highest regard.
Old McB. Why then he has a great opinion of you too, counsellor — for he has been advising of, and telling of me, O’Blaney, of your proposhal, sir — and very sinsible I am of the
honour done by you to our family, sir — and condescension to the likes of us — though, to be sure, Honor McBride, though she is my daughter, is a match for any man.
O’Bla. Is a match for a prince — a Prince Ragent even. So no more about condescension, my good Matthew, for love livels all distinctions.
Old McB. That’s very pretty of you to say so, sir; and I’ll repeat it to Honor.
O’Bla. Cupid is the great liveller, after all, and the only democrat Daity on earth I’d bow to — for I know you are no democrat, Mr. McBride, but quite and clane the contrary way.
Old McB. Quite and clane and stiff, I thank my God; and I’m glad, in spite of the vowel before your name, Mr. O’Blaney, to hear you are of the same kidney.
O’Bla. I’m happy to find myself agreeable to you, sir.
Old McB. But, however agreeable to me, as I won’t deny, it might be, sir, to see my girl made into a gentlewoman by marriage, I must observe to you —
O’Bla. And I’ll keep her a jaunting car to ride about the country; and in another year, as my fortune’s rising, my wife should rise with it into a coach of her own.
Old McB. Oh! if I’d live to see my child, my Honor, in a coach of her own! I’d be too happy — oh, I’d die contint!
O’Bla. (aside) No fear! — (Aloud) And why should not she ride in her own coach, Mistress Counsellor O’Blaney, and look out of the windows down upon the Roonies, that have the insolence to look up to her?
Old McB. Ah! you know that, then. That’s all that’s against us, sir, in this match.
O’Bla. But if you are against Randal, no fear.
Old McB. I am against him — that is, against his family, and all his seed, breed, and generation. But I would not break my daughter’s heart if I could help it.
O’Bla. Wheugh! — hearts don’t break in these days, like china.
Old McB. This is my answer, Mr. O’Blaney, sir: you have my lave, but you must have hers too.
O’Bla. I would not fear to gain that in due time, if you would stand my friend in forbidding her the sight of Randal.
Old McB. I will with pleasure, that — for tho’ I won’t force her to marry to plase me, I’ll forbid her to marry to displase me; and when I’ve said it, whatever it is, I’ll be obeyed. (Strikes his stick on the ground.)
O’Bla. That is all I ax.
Old McB. But now what settlement, counshillor, will you make on my girl?
O’Bla. A. hundred a year — I wish to be liberal — Mr. Carver will see to that — he knows all my affairs, as I suppose he was telling you.
Old McB. He was — I’m satisfied, and I’m at a word myself always. You heard me name my girl’s portion, sir?
O’Bla. I can’t say — I didn’t mind—’twas no object to me in life.
Old McB. (in a very low, mysterious tone, and slow brogue) Then five hundred guineas is some object to most men.
O’Bla. Certainly, sir; but not such an object as your daughter to me: since we are got upon business, however, best settle all that out of the way, as you say at once. Of the five hundred, I have two in my hands already, which you can make over to me with a stroke of a pen. (Rising quickly, and getting pen, ink, and books.)
Old McB. (speaking very slowly) Stay a hit — no hurry — in life. In business—’tis always most haste, worse speed.
O’Bla. Take your own time, my good Matthew — I’ll be as slow as you plase — only love’s quick.
Old McB. Slow and sure — love and all — fast bind, fast find — three and two, what does that make?
O’Bla. It used to make five before I was in love.
Old McB. And will the same after you’re married and dead. What am I thinking of? A score of bullocks I had in the fair — half a score sold in my pocket, and owing half — that’s John Dolan, twelve pound tin — and Charley Duffy nine guineas and thirteen tin pinnies and a five-penny bit: stay, then, put that to the hundred guineas in the stocking at home.
O’Bla. (aside) How he makes my mouth water: (Aloud) May be, Matthew, I could, that am used to it, save you the trouble of counting?
Old McB. No trouble in life to me ever to count my money — only I’ll trouble you, sir, if you please, to lock that door; bad to be chinking and spreading money with doors open, for walls has ears and eyes.
O’Bla. True for you. (Rising, and going to lock the doors.)
{Old McBRIDE with great difficulty, and very slowly, draws out of his pocket his bag of money — looking first at one door, and then at the other, and going to try whether they are locked, before he unties his bag.}
Old McB. (spreads and counts his money and notes) See me now, I wrote on some scrap somewhere 59l. in notes — then hard cash, twinty pounds — rolled up silver and gould, which is scarce — but of a hundred pounds there’s wanting fourteen pounds odd, I think, or something that way; for Phil and I had our breakfast out of a one pound note of Finlay’s, and I put the change somewhere — besides a riband for Honor, which make a deficiency of fourteen pounds seven shillings and two pence — that’s what’s deficient — count it which way you will.
O’Bla. (going to sweep the money off the table) Oh! never mind the deficiency — I’ll take it for a hundred plump.
Old McB. (stopping him) Plump me no plumps — I’ll have it exact, or not at all — I’ll not part it, so let me see it again.
O’Bla. (aside with a deep sigh, almost a groan) Oh! when I had had it in my fist — almost: but ’tis as hard to get money out of this man as blood out of a turnip; and I’ll be lost to-night without it.
Old McB. ’Tis not exact — and I’m exact: I’ll put it all up again — (he puts it deliberately into the bag again, thrusting the bag into his pocket) — I’ll make it up at home my own way, and send it in to you by Phil in an hour’s time; for I could not sleep sound with so much in my house — bad people about — safer with you in town. Mr. Carver says, you are as good as the Bank of Ireland — there’s no going beyond that. (Buttoning up his pockets.) So you may unlock the doors and let me out now — I’ll send Phil with all to you, and you’ll give him a bit of a receipt or a token, that would do.
O’Bla. I shall give a receipt by all means — all regular: short accounts make long friends. (Unlocks the door.)
Old McB. True, sir, and I’ll come in and see about the settlements in the morning, if Honor is agreeable.
O’Bla. I shall make it my business to wait upon the young lady myself on the wings of love; and I trust I’ll not find any remains of Randal Rooney in her head.
Old McB. Not if I can help it, depend on that. (They shake hands.)
O’Bla. Then, fare ye well, father-in-law — that’s meat and drink to me: would not ye take a glass of wine then?
Old McB. Not a drop — not a drop at all — with money about me: I must be in a hurry home.
O’Bla. That’s true — so best: recommind me kindly to Miss Honor, and say a great dale about my impatience — and I’ll be expicting Phil, and won’t shut up till he comes the night.
Old McB. No, don’t; for he’ll be with you before night-fall. {Exit McBRIDE.
O’Bla. (calling) Dan! open the door, there: Dan! Joe! open the door smart for Mr. McBride! (O’BLANEY rubbing his hands.) Now I think I may pronounce myself made for life — success to my parts! — and here’s Pat too! Well, Pat Coxe, what news of the thing in hand?
Enter PAT COXE.
Pat. Out of hand clane! that job’s nately done. The turf-rick, sir, ‘s built up cliver, with the malt snug in the middle of its stomach — so were the shupervishor a conjuror even, barring he’d dale with the ould one, he’d never suspict a sentence of it.
O’Bla. Not he — he’s no conjuror: many’s the dozen tricks I played him afore now.
Pat. But, counshillor, there’s the big veshel in the little passage — I got a hint from a friend, that the shuper got information of the spirits in that from some villain.
O’Bla. And do you think I don’t know a trick for that, too?
Pat. No doubt: st
ill, counshillor, I’m in dread of my life that that great big veshel won’t be implied in a hurry.
O’Bla. Won’t it? but you’ll see it will, though; and what’s more, them spirits will turn into water for the shupervisor.
Pat. Water! how?
O’Bla. Asy — the ould tan-pit that’s at the back of the distillery.
Pat. I know — what of it?
O’Bla. A sacret pipe I’ve got fixed to the big veshel, and the pipe goes under the wall for me into the tan-pit, and a sucker I have in the big veshel, which I pull open by a string in a crack, and lets all off all clane into the tan-pit.
Pat. That’s capital! — but the water?
O’Bla. From the pump, another pipe — and the girl’s pumping asy, for she’s to wash to-morrow, and knows nothing about it; and so the big veshel she fills with water, wondering what ails the water that it don’t come — and I set one boy and another to help her — and the pump’s bewitched, and that’s all: — so that’s settled.
Pat. And cliverly. Oh! counshillor, we are a match for the shuper any day or night.
O’Bla. For him and all his tribe, coursing officers and all. I’d desire no better sport than to hear the whole pack in full cry after me, and I doubling, and doubling, and safe at my form at last. With you, Pat, my precious, to drag the herring over the ground previous to the hunt, to distract the scent, and defy the nose of the dogs.
Pat. Then I am proud to sarve you, counshillor.
O’Bla. I know you are, and a very honest boy. And what did you do for me, with Catty Rooney?
Pat. The best. — Oh! it’s I blarny’d Catty to the skies, and then egged her on, and aggravated her against the McBrides, till I left her as mad as e’er a one in Bedlam — up to any thing! And full tilt she’s off to Flaherty’s, the publican, in her blue jock — where she’ll not be long afore she kicks up a quarrel, I’ll engage; for she’s sarching the house for Honor McBride, who is not in it — and giving bad language, I warrant, to all the McBride faction, who is in it, drinking. Oh! trust Catty’s tongue for breeding a riot! In half an hour, I’ll warrant, you’ll have as fine a fight in town as ever ye seen or hard.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 621