It was true that Phelim did not speak with any Irish brogue: his mother was an English woman, and he had lived much with English officers in Cork, and he had studied and imitated their manner of speaking so successfully, that no one, merely by his accent, could have guessed that he was an Irishman.
“Hey! brother, I say!” continued Phelim, in a triumphant English tone; “I never was taken for an Irishman in my life. Colonel Broadman told me the other day, I spoke English better than the English themselves; that he should take me for an Englishman, in any part of the known world, the moment I opened my lips. You must allow that not the smallest particle of brogue is discernible on my tongue.”
His brother allowed that not the smallest particle of brogue was to be discerned upon Phelim’s tongue, but feared that some Irish idiom might be perceived in his conversation. And then the name of O’Mooney!
“Oh, as to that, I need not trouble an act of parliament, or even a king’s letter, just to change my name for a season; at the worst, I can travel and appear incognito.”
“Always?”
“No: only just till I’m upon good terms with the lady —— Mrs. Phelim O’Mooney, that is to be, God willing. Never fear, nor shake your head, brother; you men of business are out of this line, and not proper judges: I beg your pardon for saying so, but as you are my own brother, and nobody by, you’ll excuse me.”
His brother did excuse him, but continued silent for some minutes; he was pondering upon the means of persuading Phelim to give up this scheme.
“I would lay you any wager, my dear Phelim,” said he, “that you could not continue four days in England incognito.”
“Done!” cried Phelim. “Done for a hundred pounds; done for a thousand pounds, and welcome.”
“But if you lose, how will you pay?”
“Faith! that’s the last thing I thought of, being sure of winning.”
“Then you will not object to any mode of payment I shall propose.”
“None: only remembering always, that I was a bankrupt last week, and shall be little better till I’m married; but then I’ll pay you honestly if I lose.”
“No, if you lose I must be paid before that time, my good sir,” said his brother, laughing. “My bet is this: — I will lay you one hundred guineas that you do not remain four days in England incognito; be upon honour with me, and promise, that if you lose, you will, instead of laying down a hundred guineas, come back immediately, and settle quietly again to business.”
The word business was always odious to our hero’s proud ears; but he thought himself so secure of winning his wager, that he willingly bound himself in a penalty which he believed would never become due; and his generous brother, at parting, made the bet still more favourable, by allowing that Phelim should not be deemed the loser unless he was, in the course of the first four days after he touched English ground, detected eight times in being an Irishman.
“Eight times!” cried Phelim. “Good bye to a hundred guineas, brother, you may say.”
“You may say,” echoed his brother, and so they parted.
Mr. Phelim O’Mooney the next morning sailed from Cork harbour with a prosperous gale, and with a confidence in his own success which supplied the place of auspicious omens. He embarked at Cork, to go by long sea to London, and was driven into Deal, where Julius Caesar once landed before him, and with the same resolution to see and conquer. It was early in the morning; having been very sea-sick, he was impatient, as soon as he got into the inn, for his breakfast: he was shown into a room where three ladies were waiting to go by the stage; his air of easy confidence was the best possible introduction.
“Would any of the company choose eggs?” said the waiter.
“I never touch an egg for my share,” said O’Mooney, carelessly; he knew that it was supposed to be an Irish custom to eat eggs at breakfast; and when the malicious waiter afterwards set a plate full of eggs in salt upon the table, our hero magnanimously abstained from them; he even laughed heartily at a story told by one of the ladies, of an Hibernian at Buxton, who declared that “no English hen ever laid a fresh egg.”
O’Mooney got through breakfast much to his own satisfaction, and to that of the ladies, whom he had taken a proper occasion to call the three graces, and whom he had informed that he was an old baronet of an English family, and that his name was Sir John Bull. The youngest of the graces civilly observed, “that whatever else he might be, she should never have taken him for an old baronet.” The lady who made this speech was pretty, but O’Mooney had penetration enough to discover, in the course of the conversation, that she and her companions were far from being divinities; his three graces were a greengrocer’s wife, a tallowchandler’s widow, and a milliner. When he found that these ladies were likely to be his companions if he were to travel in the coach, he changed his plan, and ordered a postchaise and four.
O’Mooney was not in danger of making any vulgar Irish blunders in paying his bill at an inn. No landlord or waiter could have suspected him, especially as he always left them to settle the matter first, and then looked over the bill and money with a careless gentility, saying, “Very right,” or “Very well, sir;” wisely calculating, that it was better to lose a few shillings on the road, than to lose a hundred pounds by the risk of Hibernian miscalculation.
Whilst the chaise was getting ready he went to the custom-house to look after his baggage. He found a red-hot countryman of his own there, roaring about four and fourpence, and fighting the battle of his trunks, in which he was ready to make affidavit there was not, nor never had been, any thing contraband; and when the custom-house officer replied by pulling out of one of them a piece of Irish poplin, the Hibernian fell immediately upon the Union, which he swore was Disunion, as the custom-house officers managed it. Sir John Bull appeared to much advantage all this time, maintaining a dignified silence; from his quiet appearance and deportment, the custom-house officers took it for granted that he was an Englishman. He was in no hurry; he begged that gentleman’s business might be settled first; he would wait the officer’s leisure, and as he spoke he played so dexterously with half-a-guinea between his fingers, as to make it visible only where he wished. The custom-house officer was his humble servant immediately; but the Hibernian would have been his enemy, if he had not conciliated him by observing, “that even Englishmen must allow there was something very like a bull in professing to make a complete identification of the two kingdoms, whilst, at the same time, certain regulations continued in full force to divide the countries by art, even more than the British Channel does by nature.”
Sir John talked so plausibly, and, above all, so candidly and coolly on Irish and English politics, that the custom-house officer conversed with him for a quarter of an hour without guessing of what country he was, till in an unlucky moment Phelim’s heart got the better of his head. Joining in the praises bestowed by all parties on the conduct of a distinguished patriot of his country, he, in the height of his enthusiasm, inadvertently called him the Speaker.
“The Speaker!” said the officer.
“Yes, the Speaker — our Speaker!” cried Phelim, with exultation. He was not aware how he had betrayed himself, till the officer smiled and said —
“Sir, I really never should have found out that you were an Irishman but from the manner in which you named your countryman, who is as highly thought of by all parties in this country as in yours: your enthusiasm does honour to your heart.”
“And to my head, I’m sure,” said our hero, laughing with the best grace imaginable. “Well, I am glad you have found me out in this manner, though I lose the eighth part of a bet of a hundred guineas by it.”
He explained the wager, and begged the custom-house officer to keep his secret, which he promised to do faithfully, and assured him, “that he should be happy to do any thing in his power to serve him.” Whilst he was uttering these last words, there came in a snug, but soft-looking Englishman, who opining from the words “happy to do any thing in my power
to serve you,” that O’Mooney was a friend of the custom-house officer’s, and encouraged by something affable and good-natured in our hero’s countenance, crept up to him, and whispered a request—”Could you tell a body, sir, how to get out of the custom-house a very valuable box of Sèvre china that has been laying in the custom-house three weeks, and which I was commissioned to get out if I could, and bring up to town for a lady.”
As a lady was in the case, O’Mooney’s gallantry instantly made his good-nature effective. The box of Sèvre china was produced, and opened only as a matter of form, and only as a matter of curiosity its contents were examined — a beautiful set of Sèvre china and a pendule, said to have belonged to M. Egalité! “These things must be intended,” said Phelim, “for some lady of superior taste or fortune.”
As Phelim was a proficient in the Socratic art of putting judicious interrogatories, he was soon happily master of the principal points it concerned him to know: he learnt that the lady was rich — a spinster — of full age — at her own disposal — living with a single female companion at Blackheath — furnishing a house there in a superior style — had two carriages — her Christian name Mary — her surname Sharperson.
O’Mooney, by the blessing of God, it shall soon he, thought Phelim. He politely offered the Englishman a place in his chaise for himself and Sèvre china, as it was for a lady, and would run great hazard in the stage, which besides was full. Mr. Queasy, for that was our soft Englishman’s name, was astonished by our hero’s condescension and affability, especially as he heard him called Sir John: he bowed sundry times as low as the fear of losing his wig would permit, and accepted the polite offer with many thanks for himself and the lady concerned.
Sir John Bull’s chaise and four was soon ready; and Queasy seated in the corner of it, and the Sèvre china safely stowed between his knees. Captain Murray, a Scotch officer, was standing at the inn-door, with his eyes intently fixed on the letters that were worked in nails on the top of Sir John’s trunk; the letters were P. O’M. Our hero, whose eyes were at least as quick as the Scotchman’s, was alarmed lest this should lead to a second detection. He called instantly, with his usual presence of mind, to the ostler, and desired him to uncord that trunk, as it was not to go with him; raising his voice loud enough for all the yard to hear, he added—”It is not mine at all; it belongs to my friend, Mr. O’Mooney: let it be sent after me, at leisure, by the waggon, as directed, to the care of Sir John Bull.”
Our hero was now giving his invention a prodigious quantity of superfluous trouble; and upon this occasion, as upon most others, he was more in danger from excess than deficiency of ingenuity: he was like the man in the fairy tale, who was obliged to tie his legs lest he should outrun the object of which he was in pursuit. The Scotch officer, though his eyes were fixed on the letters PO’S., had none of the suspicions which Phelim was counteracting; he was only considering how he could ask for the third place in Sir John’s chaise during the next stage, as he was in great haste to get to town upon particular business, and there were no other horses at the inn. When he heard that the heavy baggage was to go by the waggon, he took courage and made his request. It was instantly granted by the good-natured Hibernian, who showed as much hospitality about his chaise as if it had been his house. Away they drove as fast as they could. Fresh dangers awaited him at the next inn. He left his hat upon the table in the hall whilst he went into the parlour, and when he returned, he heard some person inquiring what Irish gentleman was there. Our hero was terribly alarmed, for he saw that his hat was in the inquirers hand, and he recollected that the name of Phelim O’Mooney was written in it. This the inquisitive gentleman did not see, for it was written in no very legible characters on the leather withinside of the front; but “F. Guest, hatter, Damestreet, Dublin,” was a printed advertisement that could not be mistaken, and that was pasted within the crown. O’Mooney’s presence of mind did not forsake him upon this emergency.
“My good sir,” said he, turning to Queasy, who, without hearing one word of what was passing, was coming out of the parlour, with his own hat and gloves in his hand; “My good sir,” continued he, loading him with parcels, “will you have the goodness to see these put into my carriage? Ill take care of your hat and gloves,” added O’Mooney, in a low voice. Queasy surrendered his hat and gloves instantly, unknowing wherefore; then squeezed forward with his load through the crowd, crying—”Waiter! hostler! pray, somebody put these into Sir John Bull’s chaise.”
Sir John Bull, equipped with Queasy’s hat, marched deliberately through the defile, bowing with the air of at least an English county member to this side and to that, as way was made for him to his carriage. No one suspected that the hat did not belong to him; no one, indeed, thought of the hat, for all eyes were fixed upon the man. Seated in the carriage, he threw money to the waiter, hostler, and boots, and drew up the glass, bidding the postilions drive on. By this cool self-possession our hero effected his retreat with successful generalship, leaving his new Dublin beaver behind him, without regret, as bona waviata. Queasy, before whose eyes things passed continually without his seeing them, thanked Sir John for the care he had taken of his hat, drew on his gloves, and calculated aloud how long they should be going to the next stage. At the first town they passed through, O’Mooney bought a new hat, and Queasy deplored the unaccountable mistake by which Sir John’s hat had been forgotten. No further mistakes happened upon the journey. The travellers rattled on, and neither ‘stinted nor stayed’ till they arrived at Blackheath, at Miss Sharperson’s. Sir John sat Queasy down without having given him the least hint of his designs upon the lady; but as he helped him out with the Sèvre china, he looked through the large opening double doors of the hall, and slightly said—”Upon my word, this seems to be a handsome house: it would be worth looking at, if the family were not at home.”
“I am morally sure, Sir John,” said the soft Queasy, “that Miss Sharperson would be happy to let you see the house tonight, and this minute, if she knew you were at the door, and who you were, and all your civility about me and the china. — Do, pray, walk in.”
“Not for the world: a gentleman could not do such a thing without an invitation from the lady of the house herself.”
“Oh, if that’s all, I’ll step up myself to the young lady; I’m certain she’ll be proud — —”
“Mr. Queasy, by no means; I would not have the lady disturbed for the world at this unseasonable hour. — It is too late — quite too late.”
“Not at all, begging pardon, Sir John,” said Queasy, taking out his watch: “only just tea-time by me. — Not at all unseasonable for any body; besides, the message is of my own head: — all, you know, if not well taken — —”
Up the great staircase he made bold to go on his mission, as he thought, in defiance of Sir John’s better judgment. He returned in a few minutes with a face of self-complacent exultation, and Miss Sharperson’s compliments, and begs Sir John Bull will walk up and rest himself with a dish of tea, and has her thanks to him for the china.
Now Queasy, who had the highest possible opinion of Sir John Bull and of Miss Sharperson, whom he thought the two people of the greatest consequence and affability, had formed the notion that they were made for each other, and that it must be a match if they could but meet. The meeting he had now happily contrived and effected; and he had done his part for his friend Sir John, with Miss Sharperson, by as many exaggerations as he could utter in five minutes, concerning his perdigious politeness and courage, his fine person and carriage, his ancient family, and vast connexions and importance wherever he appeared on the road, at inns, and over all England. He had previously, during the journey, done his part for his friend Miss Sharperson with Sir John, by stating that “she had a large fortune left her by her mother, and was to have twice as much from her grandmother; that she had thousands upon thousands in the funds, and an estate of two thousand a year, called Rascàlly, in Scotland, besides plate and jewels without end.”
Th
us prepared, how could this lady and gentleman meet without falling desperately in love with each other!
Though a servant in handsome livery appeared ready to show Sir John up the great staircase, Mr. Queasy acted as a gentleman usher, or rather as showman. He nodded to Sir John as they passed across a long gallery and through an ante-chamber, threw open the doors of various apartments as he went along, crying—”Peep in! peep in! peep in here! peep in there! — Is not this spacious? Is not this elegant! Is not that grand? Did I say too much?” continued he, rubbing his hands with delight. “Did you ever see so magnificent and such highly-polished steel grates out of Lon’on?”
Sir John, conscious that the servant’s eyes were upon him, smiled at this question, “looked superior down;” and though with reluctant complaisance he leaned his body to this side or to that, as Queasy pulled or swayed, yet he appeared totally regardless of the man’s vulgar reflections. He had seen every thing as he passed, and was surprised at all he saw; but evinced not the slightest symptom of astonishment. He was now ushered into a spacious, well-lighted apartment: he entered with the easy, unembarrassed air of a man who was perfectly accustomed to such a home. His quick coup-d’oeil took in the whole at a single glance. Two magnificent candelabras stood on Egyptian tables at the farther end of the room, and the lights were reflected on all sides from mirrors of no common size. Nothing seemed worthy to attract our hero’s attention but the lady of the house, whom he approached with an air of distinguished respect. She was reclining on a Turkish sofa, her companion seated beside her, tuning a harp. Miss Sharperson half rose to receive Sir John: he paid his compliments with an easy, yet respectful air. He was thanked for his civilities to the person who had been commissioned to bring the box of Sèvre china from Deal.
“Vastly sorry it should have been so troublesome,” Miss Sharperson said, in a voice fashionably unintelligible, and with a most becoming yet intimidating nonchalance of manner. Intimidating it might have been to any man but our hero; he, who had the happy talent of catching, wherever he went, the reigning manner of the place, replied to the lady in equal strains; and she, in her turn, seemed to look upon him more as her equal. Tea and coffee were served. Nothings were talked of quite easily by Sir John. He practised the art “not to admire,” so as to give a justly high opinion of his taste, consequence, and knowledge of the world. Miss Sharperson, though her nonchalance was much diminished, continued to maintain a certain dignified reserve; whilst her companion, Miss Felicia Flat, condescended to ask Sir John, who had doubtless seen every fine house in England and on the continent, his opinion with respect to the furniture and finishing of the room, the placing of the Egyptian tables and the candelabras.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 762