Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Rory sings, and Lord John sings with him.

  ”Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm;

  His father’s a tanner, — but then where’s the harm?

  Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee,

  Won’t his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?

  There’s my lord with the back that never was bent—”

  (Lord John stops singing; Talbot makes signs to Rory to stop; but Rory does not see him, and sings on.)

  ”There’s my lord with the back that never was bent;

  Let him live with his ancestors, I am content.”

  (Rory pushes Lord J. and Talbot with his elbows.)

  Rory. Join, join, both of ye — why don’t you join? (Sings.)

  ”Who’ll buy my Lord John? the arch fishwoman cried,

  A nice oyster shut up in a choice shell of pride.”

  Rory. But join or ye spoil all.

  Talb. You have spoiled all, indeed.

  Lord J. (making a formal low bow). Mr. Talbot, Lord John thanks you.

  Rory. Lord John! blood and thunder! I forgot you were by — quite and clean.

  Lord J. (puts him aside and continues speaking to Talbot). Lord John thanks you, Mr. Talbot: this is the second part of the caricature. Lord John thanks you for these proofs of friendship — Lord John has reason to thank you, Mr. Talbot.

  Rory. No reason in life now. Don’t be thanking so much for nothing in life; or if you must be thanking of somebody, it’s me you ought to thank.

  Lord J. I ought and do, sir, for unmasking one who —

  Talb. (warmly). Unmasking, my lord —

  Rory (holding them asunder). Phoo! phoo! phoo! be easy, can’t ye? — there’s no unmasking at all in the case. My Lord John, Talbot’s writing the song was all a mistake.

  Lord J. As much a mistake as your singing it, sir, I presume —

  Rory. Just as much. ’Twas all a mistake. So now don’t you go and make a mistake into a misunderstanding. It was I made every word of the song out o’ the face* — that about the back that never was bent, and the ancestors of the oyster, and all. He did not waste a word of it; upon my conscience, I wrote it all — though I’ll engage you didn’t think I could write a good thing. (Lord John turns away.) I’m telling you the truth, and not a word of a lie, and yet you won’t believe me.

  *From beginning to end.

  Lord J. You will excuse me, sir, if I cannot believe two contradictory assertions within two minutes. Mr. Talbot, I thank you (going).

  (Rory tries to stop Lord John from going, but cannot. — Exit Lord John.)

  Rory. Well, if he WILL go, let him go then, and much good may it do him.

  Nay, but don’t you go too.

  Talb. O Rory, what have you done? — (Talbot runs after Lord J.) Hear me, my lord. (Exit Talbot.)

  Rory. Hear him! hear him! hear him! — Well, I’m point blank mad with myself for making this blunder; but how could I help it? As sure as ever I am meaning to do the best thing on earth, it turns out the worst.

  Enter a party of lads, huzzaing.

  Rory (joins.) Huzza! huzza! — Who, pray, are ye huzzaing for?

  1st Boy. Wheeler! Wheeler for ever! huzza!

  Rory. Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza! Captain Talbot for ever! huzza!

  2nd Boy. CAPTAIN he’ll never be, — at least not to-morrow; for Lord John has just declared for Wheeler.

  lst Boy. And that turns the scale.

  Rory. Oh, the scale may turn back again.

  3rd Boy. Impossible! Lord John has just given his promise to Wheeler. I heard him with my own ears.

  (Several speak at once.) And I heard him; and I! and I! and I! — Huzza!

  Wheeler for ever!

  Rory. Oh, murder! murder! murder! (Aside.) This goes to my heart! it’s all my doing. O, my poor Talbot! — murder! murder! murder! But I won’t let them see me cast down, and it is good to be huzzaing at all events. Huzza for Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza! (Exit.)

  Enter WHEELER and BURSAL.

  Wheel. Who was that huzzaing for Talbot?

  (Rory behind the scenes, “Huzza for Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza!”)

  Burs. Pooh, it is only Rory O’Ryan, or the roaring lion as I call him. Ha! ha! ha! Rory O’Ryan, alias O’Ryan, the roaring lion; that’s a good one; put it about — Rory O’Ryan, the roaring lion, ha! ha! ha! but you don’t take it — you don’t laugh, Wheeler.

  Wheeler. Ha! ha! ha! O, upon my honour I do laugh; ha! ha! ha!

  (Aside). It is the hardest work to laugh at his wit. (Aloud.) Rory

  O’Ryan, the roaring lion — ha! ha! ha! You know I always laugh, Bursal,

  at your jokes — he! he! he! — ready to kill myself.

  Burs. (sullenly). You are easily killed, then, if that much laughing will do the business.

  Wheel. (coughing). Just then — something stuck in my throat; I beg your pardon.

  Burs. (still sullen). Oh, you need not beg my pardon about the matter. I don’t care whether you laugh or no — not I. Now you have got Lord John to declare for you, you are above laughing at my jokes, I suppose.

  Wheel. No, upon my word and honour, I DID laugh.

  Burs. (aside). A fig for your word and honour. (Aloud.) I know I’m of no consequence now; but you’ll remember, that if his lordship has the honour of making you captain, he must have the honour to pay for your captain’s accoutrements; for I sha’n’t pay the piper, I promise you, since I’m of no consequence.

  Wheel. Of no consequence! But, my dear Bursal, what could put that into your head? that’s the strangest, oddest fancy. Of no consequence! Bursal, of no consequence! Why, everybody that knows anything — everybody that has seen Bursal House — knows that you are of the greatest consequence, my dear Bursal.

  Burs. (taking out his watch, and opening it, looks at it). No, I’m of no consequence. I wonder that rascal Finsbury is not come yet with the dresses (still looking at his watch).

  Wheel. (aside). If Bursal takes it into his head not to lend me the money to pay for my captain’s dress, what will become of me? for I have not a shilling — and Lord John won’t pay for me — and Finsbury has orders not to leave the house till he is paid by everybody. What will become of me? — (bites his nails).

  Burs. (aside). How I love to make him bite his nails! (Aloud.) I know

  I’m of no consequence. (Strikes his repeater.)

  Wheel. What a fine repeater that is of yours, Bursal! It is the best I ever heard.

  Burs. So it well may be; for it cost a mint of money.

  Wheel. No matter to you what anything costs. Happy dog as you are! You roll in money; and yet you talk of being of no consequence.

  Burs. But I am not of half so much consequence as Lord John — am I?

  Wheel. Are you? Why, aren’t you twice as rich as he!

  Burs. Very true, but I’m not purse-proud.

  Wheel. You purse-proud! I should never have thought of such a thing.

  Burs. Nor I, if Talbot had not used the word.

  Wheel. But Talbot thinks everybody purse-proud that has a purse.

  Burs. (aside). Well, this Wheeler does put one into a good humour with one’s self in spite of one’s teeth. (Aloud.) Talbot says blunt things; but I don’t think he’s what you can call clever — hey, Wheeler?

  Wheel. Clever? Oh, not he.

  Burs. I think I could walk round him.

  Wheel. To be sure you could. Why, do you know, I’ve quizzed him famously myself within this quarter of an hour!

  Burs. Indeed! I wish I had been by.

  Wheel. So do I, ‘faith! It was the best thing. I wanted, you see, to get him out of my way, that I might have the field clear for electioneering to-day. So I bowls up to him with a long face — such a face as this. Mr. Talbot, do you know — I’m sorry to tell you, here’s Jack Smith has just brought the news from Salt Hill. Your mother, in getting into the carriage, slipped, and has BROKE her leg, and there she’s lying at a farmhouse, two miles off.
Is not it true, Jack? said I. I saw the farmer helping her in with my own eyes, cries Jack. Off goes Talbot like an arrow. Quizzed him, quizzed him! said I.

  Burs. Ha! ha! ha! quizzed him indeed, with all his cleverness; that was famously done.

  Wheel. Ha! ha! ha! With all his cleverness he will be all the evening hunting for the farmhouse and the mother that has broke her leg; so he is out of our way.

  Burs. But what need have you to want him out of your way, now Lord John has come over to your side? You have the thing at a dead beat.

  Wheel. Not so dead either; for there’s a great independent party, you know; and if YOU don’t help me, Bursal, to canvass them, I shall be no captain. It is you I depend upon after all. Will you come and canvass them with me? Dear Bursal, pray — all depends upon you.

  (Pulls him by the arm — Bursal follows.)

  Burs. Well, if all depends upon me, I’ll see what I can do for you. (Aside.) Then I am of some consequence! Money makes a man of some consequence, I see; at least with some folks.

  SCENE II.

  In the back scene a flock of sheep are seen penned. In front, a party of country lads and lasses, gaily dressed, as in sheep-shearing time, with ribands and garlands of flowers, etc., are dancing and singing.

  Enter PATTY, dressed as the Queen of the Festival, with a lamb in her arms. The dancers break off when she comes in, and direct their attention towards her.

  1st Peasant. Oh, here comes Patty! Here comes the Queen o’ the day. What has kept you from us so long, Patty?

  2nd Peasant. “Please your Majesty,” you should say.

  Patty. This poor little lamb of mine was what kept me so long. It strayed away from the rest; and I should have lost him, so I should, for ever, if it had not been for a good young gentleman. Yonder he is, talking to Farmer Hearty. That’s the young gentleman who pulled my lamb out of the ditch for me, into which he had fallen — pretty creature!

  1st Peasant. Pretty creature — or, your Majesty, whichever you choose to be called — come and dance with them, and I’ll carry your lamb. (Exeunt, singing and dancing.)

  Enter FARMER HEARTY and TALBOT.

  Farmer. Why, young gentleman, I’m glad I happened to light upon you here, and so to hinder you from going farther astray, and set your heart at ease like.

  Talb. Thanks, good farmer, you have set my heart at ease, indeed. But the truth is, they did frighten me confoundedly — more fool I.

  Farm. No fool at all, to my notion. I should, at your age, ay, or at my age, just the self-same way have been frightened myself, if so be that mention had been made to me, that way, of my own mother’s having broke her leg or so. And greater, by a great deal, the shame for them that frighted you, than for you to be frighted. How young gentlemen, now, can bring themselves for to tell such lies, is to me, now, a matter of amazement, like, that I can’t noways get over.

  Talb. Oh, farmer, such lies are very witty, though you and I don’t just now like the wit of them. This is fun, this is quizzing; but you don’t know what we young gentlemen mean by quizzing.

  Farm. Ay, but I do though, to my cost, ever since last year. Look you, now, at yon fine field of wheat. Well, it was just as fine, and finer, last year, till a young Eton jackanapes —

  Talb. Take care what you say, farmer; for I am a young Eton jackanapes.

  Farm. No; but you be not the young Eton jackanapes that I’m a-thinking on. I tell you it was this time last year, man; he was a-horseback, I tell ye, mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting, like.

  Talb. I tell you it was this time last year, man, that I was mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting.

  Farm. Zooks! would you argufy a man out of his wits? You won’t go for to tell me that you are that impertinent little jackanapes!

  Talb. No! no! I’ll not tell you that I am an impertinent little jackanapes!

  Farm (wiping his forehead). Well, don’t then, for I can’t believe it; and you put me out. Where was I?

  Talb. Mounted upon a fine bay hunter.

  Farm. Ay, so he was. “Here, YOU,” says he, meaning me—”open this gate for me.” Now, if he had but a-spoke me fair, I would not have gainsaid him: but he falls to swearing, so I bid him open the gate for himself. “There’s a bull behind you, farmer,” says he. I turns. “Quizzed him!” cries my jackanapes, and off he gallops him, through the very thick of my corn; but he got a fall, leaping the ditch out yonder, which pacified me, like, at the minute. So I goes up to see whether he was killed; but he was not a whit the worse for his tumble. So I should ha’ fell into a passion with him then, to be sure, about my corn; but his horse had got such a terrible sprain, I couldn’t say anything to him; for I was a- pitying the poor animal. As fine a hunter as ever you saw! I am sartain sure he could never come to good after.

  Talb. (aside). I do think, from the description, that this was Wheeler; and I have paid for the horse which he spoiled! (Aloud.) Should you know either the man or the horse again, if you were to see them?

  Farm. Ay, that I should, to my dying day.

  Talb. Will you come with me, then, and you’ll do me some guineas’ worth of service?

  Farm. Ay, that I will, with a deal of pleasure; for you be a civil spoken young gentleman; and, besides, I don’t think the worse on you for being FRIGHTED a little about your mother; being what I might ha’ been, at your age, myself; for I had a mother myself once. So lead on, master. (Exeunt.)

  END OF THE SECOND ACT.

  ACT THE THIRD.

  SCENE I.

  The garden of the “Windmill Inn,” at Salt Hill.

  MISS BURSAL, MRS. NEWINGTON, SALLY, the Chambermaid.

  (Miss Bursal, in a fainting state, is sitting on a garden stool, and leaning her head against the Landlady. Sally is holding a glass of water and a smelling bottle.)

  Miss Bursal. Where am I? Where am I?

  Landlady. At the “Windmill,” at Salt Hill, young lady; and ill or well, you can’t be better.

  Sally. Do you find yourself better since coming into the air, miss?

  Miss B. Better! Oh, I shall never be better!

  (Leans her head on hand, and rocks herself backwards and forwards.)

  Landlady. My dear young lady, don’t take on so. (Aside.) Now would I give something to know what it was my Lady Piercefield said to the father, and what the father said to this one, and what’s the matter at the bottom of affairs. Sally, did you hear anything at the doors?

  Sally (aside). No, indeed, ma’am; I never BE’S at the doors.

  Landlady (aside). Simpleton! (Aloud.) But, my dear Miss Bursal, if I may be so bold — if you’d only disembosom your mind of what’s on it —

  Miss B. Disembosom my mind! Nonsense! I’ve nothing on my mind. Pray leave me, madam.

  Landlady (aside). Madam, indeed! madam, forsooth! Oh, I’ll make her pay for that! That MADAM shall go down in the bill, as sure as my name’s Newington. (Landlady, in a higher tone.) Well, I wish you better, ma’am. I suppose I’d best send your own servant?

  Miss B. (sullenly). Yes, I suppose so. (To Sally.) You need not wait, child, nor look so curious.

  Sally. CUR’OUS! Indeed, miss, if I look a little CUR’OUS, or so (looking at her dress), ’tis only because I was FRIGHTED to see you take on, which made me forget my clean apron, when I came out; and this apron- -

  Miss B. Hush! Hush! child. Don’t tell me about clean aprons, nor run on with your vulgar talk. Is there ever a seat one can set on in that Harbour yonder?

  Sally. O dear ‘ART, yes, miss; ’tis the pleasantest Harbour on Hearth. Be pleased to lean on my Harm, and you’ll soon be there.

  Miss B. (going). Then tell my woman she need not come to me, and let nobody INTERUDE on me — do you ‘EAR? (Aside.) Oh, what will become of me? and the Talbots will soon know it! And the ponies, and the curricle, and the vis-a-vis — what will become of them? and how shall I make my appearance at the Montem, or any WARE else?

  SCENE II.

  LORD JOHN — WHEELER — BURSAL.

>   Wheeler. Well, but my lord — Well, but Bursal — though my Lady Piercefield — though Miss Bursal is come to Salt Hill, you won’t leave us all at sixes and sevens. What can we do without you?

  Lord J. You can do very well without me.

  Bursal. You can do very well without me.

  Wheel. (to Burs.). Impossible! — impossible! You know Mr. Finsbury will be here just now, with the dresses; and we have to try them on.

  Burs. And to pay for them.

  Wheel. And to settle about the procession. And then, my lord, the election is to come on this evening. You won’t go till that’s over, as your lordship has PROMISED me your lordship’s vote and interest.

  Lord J. My vote I promised you, Mr. Wheeler; but I said not a syllable about my INTEREST. My friends, perhaps, have not been offended, though I have, by Mr. Talbot. I shall leave them to their own inclinations.

  Burs. (whistling). Wheugh! wheugh! wheugh! Wheeler, the principal’s nothing without the interest.

  Wheel. Oh, the interest will go along with the principal, of course; for I’m persuaded, if my lord leaves his friends to their inclinations, it will be the inclination of my lord’s friends to vote as he does, if he says nothing to them to the contrary.

  Lord J. I told you, Mr. Wheeler, that I should leave them to themselves.

  Burs. (still whistling). Well, I’ll do my best to make that father of mine send me off to Oxford. I’m sure I’m fit to go — along with Wheeler. Why, you’d best be my tutor, Wheeler! — a devilish good thought.

  Wheel. An excellent thought.

  Burs. And a cursed fine dust we should kick up at Oxford, with your Montem money and all! — Money’s THE GO after all. I wish it was come to my making you my last bow, “ye distant spires, ye ANTIC towers!”

  Wheel. (aside to Lord J.). Ye ANTIC towers! — fit for Oxford, my lord!

  Lord J. Antique towers, I suppose Mr. Bursal means.

  Burs. Antique, to be sure! — I said antique, did not I, Wheeler?

  Wheel. O, yes.

  Lord J. (aside). What a mean animal is this!

  Enter RORY O’RYAN.

  Rory. Why, now, what’s become of Talbot, I want to know? There he is not to be found anywhere in the wide world; and there’s a hullabaloo amongst his friends for him.