O’Bla. That’s iligantly done, Pat. But I hope Randal Rooney is in it?
Pat. In the thick of it he is, or will be. So I hope your honour did not forgit to spake to Mr. Carver about that little place for me?
O’Bla. Forgit! — Do I forgit my own name, do you think? Sooner forgit that then my promises.
Pat. Oh! I beg your honour’s pardon — I would not doubt your word; and to make matters sure, and to make Catty cockahoop, I tould her, and swore to her, there was not a McBride in the town but two, and there’s twinty, more or less.
O’Bla. And when she sees them twinty, more or less, what will she think? — Why would you say that? — she might find you out in a lie next minute, Mr. Overdo. ’Tis dangerous for a young man to be telling more lies than is absolutely requisite. The lie superfluous brings many an honest man, and, what’s more, many a cliver fellow, into a scrape — and that’s your great fau’t, Pat.
Pat. Which, sir?
O’Bla. That, sir. I don’t see you often now take a glass too much. But, Pat, I hear you often still are too apt to indulge in a lie too much.
Pat. Lie! Is it I? — Whin upon my conscience, I niver to my knowledge tould a lie in my life, since I was born, excipt it would be just to skreen a man, which is charity, sure, — or to skreen myself, which is self-defence, sure — and that’s lawful; or to oblige your honour, by particular desire, and that can’t be helped, I suppose.
O’Bla. I am not saying again all that — only (laying his hand on PAT’S shoulder as he is going out) against another time, all I’m warning you, young man, is, you’re too apt to think there never can be lying enough. Now too much of a good thing is good for nothing. {Exit O’BLANEY.
PAT, alone.
Pat. There’s what you may call the divil rebuking sin — and now we talk of the like, as I’ve heard my mudther say, that he had need of a long spoon that ates wid the divil — so I’ll look to that in time. But whose voice is that I hear coming up stairs? I don’t believe but it’s Mr. Carver — only what should bring him back agin, I wonder now? Here he is, all out of breath, coming.
Enter Mr. CARVER.
Mr. Carv. Pray, young man, did you happen to see — (panting for breath) Bless me, I’ve ridden so fast back from Bob’s Fort!
Pat. My master, sir, Mr. O’Blaney, is it? Will I run?
Mr. Carv. No, no — stand still till I have breath. — What I want is a copy of a letter I dropped some where or other — here I think it must have been, when I took out my handkerchief — a copy of a letter to his Excellency — of great consequence. (Mr. CARVER sits down and takes breath.)
Pat. (searching about with officious haste) If it’s above ground, I’ll find it. What’s this? — an old bill: that is not it. Would it be this, crumpled up?—”To His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.”
Mr. Carv. (snatching) No farther, for your life!
Pat. Well then I was lucky I found it, and proud.
Mr. Carv. And well you may be, young man; for I can assure you, on this letter the fate of Ireland may depend. (Smoothing the letter on his knee.)
Pat. I wouldn’t doubt it — when it’s a letter of your honour’s — I know your honour’s a great man at the castle. And plase your honour, I take this opportunity of tanking your honour for the encouragement I got about that little clerk’s place — and here’s a copy of my hand-writing I’d wish to show your honour, to see I’m capable — and a scholard.
Mr. Carv. Hand-writing! Bless me, young man, I have no time to look at your hand-writing, sir. With the affairs of the nation on my shoulders — can you possibly think? — is the boy mad? — that I’ve time to revise every poor scholar’s copy-book?
Pat. I humbly beg your honour’s pardon, but it was only becaase I’d wish to show I was not quite so unworthy to be under (whin you’ve time) your honour’s protection, as promised.
Mr. Carv. My protection? — you are not under my protection, sir: — promised clerk’s place? — I do not conceive what you are aiming at, sir.
Pat. The little clerk’s place, plase your honour — that my master, Counshillor O’Blaney, tould me he spoke about to your honour, and was recommending me for to your honour.
Mr. Carv. Never — never heard one syllable about it, till this moment.
Pat. Oh! murder: — but I expict your honour’s goodness will —
Mr. Carv. To make your mind easy, I promised to appoint a young man to that place, a week ago, by Counsellor O’Blaney’s special recommendation. So there must be some mistake.
{Exit Mr. CARVER.}
PAT, alone.
Pat. Mistake? ay, mistake on purpose. So he never spoke! so he lied! — my master that was praching me! And oh, the dirty lie he tould me! Now I can’t put up with that, when I was almost perjuring myself for him at the time. Oh, if I don’t fit him for this! And he got the place given to another! — then I’ll git him as well sarved, and out of this place too — seen-if-I-don’t! He is cunning enough, but I’m cuter nor he — I have him in my power, so I have! and I’ll give the shupervizor a scent of the malt in the turf-stack — and a hint of the spirits in the tan-pit — and it’s I that will like to stand by innocent, and see how shrunk O’Blaney’s double face will look forenent the shupervizor, when all’s found out, and not a word left to say, but to pay — ruined hand and foot! Then that shall be, and before nightfall. Oh! one good turn desarves another — in revenge, prompt payment while you live!
{Exit.}
SCENE II.
McBRIDE’S Cottage.
MATTHEW McBRIDE and HONOR. (MATTHEW with a little table before him, at dinner.)
Old McB. (pushing his plate from him) I’ll take no more — I’m done. {He sighs.}
Honor. Then you made but a poor dinner, father, after being at the fair, and up early, and all! — Take this bit from my hands, father dear.
Old McB. (turning away sullenly) I’ll take nothing from you, Honor, but what I got already enough — and too much of — and that’s ungratitude.
Honor. Ungratitude, father! then you don’t see my heart.
Old McB. I lave that to whoever has it, Honor: ’tis enough for me, I see what you do — and that’s what I go by.
Honor. Oh, me! and what did I do to displase you, father? (He is obstinately silent; after waiting in vain for an answer, she continues) I that was thinking to make all happy, (aside) but myself, (aloud) by settling to keep out of the way of — all that could vex you — and to go to sarvice, to Mrs. Carver’s. I thought that would plase you, father.
Old McB. Is it to lave me, Honor? Is it that you thought would plase me, Honor? — To lave your father alone in his ould age, after all the slaving he got and was willing to undergo, whilst ever he had strength, early and late, to make a little portion for you, Honor, — you, that I reckoned upon for the prop and pride of my ould age — and you expect you’d plase me by laving me.
Honor. Hear me just if, pray then, father.
Old McB. (shaking her off as she tries to caress him) Go, then; go where you will, and demane yourself going into sarvice, rather than stay with me — go.
Honor. No, I’ll not go. I’ll stay then with you, father dear, — say that will plase you.
Old McB. (going on without listening to her) And all for the love of this Randal Rooney! Ay, you may well put your two hands before your face; if you’d any touch of natural affection at all, that young man would have been the last of all others you’d ever have thought of loving or liking any way.
Honor. Oh! if I could help it!
Old McB. There it is. This is the way the poor fathers is always to be trated. They to give all, daughter and all, and get nothing at all, not their choice even of the man, the villain that’s to rob ’em of all — without thanks even; and of all the plinty of bachelors there are in the parish for the girl that has money, that daughter will go and pick and choose out the very man the father mislikes beyond all others, and then it’s “Oh! if I could help it!” — Asy talking!
Honor
. But, dear father, wasn’t it more than talk, what I did? — Oh, won’t you listen to me?
Old McB I’ll not hear ye; for if you’d a grain o spirit in your mane composition, Honor, you would take your father’s part, and not be putting yourself under Catty’s feet — the bad-tongued woman, that hates you, Honor, like poison.
Honor. If she does hate me, it’s all through love of her own —
Old McB. Son — ay — that she thinks too good for you — for you, Honor; you, the Lily of Lismore — that might command the pride of the country. Oh! Honor dear, don’t be lessening yourself; but be a proud girl, as you ought, and my own Honor.
Honor. Oh, when you speak so kind!
Old McB. And I beg your pardon, if I said a cross word; for I know you’ll never think of him more, and no need to lave home at all for his sake. It would be a shame in the country, and what would Mrs. Carver herself think?
Honor. She thinks well of it, then.
Old McB. Then whatever she thinks, she sha’n’t have my child from me! tho’ she’s a very good lady, and a very kind lady, too. But see now, Honor — have done with love, for it’s all foolishness; and when you come to be as ould as I am, you’ll think so too. The shadows goes all one way, till the middle of the day, and when that is past, then all the t’other way; and so it is with love, in life — stay till the sun is going down with you.
Honor. Then it would be too late to be thinking of love.
Old McB. And too airly now, and there’s no good time, for it’s all folly. I’ll ax you, will love set the potatoes? — will love make the rent? — or will love give you a jaunting car? — as to my knowledge, another of your bachelors would.
Honor. Oh, don’t name him, father.
Old McB. Why not — when it’s his name that would make a lady of you, and there’d be a rise in life, and an honour to your family?
Honor. Recollect it was he that would have dishonoured my family, in me, if he could.
Old McB. But he repints now; and what can a man do but repint, and offer to make honourable restitution, and thinking of marrying, as now, Honor dear; — is not that a condescension of he, who’s a sort of a jantleman?
Honor. A sort, indeed — a bad sort.
Old McB. Why, not jantleman born, to be sure.
Honor. Nor bred.
Old McB. Well, there’s many that way, neither born nor bred, but that does very well in the world; and think what it would be to live in the big shingled house, in Ballynavogue, with him!
Honor. I’d rather live here with you, father.
Old McB. Then I thank you kindly, daughter, for that, but so would not I for you, — and then the jaunting-car, or a coach, in time, if he could! He has made the proposhal for you in form this day.
Honor. And what answer from you, father?
Old McB. Don’t be looking so pale, — I tould him he had my consint, if he could get yours. And, oh! before you speak, Honor dear, think what it would be up and down in Ballynavogue, and every other place in the county, assizes days and all, to be Mistress Gerald O’Blaney!
Honor. I couldn’t but think very ill of it, father; thinking ill, as I do, of him. Father dear, say no more, don’t be breaking my heart — I’ll never have that man; but I’ll stay happy with you.
Old McB. Why, then, I’ll be contint with that same; and who wouldn’t? — If it’s what you’d rather stay, and can stay contint, Honor dear, I’m only too happy. (Embracing her — then pausing.) But for Randal —
Honor. In what can you fau’t him, only his being a Rooney?
Old McB. That’s all — but that’s enough. I’d sooner see you in your coffin — sooner be at your wake to-night, than your wedding with a Rooney! ’Twould kill me. Come, promise me — I’d trust your word — and ’twould make me asy for life, and I’d die asy, if you’d promise never to have him.
Honor. Never till you would consent — that’s all I can promise.
Old McB. Well, that same is a great ase to my heart.
Honor. And to give a little ase to mine, father, perhaps you could promise —
Old McB. What? — I’ll promise nothing at all — I’ll promise nothing at all — I’ll promise nothing I couldn’t perform.
Honor. But this you could perform asy, dear father: just hear your own Honor.
Old McB. (aside) That voice would wheedle the bird off the bush — and when she’d prefar me to the jaunting-car, can I but listen to her? (Aloud) Well, what? — if it’s any thing at all in rason.
Honor. It is in rason entirely. It’s only, that if Catty Rooney’s —
Old McB. (stopping his ears) Don’t name her.
Honor. But she might be brought to rason, father; and if she should be brought to give up that claim to the bit o’ bog of yours, and when all differs betwix’ the families be made up, then you would consent.
Old McB. When Catty Rooney’s brought to rason! Oh! go shoe the goslings, dear, — ay, you’ll get my consint then. There’s my hand: I promise you, I’ll never be called on to perform that, Honor, jewel.
Honor. (kissing his hand) Then that’s all I’d ask — nor will I say one word more, but thank you, father.
Old McB. (putting on his coat) She’s a good cratur — sorrow better! sister or daughter. Oh! I won’t forget that she prefarred me to the jaunting-car. Phil shall carry him a civil refusal. I’ll send off the money, the three hundred, by your brother, this minute — that will be some comfort to poor O’Blaney.
{Exit McBRIDE.
Honor. Is not he a kind father, then, after all? — That promise he gave me about Catty, even such as it is, has ased my heart wonderfully. Oh! it will all come right, and they’ll all be rasonable in time, even Catty Rooney, I’ve great hope; and little hope’s enough, even for love to live upon. But, hark! there’s my brother Phil coming. (A noise heard in the back-house.) ’Tis only the cow in the bier. (A knock heard at the door.) No, ’tis a Christian; no cow ever knocked so soft. Stay till I open — Who’s in it?
Randal. (from within) Your own Randal — open quick.
Honor. Oh! Randal, is it you? I can’t open the door.
{She holds the door — he pushes it half open.
Randal. Honor, that I love more than life, let me in, till I speak one word to you, before you’re set against me for ever.
Honor. No danger of that — but I can’t let you in, Randal.
Randal. Great danger! Honor, and you must. See you I will, if I die for it!
{He advances, and she retires behind the door, holding it against him.
Honor. Then I won’t see you this month again, if you do. My hand’s weak, but my heart’s strong, Randal.
Randal. Then my heart’s as weak as a child’s this minute. Never fear — don’t hold against me, Honor; I’ll stand where I am, since you don’t trust me, nor love me — and best so, may be: I only wanted to say three words to you.
Honor. I can’t hear you now, Randal.
Randal. Then you’ll never hear me more. Good bye to you, Honor.
{He pulls the door to, angrily.
Honor. And it’s a wonder as it was you didn’t meet my father as you came, or my brother.
Randal. (pushing the door a little open again) Your brother! — Oh, Honor! that’s what’s breaking my heart — (he sighs) — that’s what I wanted to say to you; and listen to me. No fear of your father, he’s gone down the road: I saw him as I come the short cut, but he didn’t see me.
Honor. What of my brother? — say, and go.
Randal. Ay, go — for ever, you’ll bid me, when I’ve said.
Honor. What! oh, speak, or I’ll drop. — (She no longer holds the door, but leans against a table. — RANDAL advances, and looks in.)
Randal. Don’t be frightened, then, dearest — it’s nothing in life but a fight at a fair. He’s but little hurted.
Honor. Hurted! — and by who? by you, is it? — Then all’s over. — (RANDAL comes quite in — HONOR, putting her hand before her eyes.) — You may come or go, for I’ll n
ever love you more.
Randal. I expicted as much! — But she’ll faint!
Honor. I won’t faint: leave me, Mr. Randal.
Randal. Take this water from me, (holding a cup) it’s all I ask.
Honor. No need. (She sits down) But what’s this? — (Seeing his hand bound up.)
Randal. A cut only.
Honor. Bleeding — stop it. (Turning from him coldly.)
Randal. Then by this blood — no, not by this worthless blood of mine — but by that dearest blood that fled from your cheeks, and this minute is coming back, Honor, I swear — (kneeling to her.)
Honor. Say what you will, or swear, I don’t hear or heed you. And my father will come and find you there — and I don’t care.
Randal. I know you don’t — and I don’t care myself what happens me. But as to Phil, it’s only a cut in the head he got, that signifies nothing — if he was not your brother.
Honor. Once lifted your hand against him — all’s over.
Randal. Honor, I did not lift my hand against him; but I was in the quarrel with his faction.
Honor. And this your promise to me not to be in any quarrel! No, if my father consented to-morrow, I’d nivir have you now. (Rises, and is going — he holds her.)
Randal. Then you’re wrong, Honor: you’ve heard all against me — now hear what’s for me.
Honor. I’ll hear no more — let me go.
Randal. Go, then; (he lets her go, and turns away himself) and I’m going before Mr. Carver, who will hear me, and the truth will appear — and tho’ not from you, Honor, I’ll have justice.
{Exit RANDAL.
Honor. Justice! Oh, worse and worse! to make all public; and if once we go to law, there’s an end of love — for ever.
{Exit HONOR.
SCENE III.
O’BLANEY’S House.
O’BLANEY and CATTY ROONEY.
Catty. And didn’t ye hear it, counshillor? the uproar in the town and the riot? — oh! you’d think the world was throwing out at windows. See my jock, all tattered! Didn’t ye hear!
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 622
