{Mr. HOPE ascends the ladder while she speaks, and goes into the bedchamber above.
BIDDY, sola.
Well, I’m ashamed of my life, when a stranger and foreigner’s reviewing our house, though I’m only the girl in it, and no ways answerable. It frets me for my country forenent them Scotch and English. (Mr. HOPE descends the ladder.) Then I’m sorry it’s not better for your honour’s self, and men. But there’s a new inn to be opened the 25th, in this town; and if you return this way, I hope things will be more agreeable and proper. But you’ll have no bad dinner, your honour, any way; — there’s Scotch broth, and Scotch hash, and fried eggs and bacon, and a turkey, and a boiled leg of mutton and turnips, and pratees the best, and well boiled; and I hope, your honour, that’s enough for a soldier’s dinner, that’s not nice.
Mr. H. Enough for a soldier’s dinner! ay, gude truth, my lass; and more than enough for Andrew Hope, who is no ways nice. But, tell me, have you no one to help you here, to dress all this?
Biddy. Sorrow one, to do a hand’s turn for me but myself, plase your honour; for the daughter of the house is too fine to put her hand to any thing in life: but she’s in the room there within, beyond, if you would like to see her — a fine lady she is!
Mr. H. A fine lady, is she? Weel, fine or coarse, I shall like to see her, — and weel I may and must, for I had a brother once I luved as my life; and four years back that brother fell sick here, on his road to the north, and was kindly tended here at the inn at Bannow; and he charged me, puir lad, on his death-bed, if ever fate should quarter me in Bannow, to inquire for his gude friends at the inn, and to return them his thanks; and so I’m fain to do, and will not sleep till I’ve done so. — But tell me first, my kind lassy, — for I see you are a kind lassy, — tell me, has not this house had a change of fortune, and fallen to decay of late? for the inn at Bannow was pictured to me as a bra’ neat place.
Biddy. Ah! that was, may-be, the time the Larkens had it?
Mr. H. The Larkens! — that was the very name: it warms my heart to hear the sound of it.
Biddy. Ay, and quite another sort of an inn this was, I hear talk, in their time, — and quite another guess sort, the Larkens from these Gallaghers.
Mr. H. And what has become of the Larkens, I pray?
Biddy. They are still living up yonder, by the bush of Bannow, in a snug little place of a cabin — that is, the Widow Kelly.
Mr. H. Kelly! — but I am looking for Larken.
Biddy. Oh, Larken! that’s Kelly: ’tis all one — she was a Kelly before she was married, and in this country we stick to the maiden’s name throughout.
Mr. H. The same in our country — often.
Biddy. Indeed! and her daughter’s name is Mabel, after the Kellys; for you might have noticed, if it ever happened your honour to hear it, an ould song of Mabel Kelly — Planxty Kelly. Then the present Mabel is as sweet a cratur as ever the ould Mabel Kelly was — but I must mind the pratees. (She goes to lift a pot off the fire.)
Mr. H. Hold! my gude girl, let me do that for you; mine is a strong haund.
Biddy. I thank your honour, — it’s too much trouble entirely for a jantleman like you; but it’s always the best jantleman has the laste pride. — Then them Kellys is a good race, ould and young, and I love ‘em, root and branch. Besides Mabel the daughter, there’s Owen the son, and as good a son he is — no better! He got an edication in the beginning, till the troubles came across his family, and the boy, the child, for it’s bare fifteen he is this minute, give up all his hopes and prospects, the cratur! to come home and slave for his mother.
Mr. H. Ah, that’s weel — that’s weel! I luve the lad that makes a gude son. — And is the father deed?
Biddy. Ay, dead and deceased he is, long since, and was buried just upon that time that ould Sir Cormac, father of the young heiress that is now at the castle above, the former landlord that was over us, died, see! — Then there was new times and new takes, and the widow was turned out of the inn, and these Gallaghers got it, and all wint wrong and to rack; for Mrs. Gallagher, that was, drank herself into her grave unknownst, for it was by herself in private she took it; and Christy Gallagher, the present man, is doing the same, only publicly, and running through all, and the house is tumbling over our ears: but he hopes to get the new inn; and if he does, why, he’ll be lucky — and that’s all I know, for the dinner is done now, and I’m going in with it — and won’t your honour walk up to the room now?
Mr. H. (going to the ladder) Up here?
Biddy. Oh, it’s not up at all, your honour, sure! but down here — through this ways.
Mr. H. One word more, my gude lassy. As soon as we shall have all dined, and you shall have ta’en your ane dinner, I shall beg of you, if you be not then too much tired, to show me the way to that bush of Bannow, whereat this Widow Larken’s cottage is.
Biddy. With all the pleasure in life, if I had not a fut to stand upon.
{Exit Mr. HOPE. — BIDDY follows with a dish smoking hot.
Biddy. And I hope you’ll find it an iligant Scotch hash, and there’s innions plinty — sure the best I had I’d give you; for I’m confident now he’s the true thing — and tho’ he is Scotch, he desarves to be Irish, every inch of him.
{Exit BIDDY DOYLE.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
An Irish Cabin. — The Kitchen.
Widow LARKEN. On one side of her, MABEL at needle-work; on the other side, OWEN her son enters, bringing in a spinning-wheel, which he places before his mother.
Owen. There, mother, is your wheel mended for you.
Mabel. Oh, as good as new, Owen has made it for you.
Widow. Well, whatever troubles come upon me in this world, have not I a right to be thankful, that has such good childer left me? — Still it grieves me, and goes to the quick of my heart, Mabel, dear, that your brother here should be slaving for me, a boy that is qualified for better.
Owen. And what better can I be than working for my mother — man or boy?
Mabel. And if he thinks it no slavery, what slavery is it, mother?
Owen. Mother, to-day is the day to propose for the new inn — I saw several with the schoolmaster, who was as busy as a bee, penning proposals for them, according as they dictated, and framing letters and petitions for Sir William Hamden and Miss O’Hara. Will you go up to the castle and speak, mother?
Widow. No, no — I can’t speak, Owen.
Owen. Here’s the pen and ink-horn, and I’ll sit me down, if you’d sooner write than speak.
Widow. See, Owen, to settle your mind, I would not wish to get that inn.
Owen. Not wish to get it! The new inn, mother — but if you had gone over it, as I have. ’Tis the very thing for you. Neat and compact as a nutshell; not one of them grand inns, too great or the place, that never answers no more than the hat that’s too big for the head, and that always blows off.
Widow. No, dear, not the thing for me, now a widow, and your sister Mabel — tho’ ’tis not for me to say — such a likely, fine girl. I’d not be happy to have her in a public-house — so many of all sorts that would be in it, and drinking, may be, at fairs and funerals, and no man of the house, nor master, nor father for her.
Owen. Sure, mother, I’m next to a father for her. Amn’t I a brother? and no brother ever loved a sister better, or was more jealous of respect for her; and if you’d be pleasing, I could be man and master enough.
Widow. (laughing) You, ye dear slip of a boy!
Owen. (proudly, and raising his head high) Slip of a boy as I am, then, and little as you think of me —
Widow. Oh! I think a great deal of you! only I can’t think you big nor old, Owen, can I?
Owen. No — nor any need to be big or old, to keep people of all sorts in respect, mother.
Widow. Then he looked like his father — did not he, Mabel?
Mabel. He did — God bless him!
Owen. Now hear me, mother, for I’m going to speak sense. You need not listen, M
abel.
Mabel. But it’s what I like to listen to sense, especially yours, Owen.
Owen. Then I can’t help it. — You must hear, even if you blush for it.
Mabel. Why would I blush?
Owen. Because you won’t be able to help it, when I say Mr. Gilbert. — See!
Mabel. Oh, dear Owen! that’s not fair. (She falls back a little.)
Owen. Well, mother, it’s with you I’m reasoning. If he was your son-in-law —
Widow. Hush! that he’ll never be. Now, Owen, I’ll grow angry if you put nonsense in the girl’s head.
Owen. But if it’s in the man’s head, it’s not a bit nonsense.
Mabel. Owen, you might well say I shouldn’t listen to you.
{Exit MABEL.
Widow. There now, you’ve drove your sister off.
Owen. Well, Gilbert will bring her on again, may be.
Widow. May be — but that may be of yours might lead us all wrong.
{She lays her hand on OWEN’S arm, and speaks in a serious tone.
Widow. Now, dear, don’t be saying one word more to her, lest it should end in a disappointment.
Owen. Still it is my notion, ’tis Mabel he loves.
Widow. Oh! what should you know, dear, o’ the matter?
Owen. Only having eyes and ears like another.
Widow. Then what hinders him to speak?
Owen. It’s bashfulness only, mother. Don’t you know what that is?
Widow. I do, dear. It’s a woman should know that best. And it is not Mabel, nor a daughter of mine, nor a sister of yours, Owen, should be more forward to understand than the man is to speak — was the man a prince.
Owen. Mother, you are right; but I’m not wrong neither. And since I’m to say no more, I’m gone, mother.
{Exit OWEN.
Widow. (alone) Now who could blame that boy, whatever he does or says? It’s all heart he is, and wouldn’t hurt a fly, except from want of thought. But, stay now, I’m thinking of them soldiers that is in town. (Sighs) Then I didn’t sleep since ever they come; but whenever I’d be sinking to rest, starting, and fancying I heard the drum for Owen to go. (A deep groaning sigh.) Och! and then the apparition of Owen in regimentals was afore me!
Enter OWEN, dancing and singing,
“Success to my brains, and success to my tongue!
Success to myself, that never was wrong!”
Widow. What is it? What ails the boy? Are ye mad, Owen?
Owen. (capering, and snapping his fingers) Ay, mad! mad with joy I am. And it’s joy I give you, and joy you’ll give me, mother darling. The new inn’s yours, and no other’s, and Gilbert is your own too, and no other’s — but Mabel’s for life. And is not there joy enough for you, mother?
Widow. Joy! — Oh, too much! (She sinks on a seat.)
Owen. I’ve been too sudden for her!
Widow. No, dear — not a bit, only just give me time — to feel it. And is it true? And am I in no dream now? And where’s Mabel, dear?
Owen. Gone to the well, and Gilbert with her. We met her, and he turned off with her, and I come on to tell you, mother dear.
Widow. Make me clear and certain; for I’m slow and weak, dear. Who told you all this good? and is it true? — And my child Mabel mavourneen! — Oh, tell me again it’s true.
Owen. True as life. But your lips is pale still, and you all in a tremble. So lean on me, mother dear, and come out into God’s open air, till I see your spirit come back — and here’s your bonnet, and we’ll meet Mabel and Gilbert, and we’ll all go up to the castle to give thanks to the lady.
Widow. (looking up to heaven) Thanks! Oh, hav’n’t I great reason to be thankful, if ever widow had!
{Exeunt, WIDOW leaning on OWEN.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in Bannote Castle.
Footmen bringing in Baskets of Flowers.
Miss O’HARA and Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN.
Clara. Now, my dear uncle, I want to consult you.
Sir W. And welcome, my child. But if it is about flowers, you could not consult a worse person, for I scarcely know a rose from a —— . What is this you have here — a thistle?
Clara. Yes, sir; and that is the very thing I want your opinion about.
Sir W. Well, my dear, all I know about thistles, I think, is, that asses love thistles — will that do?
Clara. Oh, no, sir — pray be serious, for I am in the greatest hurry to settle how it is all to be. You know it is St. Patrick’s day.
Sir W. Yes, and here is plenty of shamrock, I see.
Clara. Yes, here is the shamrock — the rose, the ever blowing rose — and the thistle. And as we are to have Scotch, English, and Irish at our little fête champêtre this evening, don’t you think it would be pretty to have the tents hung with the rose, thistle, and shamrock joined?
Sir W. Very pretty, my dear: and I am glad there are to be tents, otherwise a fête champêtre in the month of March would give me the rheumatism even to think of.
Clara. Oh, my dear sir, not at all. You will be snug and warm in the green-house.
Sir W. Well, Clara, dispose of me as you please — I am entirely at your service for the rest of my days.
Clara. Thank you, sir — you are the best of uncles, guardians, and friends.
{Miss O’HARA goes back and appears to be giving directions to the servants.
Sir W. Uncle, nature made me — guardian, your father made me — friend, you made me yourself, Clara. (Sir WILLIAM comes forward, and speaks as if in a reverie.) And ever more my friendship for her shall continue, though my guardianship is over. I am glad I conquered my indolence, and came to Ireland with her; for a cool English head will be wanting to guide that warm Irish heart. — And here I stand counsel for prudence against generosity!
Clara. (advancing to him playfully) A silver penny for your thoughts, uncle.
Sir W. Shall I never teach you economy? — such extravagance! to give a penny, and a silver penny, for what you may have for nothing.
Clara. Nothing can come of nothing — speak again.
Sir W. I was thinking of you, my — ward no longer.
Clara. Ward always, pray, sir. Whatever I may be in the eye of the law, I am not arrived at years of discretion yet, in my own opinion, nor in yours, I suspect. So I pray you, uncle, let me still have the advantage of your counsel and guidance.
Sir W. You ask for my advice, Clara. Now let me see whether you will take it.
Clara. I am all attention.
Sir W. You know you must allow me a little prosing. You are an heiress, Clara — a rich heiress — an Irish heiress. You desire to do good, don’t you?
Clara. (with eagerness) With all my heart! — With all my soul!
Sir W. That is not enough, Clara. You must not only desire to do good, you must know how to do it.
Clara. Since you, uncle, know that so well, you will teach it to me.
Sir W. Dear, flattering girl — but you shall not flatter me out of the piece of advice I have ready for you. Promise me two things.
Clara. And first, for your first.
Sir W. Finish whatever you begin. — Good beginnings, it is said, make good endings, but great beginnings often make little endings, or, in this country, no endings at all. Finis coronat opta — and that crown is wanting wherever I turn my eyes. Of the hundred magnificent things your munificent father began —
Clara. (interrupting) Oh, sir, spare my father! — I promise you that I will finish whatever I begin. What’s your next command?
Sir W. Promise me that you will never make a promise to a tenant, nor any agreement about business, but in writing — and empower me to say that you will never keep any verbal promise about business — then, none such will ever be claimed.
Clara. I promise you — Stay! — this is a promise about business: I must give it to you in writing.
{Miss O’HARA sits down to a writing-table, and writes.
Sir W. (looking out of the window) I hope I have been early enough in gi
ving this my second piece of advice, worth a hundred sequins — for I see the yard is crowded with gray-coated suitors, and the table here is already covered with letters and petitions.
Clara. Yes, uncle, but I have not read half of them yet.
{Presents the written promise to Sir WILLIAM.
Sir W. Thank you, my dear; and you will be thankful to me for this when I am dead and gone.
Clara. And whilst you are alive and here, if you please, uncle. Now, sir, since you are so kind to say that your time is at my disposal, will you have the goodness to come with me to these gray-coated suitors, and let us give answers to these poor petitioners, who, “as in duty bound, will ever pray.”
{Takes up a bundle of papers.
Sir W. (taking a letter from his pocket) First, my dear niece, I must add to the number. I have a little business. A petition to present from a protégé of mine.
Clara. A protégé of yours! — Then it is granted, whatever it be.
Sir W. (smiling) Recollect your promise, Clara.
Clara. Oh, true — it must be in writing.
{She goes hastily to the writing-table, and takes up a pen.
Sir W. Read before you write, my dear — I insist upon it.
Clara. Oh, sir, when it is a request of yours, how can I grant it soon enough? But it shall be done in the way you like best — slowly — deliberately — (opening the letter) — in minuet time. And I will look before I leap — and I’ll read before I write. (She reads the signature.) Gilbert! Honest Gilbert, how glad I shall be to do any thing for you, independently of your master! (Reads on, suddenly lets the letter drop, and clasps her hands.) Sir — Uncle, my dear uncle, how unfortunate I am! Why did, not you ask me an hour ago? — Within this hour I have promised the new inn to another person.
Sir W. Indeed! — that is unfortunate. My poor Gilbert will be sadly disappointed.
Clara. How vexed I am! But I never should have thought of Gilbert for the inn: I fancied he disliked Ireland so much that he would never have settled here.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 627
