Sir W. So thought I till this morning. But love, my dear — love is lord of all. Poor Gilbert!
Clara. Poor Gilbert! — I am so sorry I did not know this sooner. Of all people, I should for my own part have preferred Gilbert for the inn, he would have kept it so well.
Sir W. He would so. (Sighs.)
Clara. I do so blame myself — I have been so precipitate, so foolish, so wrong — without consulting you even.
Sir W. Nay, my dear, I have been as wrong, as foolish, as precipitate as you; for before I consulted you, I told Gilbert that I could almost promise that he should have the inn in consequence of my recommendation. And upon the strength of that almost he is gone a courting. My dear, we are both a couple of fools; but I am an old — you are a young one. There is a wide difference — let that comfort you.
Clara. Oh, sir, nothing comforts me, I am so provoked with myself; and you will be so provoked with me, when I tell you how silly I have been.
Sir W. Pray tell me.
Clara. Would you believe that I have literally given it for a song? A man sent me this morning a copy of verses to the heiress of Bannow. The verses struck my fancy — I suppose because they flattered me; and with the verses came a petition setting forth claims, and a tenant’s right, and fair promises, and a proposal for the new inn; and at the bottom of the paper I rashly wrote these words—”The poet’s petition is granted.”
Sir W. A promise in writing, too! — My dear Clara, I cannot flatter you — this certainly is not a wise transaction. So, to reward a poet, you made him an innkeeper. Well, I have known wiser heads, to reward a poet, make him an exciseman.
Clara. But, sir, I am not quite so silly as they were, for I did not make the poet an innkeeper — he is one already.
Sir W. An innkeeper already! — Whom do you mean?
Clara. A man with a strange name — or a name that will sound strange to your English ears — Christy Gallagher.
Sir W. A rogue and a drunken dog, I understand: but he is a poet, and knows how to flatter the heiress of Bannow.
Clara. (striking her forehead) Silly, silly Clara!
Sir W. (changing his tone from irony to kindness) Come, my dear Clara, I will not torment you any more. You deserve to have done a great deal of mischief by your precipitation; but I believe this time you have done little or none, at least none that is irremediable; and you have made Gilbert happy, I hope and believe, though without intending it.
Clara. My dear uncle — you set my heart at ease — but explain.
Sir W. Then, my dear, I shrewdly suspect that the daughter of this Christy What-do-you-call-him is the lady of Gilbert’s thoughts.
Clara. I see it all in an instant. That’s delightful! We can pension off the drunken old father, and Gilbert and the daughter will keep the inn. Gilbert is in the green-house, preparing the coloured lamps — let us go and speak to him this minute, and settle it all.
Sir W. Speak to him of his loves? Oh, my dear, you’d kill him on the spot! He is so bashful, he’d blush to death.
Clara. Well, sir, do you go alone, and I will keep far, far aloof.
{Exeunt at opposite sides.
SCENE III.
Parlour of the Inn.
CHRISTY and Miss GALLAGHER.
Christy. (to Miss GALLAGHER, slapping her on her back) Hould up your head, child; there’s money bid for you.
Miss G. Lord, father, what a thump on the back to salute one with. Well, sir, and if money is bid for me, no wonder: I suppose, it’s because I have money.
Christy. That’s all the rason — you’ve hit it, Florry. It’s money that love always looks for now. So you may be proud to larn the news I have for you, which will fix Mr. Gilbert, your bachelor, for life, I’ll engage — and make him speak out, you’ll see, afore night-fall. We have the new inn, dear! — I’ve got the promise here under her own hand-writing.
Miss G. Indeed! — Well, I’m sure I shall be glad to get out of this hole, which is not fit for a rat or a Christian to live in — and I’ll have my music and my piano in the back parlour, genteel.
Christy. Oh! Ferrinafad, are you there? It’s your husband must go to that expinse, my precious, if he chooses, twingling and tweedling, instead of the puddings and apple pies — that you’ll settle betwix yees; and in the honeymoon, no doubt, you’ve cunning enough to compass that, and more.
Miss G. To be sure, sir, and before I come to the honeymoon, I promise you; for I won’t become part or parcel of any man that ever wore a head, except he’s music in his soul enough to allow me my piano in the back parlour.
Christy. Asy! asy! Ferrinafad — don’t be talking about the piano-forte, till you are married. Don’t be showing the halter too soon to the shy horse — it’s with the sieve of oats you’ll catch him; and his head once in the sieve, you have the halter on him clane. Pray, after all, tell me, Florry, the truth — did Mr. Gilbert ever ax you?
Miss G. La, sir, what a coarse question. His eyes have said as much a million of times.
Christy. That’s good — but not in law, dear. For, see, you could not shue a man in the four courts for a breach of promise made only with the eyes, jewel. It must be with the tongue afore witness, mind, or under the hand, sale, or mark — look to that.
Miss G. But, dear sir, Mr. Gilbert is so tongue-tied with that English bashfulness.
Christy. Then Irish impudence must cut the string of that tongue, Florry. Lave that to me, unless you’d rather yourself.
Miss G. Lord, sir — what a rout about one man, when, if I please, I might have a dozen lovers.
Christy. Be the same more or less. But one rich bachelor’s worth a dozen poor, that is, for the article of a husband.
Miss G. And I dare say the drum-major is rich enough, sir — for all Scotchmen, they say, is fond of money and aconomie; and I’d rather after all be the lady of a military man. (Sings.)
“I’ll live no more at home,
But I’ll follow with the drum,
And I’ll be the captain’s lady, oh!”
Christy. Florry! Florry! mind you would not fall between two stools, and nobody to pity you.
Enter BIDDY.
Miss G. Well, what is it?
Biddy. The bed. I was seeing was the room empty, that I might make it; for it’s only turned up it is, when I was called off to send in dinner. So I believe I’d best make it now, for the room will be wanting for the tea-drinking, and what not.
Miss G. Ay, make the bed do, sure it’s asy, and no more about it; — you’ve talked enough about it to make twinty beds, one harder nor the other, — if talk would do. (BIDDY goes to make the bed.) And I’m sure there’s not a girl in the parish does less in the day, for all the talk you keep. Now I’ll just tell all you didn’t do, that you ought this day, Biddy.
{While Miss GALLAGHER is speaking to BIDDY, Mr. GALLAGHER opens a press, pours out, and swallows a dram.
Christy. Oh, that would be too long telling, Florry, and that’ll keep cool. Lave her now, and you may take your scould out another time. I want to spake to you. What’s this I wanted to say? My memory’s confusing itself. Oh, this was it — I didn’t till you how I got this promise of the inn: I did it nately — I got it for a song.
Miss G. You’re joking, — and I believe, sir, you’re not over and above sober. There’s a terrible strong smell of the whiskey.
Christy. No, the whiskey’s not strong, dear, at-all-at-all! — You may keep smelling what way you plase, but I’m as sober as a judge, still, — and, drunk or sober, always knows and knewed on which side my bread was buttered: — got it for a song, I tell you — a bit of a complimentary, adulatory scroll, that the young lady fancied — and she, slap-dash, Lord love her, and keep her always so! writes at the bottom, granted the poet’s petition.
Miss G. And where on earth, then, did you get that song?
Christy. Where but in my brains should I get it? I could do that much any way, I suppose, though it was not my luck to be edicated at Ferrinafad.
{M
iss GALLAGHER looks back, and sees BIDDY behind her. — Miss GALLAGHER gives her a box on the ear.
Miss G. Manners! that’s to teach ye.
Biddy. Manners! — Where would I larn them — when I was only waiting the right time to ax you what I’d do for a clane pillow-case?
Miss G. Why, turn that you have inside out, and no more about it.
Christy. And turn yourself out of this, if you plase. (He turns BIDDY out by the shoulders.) Let me hear you singing Baltiorum in the kitchen, for security that you’re not hearing my sacrets. There, she’s singing it now, and we’re snug; — tell me when she stops, and I’ll stop myself.
Miss G. Then there’s the girl has ceased singing. There’s somebody’s come in, into the kitchen; may be it’s the drum-major. I’ll go and see.
{Exit Miss GALLAGHER.
CHRISTY, solus.
There she’s off now! And I must after her, else she’ll spoil her market, and my own. But look ye, now — if I shouldn’t find her agreeable to marry this Mr. Gilbert, the man I’ve laid out for her, why here’s a good stick that will bring her to rason in the last resort; for there’s no other way of rasoning with Ferrinafad.
{Exit CHRISTY.
SCENE IV.
The Garden of the Widow LARKEN’S Cottage.
OWEN and MABEL.
Owen. How does my mother bear the disappointment, Mabel about the inn?
Mabel. Then to outward appearance she did not take it so much to heart as I expected she would. But I’m sure she frets inwardly — because she had been in such hopes, and in such spirits, and so proud to think how well her children would all be settled.
Owen. Oh, how sorry I am I told her in that hurry the good news I heard, and all to disappoint her afterwards, and break her heart with it!
Mabel. No, she has too good a heart to break for the likes. She’ll hold up again after the first disappointment — she’ll struggle on for our sakes, Owen.
Owen. She will: but Mabel dearest, what do you think of Gilbert?
Mabel. (turning away) I strive not to think of him at all.
Owen. But sure I was not wrong there — he told me as much as that he loved you.
Mabel. Then he never told me that much.
Owen. No! What, not when he walked with you to the well?
Mabel. No. What made you think he did?
Owen. Why, the words he said about you when he met me, was — where’s your sister Mabel? Gone to the well, Gilbert, says I. And do you think a man that has a question to ask her might make bold to step after her? says he. Such a man as you — why not? says I. Then he stood still, and twirled a rose he held in his hand, and he said nothing, and I no more, till he stooped down, and from the grass where we stood pulled a sprig of clover. Is not this what you call shamrock? says he. It is, says I. Then he puts the shamrock along with the rose — How would that do? says he.
Mabel. Did he say that, Owen?
Owen. Yes, or how would they look together? or, would they do together? or some words that way; I can’t be particular to the word — you know, he speaks different from us; but that surely was the sense; and I minded too, he blushed up to the roots, and I pitied him, and answered —
Mabel. Oh, what did you answer?
Owen. I answered and said, I thought they’d do very well together; and that it was good when the Irish shamrock and the English rose was united.
Mabel. (hiding her face with her hands) Oh, Owen, that was too plain.
Owen. Plain! Not at all — it was not. It’s only your tenderness makes you feel it too plain — for, listen to me, Mabel. (Taking her hand from her face.) Sure, if it had any meaning particular, it’s as strong for Miss Gallagher as for any body else.
Mabel. That’s true: — and may be it was that way he took it, — and may be it was her he was thinking of —
Owen. When he asked me for you? But I’ll not mislead you — I’ll say nothing; for it was a shame he did not speak out, after all the encouragement he got from me.
Mabel. Then did he get encouragement from you?
Owen. That is — (smiling) — taking it the other way, he might understand it so, if he had any conscience. Come now, Mabel, when he went to the well, what did he say to you? for I am sure he said something.
Mabel. Then he said nothing — but just put the rose and shamrock into my hand.
Owen. Oh! did he? — And what did you say?
Mabel. I said nothing. — What could I say?
Omen. I wish I’d been with you, Mabel.
Mabel. I’m glad you were not, Owen.
Owen. Well, what did he say next?
Mabel. I tell you he said nothing, but cleared his throat and hemmed, as he does often.
Owen. What, all the way to the well and back, nothing but hem, and clear his throat?
Mabel. Nothing in life.
Owen. Why, then, the man’s a fool or a rogue.
Mabel. Oh, don’t say that, any way. But there’s my mother coming in from the field. How weak she walks! I must go in to bear her company spinning.
Owen. And I’ll be in by the time I’ve settled all here.
{Exit MABEL.
OWEN, solus.
Oh! I know how keenly Mabel feels all, tho’ she speaks so mild. Then I’m cut to the heart by this behaviour of Gilbert’s: — sure he could not be so cruel to be jesting with her! — he’s an Englishman, and may be he thinks no harm to jilt an Irishwoman. But I’ll show him — but then if he never asked her the question, how can we say any thing? — Oh! the thing is, he’s a snug man, and money’s at the bottom of all, — and since Christy’s to have the new inn, and Miss Gallagher has the money! — Well, it’s all over, and I don’t know what will become of me.
Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE.
Mr. H. My gude lad, may your name be Larken?
Owen. It is, sir — Owen Larken, at your service — the son of the widow Larken.
Mrs. H. Then I have to thank your family for their goodness to my puir brother, years ago. And for yourself, your friend, Mr. Christy Gallagher, has been telling me you can play the bugle?
Owen. I can, sir.
Mr. H. And we want a bugle, and the pay’s fifteen guineas; and I’d sooner give it to you than three others that has applied, if you’ll list.
Owen. Fifteen guineas! Oh! if I could send that money home to my mother! but I must ask her consint. Sir, she lives convanient, just in this cabin here — would you be pleased to step in with me, and I’ll ask her consint.
Mr. H. That’s right, — lead on, my douce lad — you ken the way.
{Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Kitchen of the Widow LAKKEN’S Cottage.
A Door is seen open, into an inner Room.
MABEL, alone, (Sitting near the door of the inner room, spinning and singing.)
Sleep, mother, sleep! in slumber blest,
It joys my heart to see thee rest.
Unfelt in sleep thy load of sorrow;
Breathe free and thoughtless of to-morrow;
And long, and light, thy slumbers last,
In happy dreams forget the past.
Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber’s blest;
It joys my heart to see thee rest.
Many’s the night she wak’d for me,
To nurse my helpless infancy:
While cradled on her patient arm,
She hush’d me with a mother’s charm.
Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber’s blest;
It joys my heart to see thee rest.
And be it mine to soothe thy age,
With tender care thy grief assuage,
This hope is left to poorest poor,
And richest child can do no more.
Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber’s blest;
It joys my heart to see thee rest.
While MABEL is singing the second stanza, OWEN and ANDREW HOPE enter. Mr. HOPE stops short, and listens: he makes a sign to OWEN to stand still, and not to interrupt MABEL — while OWEN approaches her
on tiptoe.
Mr. H. (aside) She taks my fancy back to dear Scotland, to my ain hame, and my ain mither, and my ain Kate.
Owen. So Mabel! I thought you never sung for strangers?
{MABEL turns and sees Mr. HOPE — She rises and curtsies.
Mr. H. (advancing softly) I fear to disturb the mother, whose slumbers are so blest, and I’d fain hear that lullaby again. If the voice stop, the mother may miss it, and wake.
Mabel. (looking into the room in which her mother sleeps, then closing the door gently) No, sir, — she’ll not miss my voice now, I thank you — she is quite sound asleep.
Owen. This is Mr. Andrew Hope, Mabel — you might remember one of his name, a Serjeant Hope.
Mabel. Ah! I mind — he that was sick with us, some time back.
Mr. H. Ay, my brother that’s dead, and that your gude mither was so tender of, when sick, charged me to thank you all, and so from my soul I do.
Mabel. ’Twas little my poor mother could do, nor any of us for him, even then, though we could do more then than we could now, and I’m glad he chanced to be with us in our better days.
Mr. H. And I’m sorry you ever fell upon worse days, for you deserve the best; and will have such again, I trust. All I can say is this — that gif your brother here gangs with me, he shall find a brother’s care through life fra’ me.
Owen. I wouldn’t doubt you; and that you know, Mabel, would be a great point, to have a friend secure in the regiment, if I thought of going.
Mabel. If! — Oh! what are you thinking of, Owen? What is it you’re talking of going? (Turning towards the door of her mother’s room suddenly.) Take care, but she’d wake and hear you, and she’d never sleep easy again.
Owen. And do you think so?
Mabel. Do I think so? Am not I sure of it? and you too, Owen, if you’d take time to think and feel.
Owen. Why there’s no doubt but it’s hard, when the mother has reared the son, for him to quit her as soon as he can go alone; but it is what I was thinking: it is only the militia, you know, and I’d not be going out of the three kingdoms ever at all; and I could be sending money home to my mother, like Johnny Reel did to his.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 628
