Tales and Novels Volume VIII Part 25

SCENE II.

_McBRIDE'S Cottage._

_MATTHEW McBRIDE and HONOR. (MATTHEW with a little table before him, at dinner._)

_Old McB._ (_pus.h.i.+ng 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 ungrat.i.tude.

_Honor._ Ungrat.i.tude, 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 rest.i.tution, 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 s.h.i.+ngled 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, a.s.sizes 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?