Tales and Novels - LightNovelsOnl.com
You're reading novel online at LightNovelsOnl.com. Please use the follow button to get notifications about your favorite novels and its latest chapters so you can come back anytime and won't miss anything.
_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 pet.i.tions 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 nutsh.e.l.l; 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--G.o.d bless him!
_Owen._ Now hear me, mother, for I'm going to speak sense. You need not listen, Mabel.
_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._ Hus.h.!.+ 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?
