Biddy OʼGaghan was hard at work, boiling down herbs and blessing them,
drying and bottling cleverly, scraping, and picking the cloves out. She
had turned the still–room of the house into her private laboratory; and
she saved all the parish and half of the hundred from “them pisoners,
as called theirselves doctors”. Now, she was one of those powerful
women—common enough, by–the–by—who can work all the better for talking;
and, between her sniffs at the saucepan–lids, and her tests upon the
drying–pans, she had learned that something strange was up, and had
made fifty guesses about it. Blowing the scum and the pearly beads
from a pot of pellitory of the wall (one of her staunch panaceas),
she received a command most peremptory to present herself in the
justice–room.
“Thin was that the way as they said it, Dick? No sinse nor manners
but that! An’ every bit of the blessed while they knowed it for my
bilinʼ–day! Muckstraw, thin, is Bridget OʼGaghan no more count than
a pisonin’ doctor? Hould that handle there, Dick. If iver you stirs
it the bridth of one on your carroty whiskers from that smut on the
firebar, till such time as you sees me agin, Iʼll down with it arl in
your crooked back bilinʼ, and your chilthers shall disinherit it”.
Leaving Dick rooted in trepidation, for she was now considered a witch,
she hurried into her little bedroom; for she had the strongest sense
of propriety, and would not “make herself common”. Then she dashed her
apron aside, and softened the fire–glow from her nose, and smoothed the
creases of her jet–black hair, which curled in bars like crochet–work.
This last she did, with some lubricous staple of her own discovery,
applying it with the ball of her thumb. “The hairs of me head”, as she
always called them, were thick of number and strong of fibre, and went
zig–zag on their road to her ears, like a string of jockeyʼs horses
shying, or a flight of jack–snipes. Then a final glance at her fungous
looking–glass, just to know if she were all right; the glass gave her
back a fine, warm–hearted face, still young in its rapid expression,
Irish in every line of it, glazed with lies for hatred, and beaming
with truth for love. So Biddy gave two or three nods thereat, and knew
herself match for fifty cross–examiners, if she could only keep her
temper.
As she marched up to the table, with her head thrown back, her portly
shape made the most of, and the front of her strong arms glistening,
then dropped a crisp curtsey to Sir Cradock without deigning to notice
his visitor, the little doctorʼs experience told him that he had caught
a thorough Tartar. All his solemn preparations were thrown away upon
her, though the biggest Testament in the house lay on the table before
him; and a most impressive desk was covered with pens, and paper, and
sealing–wax.
Dr. Hutton would not yet open his mouth, because he wished to begin
augustly. Meanwhile, Sir Cradock kept waiting for him, till Biddy could
wait no longer. Turning her broad back full upon Rufus, who appreciated
the compliment, she made another short scrape to her master, and asked,
with an ogle suppressed to a mince—
“And what wud your honour be pleased to want with the poor widow,
Bridget OʼGaghan, then”?
“Bridget, that gentleman, Dr. Hutton, has made an extremely important
discovery, affecting most nearly my honour and that of the family. And
now I rely upon you, Bridget, as a faithful and valued dependent of
ours, to answer, without reservation or attempt at equivocation, all
the questions he may put to you”.
“Quistions, your honour”? and Biddy looked stupid in the cleverest way
imaginable.
“Yes, questions, Bridget OʼGaghan. Inquiries, interrogations—ah! that
quite explains what I mean”.
“Is it axing any harm, thin, any ondacency of a poor lone widder
woman, your honour wud be afther”? She took to her brogue as a tower
of refuge. Bilingual races are up to the tactics of rats with a double
hole.
“Sir Cradock Nowell”, said Rufus, from the bottom of his chest, “you,
I believe, are a magistrate for this county of Hants, Vice–Lieutenant,
Colonel of Yeomanry, the representative of the sovereign. I call upon
you now, in all these capacities, to administer the oath to this
prevaricating woman”.
The penultimate word rather terrified Bridget, for she never had heard
it before; but the last word of all reassured her.
She turned round suddenly on little Rufus, who had jumped from his
chair in excitement, and standing by head and shoulders above him, she
opened her great eyes down upon him, like the port–holes of a frigate.
“Faix, thin, and I niver seen this young man at all at all. Itʼs
between the airms of the cheer he were, and me niver to look so low for
him! ’Tis the black measles as heʼve tuk, and Iʼve seen as bad a case
brought through with. The luck oʼ the blessed saints in glory! Iʼve
been bilin’ up for the same. If itʼs narse him I can to the toorn of
it, Iʼm intirely at your sairvice, Sir Craduck. I likes to narse a base
little chap, sin’ thereʼs no call to fear for his beauty”.
This last was uttered gently, and quite as a private reflection; but
it told more than all the rest. For ever since Dr. Hutton had married
a woman half his age, he had grown exceedingly sensitive as to his
personal appearance. By a very great effort he kept silent, but his
face was almost black with wrath, as he handed the great book to Sir
Cradock. The magistrate presented it very solemnly to Bridget, who
took it as patly as if it had been a flat iron. A score of times she
had sworn according to what was thought good for her, years ago, in
Ireland. At the right moment of dictation, she gave the book a loud
smack that required good binding to stand it, and then crossed herself
very devoutly, to take the taste away. Of a heretic oath she had little
fear, though she would not have told a big lie to her priest. Then she
dropped her eyes, and chastened her aspect, as if overcome by the sense
of solemn responsibility.
“Bridget OʼGeoghegan”, began the worthy doctor, emphasising slowly
every syllable of her name, and prepared to write down her replies,
“you are now upon your solemn oath, to declare the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth. And if you fail in this, remember,
you will place your precious soul in the power of the evil one”.
“Amin to that same, thin. And more power to yer”.
“Bridget, do you remember the night when your masterʼs children were
born”?
“Sure an’ I do, thin. Unless it wur the morninʼ. How wud I help
remimber it”?
“And do you remember the medical gentleman who was suddenly called in”?
“And if I wur ten times on my oath, I donʼt remimber no gintleman.
A bit of a red–haired gossoon there was, as wor on the way to be
transported”.
“Do you remember his name”?
“Remimber it? Let me see, thin. It wor hardly worth the throuble of
forgittin. Button, or Mutton; no, faix I bʼlieve it wor Rubus Rotten”.
“Well, never mind his name——”
“My faith, and I niver did, thin, nor the little spalpin ayther. But to
my heart I was sorry for the dear, good, beautiful lady—glory be to her
sowl—along o’ that ignorant, carroty, sprawlinʼ, big–knuckled omadhawn.
Small chance for her to git over it”.
“Silence, woman, how dare you”? said Sir Cradock, very angrily.
“And I thought it was arl the truth as yer honour said I was to tell”.
Here Biddy looked hurt and amazed. “Have the little clerk got it all in
black and white”? With a sigh for his incapacity, she peered over the
desk at his paper.
“Now, Mrs. OʼGaghan, no trifling”! Her master spoke sternly and
sharply. But Rufus could not speak at all. He was in such a choking
passion.
“If so be I have said any harm, sir, for the best of us is errowneous,
I axes a humble pardon. Iver since I lose my good husband—and a better
husband there cudnʼt be, barrin only the bellises, and I wudnʼt deny
upon my oath but what I desarved the spout now and thin——”
“Mrs. OʼGaghan”, said Dr. Hutton, trying very hard to look amiable, “do
your best for once, I entreat you, to prove yourself, if there is such
a thing, a _respectable Irishwoman_”.
From that moment the tables were turned. Her temper boiled up like a
cauldron. It is quite of a piece with a thing that is all pieces—the
genuine Irish nature—that, proud as they are of their country, they
cannot bear to be told of their citizenship.
“Irish, thin, is it? Irish indade! Well, and I knows Iʼm Irish. And if
I ainʼt, what do I care who knows I am”?
She flung up her head superbly, and great tears ran from her eyes.
Rufus Hutton perceived his advantage, and, though not at all a mean
fellow, he was smarting far too sharply from the many attacks on his
vanity, to forego his sweet revenge.
“You remember, then, when the doctor gave you the first–born child,
that he made some odd remark, and told you to keep it separate”?
“And how can a poor Irishwoman remimber anything at all”?
“Come, you know very well that you remember that. Now, can you deny
it”?
“Is it likely youʼll catch me deny anything as is a lie, then, Irish or
not, as you plases”? Her bosom still was heaving with the ground–swell
of her injury.
“Well, now, for the honour of old Ireland, tell us the truth for once.
What were the words he said”?
“Save me if evir a bit of me can tell. Mayhap I might call to mind, if
I heerʼd them words agin”.
“Were they not these—ʼLeft to right over the shoulder, and a strapping
boy he is?’”
“Bedad thin, and they might have been”.
“I want to know what they were”.
“How can I tell what they were? I only know what they was”.
“Well, and what was that”?
“Thim very same words as youʼve said”. She turned towards the door with
a sullen air, while he looked at Sir Cradock in triumph. Nevertheless,
he still wanted her evidence as to the subsequent mistake. He had been,
as I said, to the “Jolly Foresters” and seen the Miss Penny of old; who
now, as the mother of nine or ten children, was kindly communicative
upon all questions of infancy.
“So then, Mrs. OʼGaghan, with the best intentions in the world, you
marked the elder child with a rosette, as I saw on the following day”.
“Thrue for you as the Gospel. And what more wud you have me do”?
“Nothing. Only take a needle and thread to it; instead of crimping it
into the cap”.
Poor Biddy started from where she stood, and pressed one hand to her
heart. “Itʼs the divil himself”, she muttered. “as turns me inside out
so. And sure that same is the reason he does be so black red”. Then
aloud, with a final rally—
“And who say they iver see me take a needle and thread? And if I did,
what odds to them”?
“No, that was the very thing you omitted to do, until it was too late.
But when you sent to Mrs. Toaster for her large butter–scales, what was
it you put on each side”?
“What was it? No lining at all. Fair play for the both of them, as I
hope to be weighed in purgatory”.
Sir Cradock was looking on, all this while, with the deepest amazement
and interest. He had not received any hint beforehand of this
confirmative evidence. “And, pray, what was the reason that you wanted
to weigh them at all? You know that it is considered unlucky among
nurses to weigh infants”.
“Why else wud I weigh them, except to see which wur the heaviest”?
“And pray, Bridget, which was the heavier”? asked Sir Cradock, almost
smiling.
“Mr. Cradock, as is now, your honour. Iʼd swear it on my dying bed. Did
you think, then, Iʼd iver wrong him, the innocents as they was”?
“And did you weigh them with rosettes on”? Rufus Hutton had not
finished yet.
“How cud I, and only one got it”?
“Oh, then, you had fastened it on again”?
“Do you think they was born with ribbons on”?
This was poor Biddyʼs last repartee. She lost heart and told everything
afterwards. How she had heard that there was some difference in the
marks of the infants, though what it was she knew not justly; having,
like most Irishwomen, the clearest perception that right and left are
only relative terms, and come wrong in the looking–glass, as they do in
heraldry. How, when she found the rosette adrift, she had done the very
best she could, according to her lights, to work even–handed justice,
and up to this very day believed that the heft of the scales was the
true one. Then she fell to a–crying bitterly that her darling Crad
should be ousted, and then she laughed as heartily that her dear boy
Clayton was in for it.
With timid glances at Mrs. OʼGaghan, like a boyʼs at his schoolmaster,
Jane Cripps came in, and told all she knew, saying “please sir”, at
every sentence. She had seen at the time Dr. Huttonʼs sketch, which was
made without Biddyʼs knowledge, because she never would have allowed
it, on account of the bad luck to follow. And Mrs. Cripps was very
clever now everything was known. She had felt all along that things
went queerly on the third day after the babes were born. She had made
up her mind to speak at the time, only Mrs. OʼGaghan was such—excuse
her—such a disciplinarian, that—that—and then Lady Nowell died, and
everything was at sixes and sevens, and no one cried more violent, let
them say what they like about it, than she, Jane Penny as had been.
“If Sir Cradock thought further evidence needful, there was Mrs.
Bowyer, a most respectable woman, who washed thirty shilling a week,
Mrs. Cripps’ first cousin and comate, who had heard at the time all
about the drawing, and had not been easy about the scales, and had
dreamed of it many times afterwards, as indeed her Aunt Betsy know; and
her husband was no man, or he never would have said to her——”
By this time the shadows came over the room, and the trees outside
were rustling, and you could see them against the amber sunset, like a
childʼs scrawling on his horn–book. Volunteers throughout the household
longed to give their evidence. Their self–respect for a week would
be hostile, if it were not accepted. But Sir Cradock kept the door
fastened, till Mrs. OʼGaghan slipped out, and put all the wenches down
the steps backwards. Mrs. Toaster alone she durst not touch; but Mrs.
Toaster will never forgive her, and never believe the case tried on
its merits, because she was not summoned to depose to the loan of the
scales.
Ha, so it is in our country, and among the niggers also. When wealth,
position, title, even bastardom from princes, even the notoriety which
a first–rate murderer stabs for—when any of these are in question,
how we crowd into the witness–box, how we feel the reek of the court
an aureola on our temples. But let any poor fellow, noble unknown, an
upright man now on the bend with trouble, let him go in to face his
creditors, after the uphill fight of years, let him gaze around with
work–worn eyes—which of his friends will be there to back him, who will
give him testimony?
After all, what matters it except in the score against us? We are
bitter with the world, we make a fuss, and feel it fester, we explode
in small misanthropy, only because we have not in our heart–sore the
true balm of humanity. No longer let our watchword be, “Every man
for himself, and God for us all”, but “Every man for God, and so for
himself and all”. So may we do away with all illicit process, and
return to the primal axiom that “the greater contains the less”.