SCENE III.
A Hall, in the House of John de Vienne.
Enter Julia and O'Carrol.
Julia. Now, O'Carrol; what is the time of day?
O'Carrol. Fait, Lady Julia, we might have called it a little past breakfast time, formerly; but since the fashion of eating has been worn out in Calais, a man may be content to say it bears hard upon ten. Och! if clocks were jacks now, time would stand still; and the year would go down, for the want of winding up every now and then.
Julia. Saw you my father this morning?
O'Carrol. You may say that.
Julia. How looked he, O'Carrol?
O'Carrol. By my soul! Lady Julia, that old father of yours, and master of mine, is a gallant gentleman. And gallantly he bears himself. For certain, and so he ought; being a Knight of Burgundy, and Governor of Calais; but if I was Governor just now, to be sure I should not like to take a small trip from Calais, one morning, just to see what sort of a knight I was in Burgundy.
Julia. Who has he in his company?
O'Carrol. Why, madam, why—now dare not I tell who, for fear of offending her.—Company? Why, to be sure I have been in his company:—for want of finer acquaintance, madam, he was e'en forced to put up, half an hour, with an humble friend.
Julia. Poor fool! thy words are shrewder than thy meaning.
How many crowd the narrow space of life
With those gay, gaudy flowers of society,
Those annuals, call'd acquaintance; which do fade
And die away, ere we can say they blosom;
Mocking the idle cultivator's care,
From year to year; while one poor slip of friendship,
Hardy, tho' modest, stands the winter's frost,
And cheers its owner's eye with evergreen!
O'Carrol. Troth, lady, one honest potatoe in a garden is worth an hundred beds of your good-for-nothing tulips. Oh! 'tis meat and drink to me to see a friend! and, truly 'tis lucky, in this time of famine, to have one in the house to look at, to keep me from starving. Little did I think, eight years ago, when I came over among fifty thousand brave boys—English, Irish, and else,—to fight under King Edward, who now lies before Calais here, that I should find such a warm soul towards me in a Frenchman's body;—especially when the business, that brought me, was to help to give his countrymen a beating.
Julia. Thy gratitude, O'Carrol, has well repaid the pains my father took in preserving thee.
O'Carrol. Gratitude! fait, madam, begging your pardon, 'tis no such thing; 'tis nothing but showing the sense I have of my obligation. There was I, in the year 1339, in the English camp—on the fields of Vianfosse, near Capelle—which never came to an action; excepting a trifling bit of skirmish, in which my good cruel friends left me for dead out of our lines; when a kind enemy—your father—(a blessing on his friendly heart for it!) picked me up, and set the breath agoing again, that was almost thumped out of my body. He saved my life; it is but a poor commodity;—but, as long as it lasts, by my soul! he and his family shall have the wear and tear of it.
Julia. Thou hast been a trusty follower, O'Carrol; nay, more a friend than follower; thou art entwined in all the interests of our house, and art as attached to me as to my father.
O'Carrol. Ay, troth, Lady Julia, and a good deal more; more shame to me for it; because I am indebted for all to the Governor. I don't know how it may be with wiser nations, but if regard is to go to a whole family, there's a something about the female part of it that an Irishman can't help giving the preference to, for the soul of him.
Julia. But, tell me, who is with my father?
O'Carrol. Indeed that I will not—for a reason.
Julia. And what may the reason be?
O'Carrol. Because, long before he arrived, you bid me never mention his name. It may be, perhaps, the noble gentleman who has just succoured the town.—Well, if I must not say who is with my master, I may say who my master is with.—It is the Count Ribaumont.
Julia. Why should I tremble at that name? Why should my tongue be now constrained to speak the language of my heart? O father! father!
O'Carrol. Och—ho!
Julia. Why dost thou sigh, O'Carrol?
O'Carrol. Truly, madam, I was thinking of a piece of a rich old uncle I had in Ireland; who sent me to the French wars, to tear me away from a dear little creature I loved better than my eyes.
Julia. And wast thou ever in love, O'Carrol?
O'Carrol. That I was, faith, up to my chin. I never think upon it but it remembers me of the song that was wont to be played by honest Clamoran, poor fellow, our minstrel, in the north.
Julia. I pr'ythee sing it to me, good O'Carrol;
For there is something in these artless ditties,
Expressive of a simple soul in love,
That fills the mind with pleasing melancholy.