“Well, I never”, cried Bridget; “that settles it altogether. Plase the saints an’ he were a rogue, itʼs this way heʼd ha’ come over on his blessed little empty belly. My darlin’ dumplin’ dillikins, itʼs you as it belongs to, and a fool I must be to doubt of it. Donʼt I know the bend o’ your nose, and the way your purty lips dribbles, then? And to think I was near a robbing you! What with the sitting up o’ nights, and the worry of that carroty spalpeen, and the way as they sends my meals up, Paddy OʼGaghan, as is in glory, wud take me for another manʼs wife”.
With great relief and strong conviction, Mrs. OʼGaghan began to stitch the truant rosette upon the cap of the last–mentioned baby, whence (or from that of the other) it had dropped through her own loose carelessness, before they were cuddled away. And with that ribbon she stitched upon him the heritage of the old family, the name of “Cradock Nowell”, borne by the eight last baronets, and the largest estates and foremost rank in all the fair county of Hants.
“Sure an’ it wonʼt come off again”, said Biddy to the baby, as she laid down her needle, for, like all genuine Irishwomen, she despised a thimble; “and itʼs meself as is to blame, for not taking a nick on your ear, dear. A big fool I must be only to plait it in afore, and only for thinkin’ as it wud come crossways, when you wint to your blissed mammy, dear. And little more you be likely to get there, Iʼm afeared, me darlinʼ. An’ skeared anybody would be to hoort so much as a hair oʼ your skull, until such time as you has any, you little jule of jewels, and I kisses every bit on you, and knows what you be thinking on in the dead hoor of the night. Bless your ticksy–wicksies, and the ground as you shall step on, and the childer as you shall have”.
Unprepared as yet to contemplate the pleasures of paternity, Master Cradock Nowell elect opened great eyes and great mouth, in the untutored wrath of hunger; while from the other cot arose a lusty yell, as of one already visited by the injustice of the world. This bitter cry awoke the softness and the faint misgivings of the Irishwomanʼs heart.
“And the pity of the world it is ye canʼt both be the eldest. And bedad you should, if Biddy OʼGaghan had the making of the laws. There shanʼt be any one iver can say as ye havenʼt had justice, me honey”.
Leaving both the unconscious claimants snugly wrapped and smiling, she called to her assistants, now calmly at tea in an inner room. “Miss Penny, run down now just, without thinking, and give my compliments, Mrs. OʼGaghanʼs kind compliments to the housekeeperʼs room, and would Mrs. Toaster oblige me with her big square scales? No weights you neednʼt bring, you know. Only the scales, and be quick with them”.
“And please, maʼam, what shall I say as you wants them for”?
“Never you mind, Jane Penny. Wait you till your betters asks of you. And maynʼt I weigh my grandfatherʼs silver, without ask you, Jane Penny? And likely youʼd rather not, and good reason for that same, I dessay, after the way as I leaves it open”.
Overlooking this innuendo, as well as the slight difficulty of weighing, without weights, imaginary bullion, Miss Penny hurried away; for the wrath of the nurse was rising, and it was not a thing to be tampered with. When Jane returned with the beam of justice, and lingered fondly in the doorway to watch its application, the head–nurse sidled her grandly into the little room, and turned the key upon her.
“Go and finish your tea, Miss Penny. No draughts in this room, if you please, miss. Save their little sowls, and divil a hair upon them. Now come here, my two chickabiddies”.