The Real Charlotte - Edith Somerville [64]
“Where’s the egg-whisk, Bid?” she demanded.
“‘Tis thim that she bates the eggs with, miss,” answered Bid Sal in the small, bashful voice by which she indicated her extreme humility towards those in authority over her, handing the birch-rod to Francie as she spoke.
“Mercy on us! What a thing! I’d be all night beating them with that!”
“Musha, how grand ye are!” broke in Norry’s voice from the scullery, in tones of high disdain; “if ye can’t bate eggs with that ye’d betther lave it to thim that can!” Following her words came Norry herself, bearing an immense saucepanful of potatoes, and having hoisted it on to the fire, she addressed herself to Bid Sal. “Get out from undher me feet out o’ this! I suppose it’s to make cakes ye’d go, in place of feedin’ the pigs! God knows I have as much talked since breakfast as’d sicken an ass, but, indeed, I might as well be playin’ the pianna as tellin’ yer business to the likes o’ ye.”
A harsh yell at this point announced that a cat’s tail had been trodden on, but, far from expressing compunction, Norry turned with fury upon the latest offender, and seizing from a corner beside the dresser an ancient carriage whip, evidently secreted for the purpose, she flogged the whole assemblage of cats out of the kitchen. Bid Sal melted away like snow in a thaw, and Norry, snatching the bowl of eggs from Francie, began to thrash them with the birch rod, scolding and grumbling all the time.
“That ye may be happy!” (This pious wish was with Norry always ironical.) “God knows ye should be ashamed, filling yer shtummicks with what’ll sicken thim, and dhraggin’ the people from their work to be runnin’ afther ye!”
“I don’t want you to be running after me,” began Francie humbly.
“Faith thin that’s the thruth!” returned the inexorable Norry; “if ye have thim ofcers running afther ye ye’re satisfied. Here, give me the bowl till I butther it. I’d sooner butther it meself than to be lookin’ at ye doin’ it!”
A loud cough, coming from the scullery, of the peculiarly doleful type affected by beggars, momentarily interrupted this tirade.
“Sha’se mick, Nance! Look at that, now, how ye have poor Nance the Fool waitin’ on me till I give her the empty bottle for Julia Duffy.”
Francie moved towards the scullery door, urged by a natural curiosity to see what manner of person Nance the Fool might be, and saw, squatted on the damp flags, an object which could only be described as a bundle of rags with a cough in it. The last characteristic was exhibited in such detail at the sight of Francie that she retired into the kitchen again, and ventured to suggest to Norry that the bottle should be given as soon as possible, and the scullery relieved of Nance the Fool’s dreadful presence.
“There it is for her on the dhresser,” replied Norry, still furiously whipping the eggs; “ye can give it yerself.”
From the bundle of rags, as Francie approached it, there issued a claw, which snatched the bottle and secreted it, and Francie just caught a glimpse, under the swathing of rags, of eyes so inflamed with crimson that they seemed to her like pools of blood, and heard mouthings and mumblings of Irish which might have been benedictions, but, if so, were certainly blessings in disguise.
“That poor craythur walked three miles to bring me the bottle I have there on the dhresser. It’s yerr’b tay that Julia Duffy makes for thim that has the colic.” Norry was softening a little as the whites of the eggs rose in stiff and silvery froth. “Julia’s a cousin of me own, through the mother’s family, and she’s able to docthor as good as e’er a docthor there’s in it.”
“I don’t think I’d care to have her doctoring me,” said Francie, mindful of the touzled head and dirty face that had looked down