FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER.
By William Carleton
CONTENTS
List of Illustrations
[ Page 191— Imprinted the Father's First Kiss ]
[ Page 245— He Rattled, and Thumped, And Screamed ]
PART I.
Fardorougha, the Miser.
It was on one of those nights in August, when the moon and stars shine through an atmosphere clear and cloudless, with a mildness of lustre almost continental, that a horseman, advancing at a rapid pace, turned off a remote branch of road up a narrow lane, and, dismounting before a neat whitewashed cottage, gave a quick and impatient knock at the door. Almost instantly, out of a small window that opened on hinges, was protruded a broad female face, surrounded, by way of nightcap, with several folds of flannel, that had originally been white.
“Is Mary Moan at home?” said the horseman.
“For a miricle-ay!” replied the female; “who's down, in the name o' goodness?”
“Why, thin, I'm thinkin' you'll be smilin' whin you hear it,” replied the messenger. “The sorra one else than Honor Donovan, that's now marrid upon Fardorougha Donovan to the tune of thirteen years. Bedad, time for her, anyhow,—but, sure it'll be good whin it comes, we're thinkin'.”
“Well, betther late than never—the Lord be praised for all His gifts, anyhow. Put your horse down to the mountin'-stone, and I'll be wid you in half a jiffy, acushla.”
She immediately drew in her head, and ere the messenger had well placed his horse at the aforesaid stirrup, or mounting-stone, which is an indispensable adjunct to the midwife's cottage, she issued out, cloaked and bonneted; for, in point of fact, her practice was so extensive, and the demands upon her attendance so incessant, that she seldom, if ever, slept or went to bed, unless partially dressed. And such was her habit of vigilance, that she ultimately became an illustration of the old Roman proverb, Non dormio omnibus; that is to say, she could sleep as sound as a top to every possible noise except a knock at the door, to which she might be said, during the greater part of her professional life, to have been instinctively awake.
Having ascended the mounting-stone, and placed herself on the crupper, the guide and she, while passing down the narrow and difficult lane, along which they could proceed but slowly and with caution, entered into the following dialogue, she having first turned up the hood of her cloak over her bonnet, and tied a spotted cotton kerchief round her neck.
“This,” said the guide, who was Fardorougha Donovan's servant-man, “is a quare enough business, as some o' the nabors do be sayin—marrid upon one another beyant thirteen year, an' ne'er a sign of a haporth. Why then begad it is quare.”
“Whisht, whisht,” replied Molly, with an expression of mysterious and superior knowledge; “don't be spakin' about what you don't understand—sure, nuttin's impossible to God, avick—don't you know that?”
“Oh, bedad, sure enough—that we must allow, whether or not, still—”
“Very well; seein' that, what more have we to say, barrin' to hould our tongues. Children sent late always come either for great good or great sarra to their parents—an' God grant that this may be for good to the honest people—for indeed honest people they are, by all accounts. But what myself wonders at is, that Honor Donovan never once opened her lips to me about it. However, God's will be done! The Lord send her safe over all her throubles, poor woman! And, now that we're out o' this thief of a lane, lay an for the bare life, and never heed me. I'm as good a horseman as yourself; and, indeed, I've a good right, for I'm an ould hand at it.”
“I'm thinkin',” she added, after a short silence, “it's odd I never was much acquainted with the Donovans. I'm tould they're a hard pack, that loves the money.”
“Faix,” replied her companion, “Let Fardorougha alone for knowin' the value of a shillin'!—they're not in Europe can hould a harder grip o' one.”
His master, in fact, was a hard, frugal man, and his mistress a woman of somewhat similar character; both were strictly honest, but, like many persons to whom God has denied offspring, their hearts had for a considerable time before been placed upon money as their idol; for, in truth, the affections must be fixed upon something, and we generally find that where children are denied, the world comes in and hardens by its influence the best and tenderest sympathies of humanity.
After a journey of two miles they came out on a hay-track, that skirted an extensive and level sweep of meadow, along which they proceeded with as much speed as a pillionless midwife was capable of bearing. At length, on a gentle declivity facing the south, they espied in the distance the low, long, whitewashed farm-house of Fardorougha Donovan. There was little of artificial ornament about the place, but much of the rough, heart-stirring wildness of nature, as it appeared in a strong, vigorous district, well cultivated, but without being tamed down by those finer and more graceful touches, which nowadays mark the skilful hand of the scientific agriculturist.
To the left waved a beautiful hazel glen, which gradually softened away into the meadows above mentioned. Up behind the house stood an ancient plantation of whitethorn, which, during the month of May, diffused its fragrance, its beauty, and its melody, over the whole farm. The plain garden was hedged round by the graceful poplar, whilst here and there were studded over the fields either single trees or small groups of mountain ash, a tree still more beautiful than the former. The small dells about the farm were closely covered with blackthorn and holly, with an occasional oak shooting up from some little cliff, and towering sturdily over its lowly companions. Here grew a thick interwoven mass of dog-tree, and upon a wild hedgerow, leaning like a beautiful wife upon a rugged husband, might be seen, supported by clumps of blackthorn, that most fragrant and exquisite of creepers, the delicious honeysuckle. Add to this the neat appearance of the farm itself, with its meadows and cornfields waving to the soft sunny breeze of summer, and the reader may admit, that without possessing any striking features of pictorial effect, it would, nevertheless, be difficult to find an uplying farm upon which the eye could rest with greater satisfaction.
Ere arriving at the house they were met by Fardorougha himself, a small man, with dark, but well-set features, which being at no time very placid, appeared now to be absolutely gloomy, yet marked by strong and profound, anxiety.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed on meeting them; “is this Mary Moan?”
“It is—it is!” she exclaimed; “how are all within?—am I in time?”
“Only poorly,” he returned; “you are, I hope.”
The midwife, when they reached the door, got herself dismounted in all haste, and was about entering the house, when Fardorougha, laying his hand upon her shoulder, said in a tone of voice full of deep feeling—
“I need say nothing to you; what you can do, you will do—but one thing I expect—if you see danger, call in assistance.”
“It's all in the hands o' God, Fardorougha, acushla; be as aisy in your mind as you can; if there's need for more help you'll hear it; so keep the man an' horse both ready.”
She then blessed herself and entered the house, repeating a short prayer, or charm, which was supposed to possess uncommon efficacy in relieving cases of the nature she was then called upon to attend.
Fardorougha Donovan was a man of great good sense, and of strong, but not obvious or flexible feeling; this is to say, on strong occasions he felt accordingly, but exhibited no remarkable symptoms of emotion. In matters of a less important character, he was either deficient in sensibility altogether, or it affected him so slightly as not to be perceptible. What his dispositions and feelings might have been, had his parental affections and domestic sympathies been cultivated by the tender intercourse which subsists between a parent and his children, it is not easy to say. On such occasions many a new and delightful sensation—many a sweet trait of affection previously unknown—and, oh! many, many a fresh impulse of rapturous emotion never before felt gushes out of the heart; all of which, were it not for the existence of ties so delightful, might have there lain sealed up forever. Where is the man who does not remember the strange impression of tumultuous delight which he experienced on finding himself a husband? And who does not recollect that nameless charm, amounting almost to a new sense, which pervaded his whole being with tenderness and transport on kissing the rose-bud lips of his first-born babe? It is, indeed, by the ties of domestic life that the purity and affection and the general character of the human heart are best tried. What is there more beautiful than to see that fountain of tenderness multiplying its affections instead of diminishing them, according as claim after claim arises to make fresh demands upon its love? Love, and especially parental love, like jealousy, increases by what it feeds on. But, oh! from what an unknown world of exquisite enjoyment are they shut out, to whom Providence has not vouchsafed those beloved beings on whom the heart lavishes the whole fulness of its rapture! No wonder that their own affections should wither in the cold gloom of disappointed hope, or their hearts harden into that moody spirit of worldly-mindedness which adopts for its offspring the miser's idol.
Whether Fardorougha felt the want of children acutely or otherwise, could not be inferred from any visible indication of regret on his part by those who knew him. His own wife, whose facilities of observation were so great and so frequent, was only able to suspect in the affirmative. For himself he neither murmured nor repined; but she could perceive that, after a few years had passed, a slight degree of gloom began to settle on him, and an anxiety about his crops, and his few cattle, and the produce of his farm. He also began to calculate the amount of what might be saved from the fruits of their united industry. Sometimes, but indeed upon rare occasions, his temper appeared inclining to be irascible or impatient; but in general it was grave, cold, and inflexible, without any outbreaks of passion, or the slightest disposition to mirth. His wife's mind, however, was by no means so firm as his, nor so free from the traces of that secret regret which preyed upon it. She both murmured and repined, and often in terms which drew from Fardorougha a cool rebuke for her want of resignation to the will of God. As years advanced, however, her disappointment became harassing even to herself, and now that hope began to die away, her heart gradually partook of the cool worldly spirit which had seized upon the disposition of her husband, Though cultivating but a small farm, which they held at a high rent, yet, by the dint of frugality and incessant diligence, they were able to add a little each year to the small stock of money which they had contrived to put together. Still would the unhappy recollection that they were childless steal painfully and heavily over them; the wife would sometimes murmur, and the husband reprove her, but in a tone so cool and indifferent that she could not avoid concluding that his own want of resignation, though not expressed, was at heart equal to her own. Each also became somewhat religious, and both remarkable for a punctual attendance upon the rites of their church, and that in proportion as the love of temporal things overcame them. In this manner they lived upwards of thirteen years, when Mrs. Donovan declared herself to be in that situation which in due time rendered the services of Mary Moan necessary.
From the moment this intimation was! given, and its truth confirmed, a faint light, not greater than the dim and trembling lustre of a single star, broke in upon the darkened affections and worldly spirit of Fardorougha Donovan. Had the announcement taken place within a reasonable period after his marriage, before he had become sick of disappointment, or had surrendered his heart from absolute despair to an incipient spirit of avarice, it would no doubt have been hailed with all the eager delight of unblighted hope and vivid affection; but now a new and subtle habit had been superinduced, after the last cherished expectation of the heart had departed; a spirit of foresight and severe calculation descended on him, and had so nearly saturated his whole being, that he could not for some time actually determine whether the knowledge of his wife's situation was more agreeable to his affection, or repugnant to the parsimonious disposition which had quickened his heart into an energy incompatible with natural benevolence, and the perception of those tender ties which spring up from the relations of domestic life. For a considerable time this struggle between the two principles went on; sometimes a new hope would spring up, attended in the background by a thousand affecting circumstances—on the other hand, some gloomy and undefinable dread of exigency, distress, and ruin, would wring his heart and sink his spirits down to positive misery. Notwithstanding this conflict between growing avarice and affection, the star of the father's love had risen, and though, as we have already said, its light was dim and unsteady, yet the moment a single opening occurred in the clouded mind, there it was to be seen serene and pure, a beautiful emblem of undying and solitary affection struggling with the cares and angry passions of life. By degrees, however, the husband's heart became touched by the hopes of his younger years, former associations revived, and remembrances of past tenderness, though blunted in a heart so much changed, came over him like the breath of fragrance that has nearly passed away. He began, therefore, to contemplate the event without foreboding, and by the time the looked-for period arrived, if the world and its debasing influences were not utterly overcome, yet nature and the quickening tenderness of a father's feeling had made a considerable progress in a heart from which they had been long banished. Far different from all this was the history of his wife since her perception of an event so delightful. In her was no bitter and obstinate principle subversive of affection to be overcome. For although she had in latter years sank into the painful apathy of a hopeless spirit, and given herself somewhat to the world, yet no sooner did the unexpected light dawn upon her, than her whole soul was filled with exultation and delight. The world and its influence passed away like a dream, and her heart melted into a habit of tenderness at once so novel and exquisite, that she often assured her husband she had never felt happiness before.
Such are the respective states of feeling in which our readers find Fardorougha Donovan and his wife, upon an occasion whose consequences run too far into futurity for us to determine at present whether they are to end in happiness or misery. For a considerable time that evening, before the arrival of Mary Moan, the males of the family had taken up their residence in an inside kiln, where, after having kindled a fire in the draught-hole, or what the Scotch call the “logie,” they sat and chatted in that kind of festive spirit which such an event uniformly produces among the servants of a family. Fardorougha himself remained for the most part with them, that is to say except while ascertaining from time to time the situation of his wife. His presence, however, was only a restraint upon their good-humor, and his niggardly habits raised some rather uncomplimentary epithets during his short visits of inquiry. It is customary upon such occasions, as soon as the mistress of the family is taken ill, to ask the servants to drink “an aisy bout to the misthress, sir, an' a speedy recovery, not forgettin' a safe landin' to the youngsther, and, like a Christmas compliment, many of them to you both. Whoo! death alive, but that's fine stuff. Oh, begorra, the misthress can't but thrive wid that in the house. Thank you, sir, an' wishin' her once more safe over her troubles!—divil a betther misthress ever,” etc., etc., etc.
Here, however, there was nothing of the kind. Fardorougha's heart, in the first instance, was against the expense, and besides, its present broodings resembled the throes of pain which break out from the stupor that presses so heavily upon the exhausted functions of life in the crisis of a severe fever. He could not, in fact, rest nor remain for any length of time in the same spot. With a slow but troubled step he walked backward and forward, sometimes uttering indistinct ejaculations and broken sentences, such as no one could understand. At length he approached his own servants, and addressed the messenger whose name was Nogher M'Cormick.
“Nogher,” said he, “I'm throubled.”
“Throubled! dad, Fardorougha, you ought to be a happy and a thankful man this night, that is, if God sinds the misthress safe over it, as I hope He will, plase goodness.”
“I'm poor, Nogher, I'm poor, an' here's a family comin'.”
“Faith, take care it's not sin you're com-mittin' by spakin' as you're doin'.”
“But you know I'm poor, Nogher.”
“But I know you're not, Fardorougha; but I'm afraid, if God hasn't said it, your heart's too much fix'd upon the world. Be my faix, it's on your knees you ought to be this same night, thankin' the Almighty for His goodness, and not grumblin' an' sthreelin' about the place, flyin' in the face of God for sendin' you an' your wife ablessin'—for sure I hear the Scripthur says that all childhres a blessin' if they're resaved as sich; an' wo be to the man, says Scripthur, dat's born wid a millstone about his neck, especially if he's cast into the say. I know you pray enough, but, be my sowl, it hasn't improved your morals, or it's the misthress' health we'd be drinkin' in a good bottle o' whiskey at the present time. Faix, myself wouldn't be much surprised if she had a hard twist in consequence, an' if she does, the fault's your own an' not ours, for we're willin' as the flowers o' May to drink all sorts o' good luck to her.”
“Nogher,” said the other, “it's truth a great dale of what you've sed—maybe all of it.”
“Faith, I know,” returned Nogher, “that about the whiskey it's parfit gospel.”
“In one thing I'll be advised by you, an' that is, I'll go to my knees and pray to God to set my heart right if it's wrong. I feel strange—strange, Nogher—happy, an' not happy.”
“You needn't go to your knees at all,” replied Nogher, “if you give us the whiskey; or if you do pray, be in earnest, that your heart may be inclined to do it.”
“You desarve none for them words,” said Fardorougha, who felt that Nogher's buffoonery jarred upon the better feelings that were rising within him—“you desarve none, an' you'll get none—for the present at laste, an' I'm only a fool for spaking to you.”
He then retired to the upper part of the kiln, where, in a dark corner, he knelt with a troubled heart, and prayed to God.
We doubt not but such readers as possess feeling will perceive that Fardorougha was not only an object at this particular period of much interest, but also entitled to sincere sympathy. Few men in his circumstances could or probably would so earnestly struggle with a predominant passion as he did, though without education, or such a knowledge of the world as might enable him, by any observation of the human heart in others, to understand the workings in his own. He had not been ten minutes at prayer when the voice of his female servant was heard in loud and exulting tones, calling out, ere she approached the kiln itself—
“Fardorougha, ca woul thu?—Where's my footin', masther? Where's my arles?—Come in—come in, you're a waitin' to kiss your son—the misthress is dyin' till you kiss our son.”
The last words were uttered as she entered the kiln.
“Dyin'!” he repeated—“the misthress dyin'—oh Susy, let a thousand childre go before her—dyin'! did you say dyin'?”
“Ay did I, an' it's truth too; but it's wid joy she's dyin' to see you kiss one of the purtiest young boys in all the barony of Lisnamona—myself's over head and ears in love wid him already.”
He gave a rapid glance upwards, so much so that it was scarcely perceptible, and immediately accompanied her into the house. The child, in the meantime, had been dressed, and lay on its mother's arm in the bed when its father entered. He approached the bedside and glanced at it—then at the mother who lay smiling beside it—she extended her hand to him, whilst the soft, sweet tears of delight ran quietly down her cheeks. When he seized her hand he stooped to kiss her, but she put up her other hand and said—
“No, no, you must kiss him first.”
He instantly stooped over the babe, took it in his arms, looked long and earnestly upon it, put it up near him, again gave it a long, intense gaze, after which he raised its little mouth to his own, and then imprinted the father's first kiss upon the fragrant lips of his beloved first-born. Having gently deposited the precious babe upon its mother's arm, he caught her hand and imprinted upon her lips a kiss;—but to those who understand it, we need not describe it—to those who cannot, we could give no adequate notion of that which we are able in no other way to describe than by saying that it would seem as if the condensed enjoyment of a whole life were concentrated into that embrace of the child and mother.
When this tender scene was over, the midwife commenced—
“Well, if ever a man had raison to be thank—”
“Silence, woman!” he exclaimed in a voice which hushed her almost into terror.
“Let him alone,” said the wife, addressing her, “let him alone, I know what he feels.”
“No,” he replied, “even you, Honora, don't know it—my heart, my heart went astray, and there, undher God and my Saviour, is the being that will be the salvation of his father.”
His wife understood him and was touched; the tears fell fast from her eyes, and, extending her hand to him, she said, as he clasped it:
“Sure, Fardorougha, the world won't be as much in your heart now, nor your temper so dark as it was.”
He made no reply; but, placing his other hand over his eyes, he sat in that posture for some minutes. On raising his head the tears were running as if involuntarily down his cheeks.
“Honora,” said he, “I'll go out for a little—you can tell Mary Moan where anything's to be had—let them all be trated so as that they don't take too much—and, Mary Moan, you won't be forgotten.”
He then passed out, and did not appear for upwards of an hour, nor could any one of them tell where he had been.
“Well,” said Honora, after he had left the room, “we're now married near fourteen years; and until this night I never see him shed a tear.”
“But sure, acushla, if anything can touch a father's heart, the sight of his first child will. Now keep yourself aisy, avourneen, and tell me where the whiskey an' anything else that may be a wantin' is, till I give these crathurs of sarvints a dhrop of something to comfort thim.”
At this time, however, Mrs. Donovan's mother and two sisters, who had some hours previously been sent for, just arrived, a circumstance which once more touched the newly awakened chord of the mother's heart, and gave her that confidence which the presence of “one's own blood,” as the people expressed it, always communicates upon such occasions. After having kissed and admired the babe, and bedewed its face with the warm tears of affection, they piously knelt down, as is the custom among most Irish families, and offered up a short but fervent prayer of gratitude as well for an event so happy, as for her safe delivery, and the future welfare of the mother and child. When this was performed, they set themselves to the distribution of the blithe meat or groaning malt, a duty which the midwife transferred to them with much pleasure, this being a matter which, except in matters of necessity, she considered beneath the dignity of her profession. The servants were accordingly summoned in due time, and, headed by Nogher, soon made their appearance. In events of this nature, servants in Ireland, and we believe everywhere else, are always allowed a considerable stretch of good-humored license in those observations which they are in the habit of making. Indeed, this is not so much an extemporaneous indulgence of wit on their part, as a mere repetition of the set phrases and traditionary apothegms which have been long established among the peasantry, and as they are generally expressive of present satisfaction and good wishes for the future, so would it be looked upon as churlishness, and in some cases, on the part of the servants, a sign of ill-luck, to neglect them.
“Now,” said Honora's mother to the servants of both sexes, “now, childre, that you've aite a trifle, you must taste something in the way of dhrink. It would be too bad on this night above all nights we've seen yet, not to have a glass to the stranger's health at all events. Here, Nogher, thry this, avick—you never got a glass wid a warmer heart.”
Nogher took the liquor, his grave face charged with suppressed humor, and first looking upon his fellow-servants with a countenance so droll yet dry, that none but themselves understood, it, he then directed a very sober glance at the good woman.
“Thank you, ma'am,” he exclaimed; “be goxty, sure enough if our hearts wouldn't get warm now, they'd never warm. A happy night it is for Fardorougha and the misthress, at any rate. I'll engage the stranger was worth waitin' for, too. I'll hould a thrifle, he's the beauty o' the world this minnit—an' I'll engage it's breeches we'll have to be I gettin for him some o' these days, the darlin'. Well, here's his health, any way; an' may he——”
“Husth, arogorah!” exclaimed the mid-wife; “stop, I say—the tree afore the fruit, all the world over; don't you know, an' bad win to you, that if the sthranger was to go to-morrow, as good might come afther him, while the paarent stocks are to the fore. The mother an' father first, acushla, an' thin the sthranger.”
“Many thanks to you, Mrs. Moan,” replied Nogher, “for settin' me right—sure we'll know something ourselves whin it comes our turn, plase goodness. If the misthress isn't asleep, by goxty, I'd call in to her, that I'm dhrinkin' her health.”
“She's not asleep,” said her mother; “an' proud she'll be, poor thing, to hear you, Nogher.”
“Misthress!” he said in a loud voice, “are you asleep, ma'am?”
“No, indeed, Nogher,” she replied, in a good-humored tone of voice.
“Well, ma'am,” said Nogher, still in a loud voice, and scratching his head, “here's your health; an' now that the ice is bruk—be goxty, an' so it is sure,” said he in an undertone to the rest—“Peggy, behave yourself,” he continued, to one of the servant-maids, “mockin's catchin': faix, you dunna what's afore yourself yet—beg pardon—I'm forgettin' myself—an' now that the ice is bruk, ma'am,” he resumed, “you must be dacent for the futher. Many a bottle, plase goodness, we'll have this way yet. Your health, ma'am, an' a speedy recovery to you—an' a sudden uprise—not forgettin' the masther—long life to him!”
“What!” said the midwife, “are you forgettin' the sthranger?”
Nogher looked her full in the face, and opened his mouth, without saying a word, literally pitched the glass of spirits to the very bottom of his throat.
“Beggin' your pardon, ma'am,” he replied, “is it three healths you'd have me dhrink wid the one glassful?—not myself, indeed; faix, I'd be long sorry to make so little of him—if he was a bit of a girsha I'd not scruple to give him a corner o' the glass, but, bein' a young man althers the case intirely—he must have a bumper for himself.”
“A girsha!” said Peggy, his fellow-servant, feeling the indignity just offered to her sex—“Why thin, bad manners to your assurance for that same: a girsha's as well intitled to a full glass as a gorsoon, any day.”
“Husth a colleen,” said Nogher, good—humoredly, “sure, it's takin' pattern by sich a fine example you ought to be. This, Mrs. Moan, is the purty crature I was mintionin' as we came along, that intends to get spanshelled wid myself some o' these days—that is, if she can bring me into good-humor, the thief.”
“And if it does happen,” said Peggy, “you'll have to look sharper afther him, Mrs. Moan. He's pleasant enough now, but I'll be bound no man 'ill know betther how to hang his fiddle behind the door when he comes home to us.”
“Well, acushla, sure he may, if he likes, but if he does, he knows what's afore him—not sayin' that he ever will, I hope, for it's a woful case whin it comes to that, ahagur.”
“Faix, it's a happy story for half the poor wives of the parish that you're in it,” said Peggy, “sure, only fore——”
“Be dhe huath Vread, agus glak sho—hould your tongue, Peggy, and taste this,” said the mother of her mistress, handing her a glass: “If you intend to go together, in the name o' goodness fear God more than the midwife, if you want to have luck an' grace.”
“Oh, is it all this?” exclaimed the sly girl; “faix, it 'ill make me hearty if I dhrink so much—bedeed it will. Well, misthress, your health, an' a speedy uprise to you—an' the same to the masther, not forgettin' the sthranger—long life an' good health to him.”
She then put the glass to her lips, and after several small sips, appearing to be so many unsuccessful attempts at overcoming her reluctance to drink it, she at length took courage, and bolting it down, immediately applied her apron to her mouth, making at the same time two or three wry faces, gasping, as if to recover the breath which it did not take from her.
The midwife, in the mean time, felt that the advice just given to Nogher and Peggy contained a clause somewhat more detrimental to her importance than was altogether agreeable to her; and to sit calmly under any imputation that involved a diminution of her authority, was not within the code of her practice.
“If they go together,” she observed, “it's right to fear God, no doubt; but that's no raison why they shouldn't pay respect to thim that can sarve thim or otherwise.”
“Nobody says aginst that, Mrs. Moan,” replied the other; “it's all fair, an' nothin' else.”
“A midwife's nuttin' in your eyes, we suppose,” rejoined Mrs. Moan; “but maybe's there's thim belongin' to you could tell to the contrary.”
“Oblaged to you, we suppose, for your sarvices—an' we're not denyin' that, aither.”
“For me sarvices—maybe thim same sarvices wasn't very sweet or treaclesome to some o' thim,” she rejoined, with a mysterious and somewhat indignant toss of the head.
“Well, well,” said the other in a friendly tone, “that makes no maxims one way or the other, only dhrink this—sure we're not goin' to quarrel about it, any how.”
“God forbid, Honora More! but sure it ud ill become me to hear my own corree—no, no, avourneen,” she exclaimed, putting hack the glass; “I can't take it this—a—way; it doesn't agree wid me; you must put a grain o' shugar an' a dhrop o' bilin' wather to it. It may do very well hard for the sarvints, but I'm not used to it.”
“I hird that myself afore,” observed Nogher, “that she never dhrinks hard whiskey. Well, myself never tasted punch but wanst, an' be goxty its great dhrink. Death alive, Honora More,” he continued, in his most insinuating manner, “make us all a sup. Sure, blood alive, this is not a common night, afther what God has sint us: Fardorougha himself would allow you, if he was here; deed, be dad, he as good as promised me he would; an' you know we have the young customer's health to drink yet.”
“Throth, an' you ought,” said the mid-wife; “the boy says nuttin' but the thruth—it's not a common night; an' if God has given Fardorougha substance, he shouldn't begridge a little, if it was only to show a grateful heart.”
“Well, well,” said Honora More—which means great Honora, in opposition to her daughter, Fardorougha's wife; this being an epithet adopted for the purpose of contradistinguishing the members of a family when called by the same name—“Well,” said she, “I suppose it's as good. My own heart, dear knows, is not in a thrifle, only I have my doubts about Fardorougha. However, what's done can't be undone; so, once we mix it, he'll be too late to spake if he comes in, any way.”
The punch was accordingly mixed, and they were in the act of sitting down to enjoy themselves with more comfort when Fardorougha entered. As before, he was silent and disturbed, neither calm nor stern, but laboring, one would suppose, under strong feelings of a decidedly opposite character. On seeing the punch made, his brow gathered into something like severity; he looked quickly at his mother-in-law, and was about to speak, but, pausing a moment, he sat down, and after a little time said in a kind voice—
“It's right, it's right—for his sake, an' on his account, have it; but, Honora, let there be no waste.”
“Sure we had to make it for Mrs. Moan whether or not,” said his mother-in-law, “she can't drink it hard, poor woman.”
Mrs. Moan, who had gone to see her patient, having heard his voice again, made her appearance with the child in her arms, and with all the importance which such a burden usually bestows upon persons of her calling.
“Here,” said she, presenting him the infant, “take a proper look at this fellow. That I may never, if a finer swaddy ever crossed my hands. Throth if you wor dead tomorrow he'd be mistaken for you—your born image—the sorra thing else—eh alanna—the Lord loves my son—faix, you've daddy's nose upon you anyhow—an' his chin to a turn. Oh, thin, Fardorougha, but there's many a couple rowlin' in wealth that 'ud be proud to have the likes of him; an' that must die an' let it all go to strangers, or to them that doesn't care about them, 'ceptin' to get grabbin' at what they have, that think every day a year that they're above the sod. What! manim-an—kiss your child, man alive. That I may never, but he looks at the darlin' as if it was a sod of turf. Throth you're not worthy of havin' such a bully.”
Fardorougha, during this dialogue, held the child in his arms and looked upon it earnestly as before, but without betraying any visible indication of countenance that could enable a spectator to estimate the nature of what passed within him. At length there appeared in his eye a barely perceptible expression of benignity, which, however, soon passed away, and was replaced by a shadow of gloom and anxiety. Nevertheless, in compliance with the commands of the midwife, he kissed its lips, after which the servants all gathered round it, each lavishing upon the little urchin those hyperbolical expressions of flattery, which, after all, most parents are willing to receive as something approximating to gospel truth.
“Bedad,” said Nogher, “that fellow 'ill be the flower o' the Donovans, if God spares him—be goxty, I'll engage he'll give the purty girls many a sore heart yet—he'll play the dickens wid 'em, or I'm not here—a wough! do you hear how the young rogue gives tongue at that? the sorra one o' the shaver but knows what I'm savin'.”
Nogher always had an eye to his own comfort, no matter under what circumstances he might be placed. Having received the full glass, he grasped his master's hand, and in the usual set phrases, to which, however, was added much extempore matter of his own, he drank the baby's health, congratulating the parents, in his own blunt way, upon this accession to their happiness. The other servants continued to pour out their praises in terms of delight and astonishment at his accomplishments and beauty, each, in imitation of Nogher, concluding with a toast in nearly the same words.
How sweet from all other lips is the praise of those we love! Fardorougha, who, a moment before, looked upon his infant's face with an unmoved countenance, felt incapable of withstanding the flattery of his own servants when uttered in favor of the child. His eye became complacent, and while Nogher held his hand, a slight pressure in return was proof sufficient that his heart beat in accordance with the hopes they expressed of all that the undeveloped future might bestow upon him.
When their little treat was over, the servants withdrew for the night, and Fardorougha himself, still laboring under an excitement so complicated and novel, retired rather to shape his mind to some definite tone of feeling than to seek repose.
How strange is life, and how mysteriously connected is the woe or the weal of a single family with the great mass of human society! We beg the reader to stand with us upon a low, sloping hill, a little to the left of Fardorougha's house, and, after having solemnized his heart by a glance at the starry gospel of the skies, to cast his eye upon the long, white-washed dwelling, as it shines faintly in the visionary distance of a moonlight night. How full of tranquil beauty is the hour, and how deep the silence, except when it is broken by the loud baying of the watch-dog, as he barks in sullen fierceness at his own echo! Or perhaps there is nothing heard but the sugh of the mountain river, as with booming sound it rises and falls in the distance, filling the ear of midnight with its wild and continuous melody. Look around, and observe the spirit of repose which sleeps on the face of nature; think upon the dream of human life, and of all the inexplicable wonders which are read from day to day in that miraculous page—the heart of man. Neither your eye nor imagination need pass beyond that humble roof before you, in which it is easy to perceive, by the lights passing at this unusual hour across the windows, that there is something added either to their joy or to their sorrow. There is the mother, in whose heart was accumulated the unwasted tenderness of years, forgetting all the past in the first intoxicating influence of an unknown ecstasy, and looking to the future with the eager aspirations of affection. There is the husband, too, for whose heart the lank devil of the avaricious—the famine-struck god of the miser—is even now contending with the almost extinguished love which springs up in a father's bosom on the sight of his first-born.
Reader, who can tell whether the entrancing visions of the happy mother, or the gloomy anticipations of her apprehensive husband, are most prophetic of the destiny which is before their child. Many indeed and various are the hopes and fears felt under that roof, and deeply will their lights and shadows be blended in the life of the being whose claims are so strong upon their love. There, for some time past the lights in the window have appeared less frequently—one by one we presume the inmates have gone to repose—no other is now visible—the last candle is extinguished, and this humble section of the great family of man is now at rest with the veil of a dark and fearful future unlifted before them.
There is not perhaps in the series of human passions any one so difficult to be eradicated out of the bosom as avarice, no matter with what seeming moderation it puts itself forth, or under what disguise it may appear. And among all its cold-blooded characteristics there is none so utterly unaccountable as that frightful dread of famine and ultimate starvation, which is also strong in proportion to the impossibility of its ever being realized. Indeed, when it arrives to this we should not term it a passion, but a malady, and in our opinion the narrow-hearted patient should be prudently separated from society, and treated as one laboring under an incurable species of monomania.
During the few days that intervened between our hero's birth and his christening, Fardorougha's mind was engaged in forming some fixed principle by which to guide his heart in the conflict that still went on between avarice and affection. In this task he imagined that the father predominated over the miser almost without a struggle; whereas, the fact was, that the subtle passion, ever more ingenious than the simple one, changed its external character, and came out in the shape of affectionate forecast and provident regard for the wants and prospects of his child. This gross deception of his own heart he felt as a relief; for, though smitten with the world, it did not escape him that the birth of his little one, all its circumstances considered, ought to have caused him to feel an enjoyment unalloyed by the care and regret which checked his sympathies as a parent. Neither was conscience itself altogether silent, nor the blunt remonstrances of his servants wholly without effect. Nay, so completely was his judgment overreached that he himself attributed this anomalous state of feeling to a virtuous effort of Christian duty, and looked upon the encroachments which a desire of saving wealth had made on his heart as a manifest proof of much parental attachment. He consequently loved his wealth through the medium of his son, and laid it down as a fixed principle that every act of parsimony on his part was merely one of prudence, and had the love of a father and an affectionate consideration for his child's future welfare to justify it.
The first striking instance of this close and griping spirit appeared upon an occasion which seldom fails to open, in Ireland at least, all the warm and generous impulses of our mature. When his wife deemed it necessary to make those hospitable preparations for their child's christening, which are so usual in the country, he treated her intention of complying with this old custom as a direct proof—of unjustifiable folly and extravagance—nay, his remonstrance with her exhibited such remarkable good sense and prudence, that it was a matter of extreme difficulty to controvert it, or to perceive that it originated from any other motive than a strong interest in the true welfare of their child.
“Will our wasting meat and money, an' for that matthur health and time, on his christenin', aither give him more health or make us love him betther? It's not the first time; Honora, that I've heard yourself make little of some of our nabors for goin' beyant their ability in gettin' up big christenins. Don't be foolish now thin when it comes to your own turn.”
The wife took the babe up, and, after having gazed affectionately on its innocent features, replied to him, in a voice of tenderness and reproof—
“God knows, Fardorougha, an' if I do act wid folly, as you call it, in gettin' ready his christenin', surely, surely you oughtn't to blame the mother for that. Little I thought, acushla oge, that your own father 'ud begrudge you as good a christenin' as is put over any other nabor's child. I'm afraid, Fardorougha, he's not as much in your heart as he ought to be.”
“It's a bad proof of love for him, Honora, to put to the bad what may an' would be serviceable to him hereafter. You only think for the present; but I can't forget that he's to be settled in the world, an' you know yourself what poor means we have o' doin' that, an' that if we begin to be extravagant an' wasteful, bekase God has sent him, we may beg wid him afore long.”
“There's no danger of us beggin' wid him. No,” she continued, the pride of the mother having been touched, “my boy will never beg—no, avourneen—you never will—nor shame or disgrace will never come upon him aither. Have you no trust in God, Fardorougha?”
“God never helps them that neglect themselves, Honora.”
“But if it was plasing to His will to remove him from us, would you ever forgive yourself not lettin' him have a christenin' like another child?” rejoined the persevering mother.
“The priest,” replied the good man, “will do as much for the poor child as the rich; there's but one sacrament for both; anything else is waste, as I said, an' I won't give in to it. You don't considher that your way of it 'ud spend as much in one day as 'ud clothe him two or three years.”
“May I never sin this day, Fardorougha, but one 'ud think you're tired of him already. By not givin' in to what's dacent you know you'll only fret me—a thing that no man wid half a heart 'ud do to any woman supportin' a babby as I am. A fretted nurse makes a child sick, as Molly Moan tould you before she went; so that it's not on my own account I'm spakin', but on his—poor, weeny pet—the Lord love him! Look at his innocent purty little face, an' how can you have the heart, Fardorougha? Come, avourneen, give way to me this wanst; throth, if you do, you'll see how I'll nurse him, an' what a darlin' lump o' sugar I'll have him for you in no time!”
He paused a little at this delicate and affecting appeal of the mother; but, except by a quick glance that passed from her to their child, it was impossible to say whether or not it made any impression on his heart, or in the slightest degree changed his resolution.
“Well, well,” said he, “let me alone now. I'll think of it. I'll turn it over an' see what's best to be done; do you the same, Honora, an' may be your own sinse will bring you to my side of the question at last.”
The next day, his wife renewed the subject with unabated anxiety; but, instead of expressing any change in her favor, Fardorougha declined even to enter into it at all. An evasive reply was all she could extract from him, with an assurance that he would in a day or two communicate the resolution to which he had finally come. She perceived, at once, that the case was hopeless, and, after one last ineffectual attempt to bring him round, she felt herself forced to abandon it. The child, therefore, much to the mother's mortification, was baptized without a christening, unless the mere presence of the godfather and godmother, in addition to Fardorougha's own family, could be said to constitute one.
Our readers, perhaps, are not aware that a cause of deep anxiety, hitherto unnoticed by us, operated with latent power upon Fardorougha's heart. But so strong in Ireland is the beautiful superstition—if it can with truth be termed so—that children are a blessing only when received as such, that, even though supported by the hardest and most shameless of all vices, avarice, Fardorougha had not nerve to avow this most unnatural source for his distress. The fact, however, was, that, to a mind so constituted, the apprehension of a large family was in itself a consideration, which he thought might, at a future period of their lives, reduce both him and his to starvation and death. Our readers may remember Nogher M'Cormick's rebuke to him, when he heard Fardorougha allude to this; and so accessible was he then to the feeling, that, on finding his heart at variance with it, he absolutely admitted his error, and prayed to God that he might be enabled to overcome it.
It was, therefore, on the day after the baptism of young Connor, for so had the child been called after his paternal grandfather, that, as a justification for his own conduct in the matter of the christening, he disclosed to his wife, with much reluctance and embarrassment, this undivulged source of his fears for the future, alleging it as a just argument for his declining to be guided by her opinion.
The indignant sympathies of the mother abashed, on this occasion, the miserable and calculating impiety of the husband; her reproaches were open and unshrinking, and her moral sense of his conduct just and beautiful.
“Fardorougha,” said she, “I thought, up to this time, to this day, that there was nothing in your heart but too much of the world; but now I'm afeard, if God hasn't sed it, that the devil himself's there. You're frettin' for 'fraid of a family; but has God sent us any but this one yet? No—an' I wouldn't be surprised, if the Almighty should punish your guilty heart, by making the child he gave you, a curse, instead of a blessin'. I think, as it is, he has brought little pleasure to you for so far, and, if your heart hardens as he grows up, it's more unhappy you'll get every day you live.”
“That's very fine talk, Honora; but to people in our condition, I can't see any very great blessin' in a houseful of childre. If we're able to provide for this one, we'll have raison to be thankful widout wishin' for more.”
“It's my opinion, Fardorougha, you don't love the child.”
“Change that opinion, then, Honora; I do love the child; but there's no needcessity for blowin it about to every one I meet. If I didn't love him, I wouldn't feel as I do about all the hardships that may be before him. Think of what a bad sason, or a failure of the craps, might bring us all to. God grant that we mayn't come to the bag and staff before he's settled in the world at all, poor thing.”
“Oh, very well, Fardorougha; you may make yourself as unhappy as you like; for me, I'll put my trust in the Saviour of the world for my child. If you can trust in any one better than God, do so.”
“Honora, there's no use in this talk—it'll do nothing aither for him or us—besides, I have no more time to discoorse about it.”
He then left her; but, as she viewed his dark, inflexible features ere he went, an oppressive sense of something not far removed from affliction weighed her down. The child had been asleep in her arms during the foregoing dialogue, and, after his father had departed, she placed him in the cradle, and, throwing the corner of her blue apron over her shoulder, she rocked him into a sounder sleep, swaying herself at the same time to and fro, with that inward sorrow, of which, among the lower classes of Irish females, this motion is uniformly expressive. It is not to be supposed, however, that, as the early graces of childhood gradually expanded (as they did) into more than ordinary beauty, the avarice of the father was not occasionally encountered in its progress by! sudden gushes of love for his son. It was impossible for any parent, no matter how strongly strongly the hideous idol of mammon might sway his heart, to look upon a creature so fair and beautiful, without being frequently touched into something like affection. The fact was, that, as the child advanced towards youth, the two principles we are describing nearly kept pace one with the other. That the bad and formidable passion made rapid strides, must be admitted, but that it engrossed the whole spirit of the father, is not true. The mind and gentle character of the boy—his affectionate disposition, and the extraordinary advantages of his person—could not fail sometimes to surprise his father into sudden bursts of affection. But these, when they occurred, were looked upon by Fardorougha as so many proofs that he still entertained for the boy love sufficient to justify a more intense desire of accumulating wealth for his sake. Indeed, ere the lad had numbered thirteen summers, Fardorougha's character as a miser had not only gone far abroad throughout the neighborhood, but was felt, by the members of his own family, with almost merciless severity. From habits of honesty, and a decent sense of independence, he was now degraded to rapacity and meanness; what had been prudence, by degrees degenerated into cunning; and he who, when commencing life, was looked upon only as a saving man, had now become notorious for extortion and usury.
A character such as this, among a people of generous and lively feeling like the Irish, is in every state of life the object of intense and undisguised abhorrence. It was with difficulty he could succeed in engaging servants, either for domestic or agricultural purposes, and, perhaps, no consideration, except the general kindness which was felt for his wife and son, would have induced any person whatsoever to enter into his employment. Honora and Connor did what in them lay to make the dependents of the family experience as little of Fardorougha's griping tyranny as possible. Yet, with all their kind-hearted ingenuity and secret bounty, they were scarcely able to render their situation barely tolerable.
It would be difficult to find any language, no matter what pen might wield it, capable of portraying the love which Honora Donovan bore to her gentle, her beautiful, and her only son. Ah! there in that last epithet, lay the charm which wrapped her soul in him, and in all that related to his welfare. The moment she saw it was not the will of God to bless them with other offspring, her heart gathered about him with a jealous tenderness which trembled into agony at the idea of his loss.
Her love for him, then, multiplied itself into many hues, for he was in truth the prism, on which, when it fell, all the varied beauty of its colors became visible. Her heart gave not forth the music of a single instrument, but breathed the concord of sweet sounds, as heard from the blended melody of many. Fearfully different from this were the feelings of Fardorougha, on finding that he was to be the first and the last vouchsafed to their union. A single regret, however, scarcely felt, touched even him, when he reflected that if Connor were to be removed from them, their hearth must become desolate. But then came the fictitious conscience, with its nefarious calculations, to prove that, in their present circumstances, the dispensation which withheld others was a blessing to him that was given. Even Connor himself, argued the miser, will be the gainer by it, for what would my five loaves and three fishes be among so many? The pleasure, however, that is derived from the violation of natural affection is never either full or satisfactory. The gratification felt by Fardorougha, upon reflecting that no further addition was to be made to their family, resembled that which a hungry man feels who dreams he is partaking of a luxurious banquet. Avarice, it is true, like fancy, was gratified, but the enjoyment, though rich to that particular passion, left behind it a sense of unconscious remorse, which gnawed his heart with a slow and heavy pain, that operated like a smothered fire, wasting what it preys upon, in secrecy and darkness. In plainer terms, he was not happy, but so absorbed in the ruling passion—the pursuit of wealth—that he felt afraid to analyze his anxiety, or to trace to its true source the cause of his own misery.
In the mean time, his boy grew up the pride and ornament of the parish, idolized by his mother, and beloved by all who knew him. Limited and scanty was the education which his father could be prevailed upon to bestow upon him; but there was nothing that could deprive him of his natural good sense, nor of the affections which his mother's love had drawn out and cultivated. One thing was remarkable in him, which we mention with reluctance, as it places his father's character in a frightful point of view; it is this, that his love for that father was such as is rarely witnessed, even in the purest and most affectionate circles of domestic life. But let not our readers infer, either from what we have written, or from any thing we may write, that Fardorougha hated this lovely and delightful boy; on the contrary, earth contained not an object, except his money, which he loved so well. His affection for him, however, was only such as could proceed from the dregs of a defiled and perverted heart. This is not saying much, but it is saying all. What in him was parental attachment, would in another man, to such a son, be unfeeling and detestable indifference. His heart sank on contemplating the pittance he allowed for Connor's education; and no remonstrance could prevail on him to clothe the boy with common decency. Pocket-money was out of the question, as were all those considerate indulgences to youth, that blunt, when timely afforded, the edge of early anxiety to know those amusements of life, which, if not innocently gratified before passion gets strong, are apt to produce, at a later period, that giddy intoxication, which has been the destruction of thousands. When Connor, however, grew up, and began to think for himself, he could not help feeling that, from a man so absolutely devoted to wealth as his father was, to receive even the slenderest proof of affection, was in this case no common manifestation of the attachment he bore him. There was still a higher and nobler motive. He could not close his ears to the character which had gone abroad of his father, and from that principle of generosity, which induces a man, even when ignorant of the quarrel, to take the weaker side, he fought his battles, until, in the end, he began to believe them just. But the most obvious cause of the son's attachment we have not mentioned, and it is useless to travel into vain disquisitions, for that truth which may be found in the instinctive impulses of nature. He was Connor's father, and though penurious in everything that regarded even his son's common comfort, he had never uttered a harsh word to him during his life, or denied him any gratification which could be had without money. Nay, a kind word, or a kind glance, from Fardorougha, fired the son's resentment against the world which traduced him; for how could it be otherwise, when the habitual defence made by him, when arraigned for his penury, was an anxiety to provide for the future welfare and independence of his son?
Many characters in life appear difficult to be understood, but if those who wish to analyze them only consulted human nature, instead of rushing into far-fetched theories, and traced with patience the effect which interest, or habit, or inclination is apt to produce on men of a peculiar temperament, when placed in certain situations, there would be much less difficulty in avoiding those preposterous exhibitions which run into caricature, or outrage the wildest combinations that can be formed from the common elements of humanity.
Having said this much, we will beg our readers to suppose that young Connor is now twenty-two years of age, and request them, besides, to prepare for the gloom which is about to overshadow our story.
We have already stated that Fardorougha was not only an extortioner, but a usurer. Now, as some of our readers may be surprised that a man in his station of life could practise usury or even extortion to any considerable extent, we feel it necessary to inform them that there exists among Irish farmers a class of men who stand, with respect to the surrounding poor and improvident, in a position precisely analogous to that which is occupied by a Jew or moneylender among those in the higher classes who borrow, and are extravagant upon a larger scale. If, for instance, a struggling small farmer have to do with a needy landlord or an unfeeling agent, who threatens to seize or eject, if the rent be not paid to the day, perhaps this small farmer is forced to borrow from one of those rustic Jews the full amount of the gale; for this he gives him, at a valuation dictated by the lender's avarice and his own distress, the oats, or potatoes, or hay, which he is not able to dispose of in sufficient time to meet the demand that is upon him. This property, the miser draws home, and stacks or houses it until the markets are high, when he disposes of it at a price which often secures for him a profit amounting to one-third, and occasionally one-half, above the sum lent, upon which, in the meantime, interest is accumulating. For instance, if the accommodation be twenty pounds, property to that amount at a ruinous valuation is brought home by the accommodator. This perhaps sells for thirty, thirty-five, or forty pounds, so that, deducting the labor of preparing it for market, there is a gain of fifty, seventy-five, or a hundred per cent. besides, probably, ten per cent, interest, which is altogether distinct from the former. This class of persons will also take a joint bond, or joint promissory note, or, in fact, any collateral security they know to be valid, and if the contract be not fulfilled, they immediately pounce upon the guarantee. They will, in fact, as a mark of their anxiety to assist a neighbor in distress, receive a pig from a widow, or a cow from a struggling small farmer, at thirty or forty per cent, beneath its value, and claim the merit of being a friend into the bargain. Such men are bitter enemies to paper money, especially to notes issued by private bankers, which they never take in payment. It is amusing, if a person could forget the distress which occasions the scene, to observe one of these men producing an old stocking, or a long black leathern purse—or a calf-skin pocket-book with the hair on, and counting down, as if he gave out his heart's blood drop by drop, the specific sum, uttering, at the same time, a most lugubrious history of his own poverty, and assuring the poor wretch he is fleecing, that if he (the miser) gives way to his good nature, he must ultimately become the victim of his own benevolence. In no case, however, do they ever put more in the purse or stocking than is just then wanted, and sometimes they will be short a guinea or ten shillings, which they borrow from a neighbor, or remit to the unfortunate dupe in the course of the day. This they do in order to enhance the obligation, and give a distinct proof of their poverty. Let not, therefore, the gentlemen of the Minories, nor our P———s and our M———s nearer home, imagine for a moment that they engross the spirit of rapacity and extortion to themselves. To the credit of the class, however, to which they belong, such persons are not so numerous as formerly, and to the still greater honor of the peasantry be it said, the devil himself is not hated with half the detestation which is borne them. In order that the reader may understand our motive for introducing such a description as that we have now given, it will be necessary for us to request him to accompany a stout, well-set young man, named Bartle Flanagan, along a green ditch, which, planted with osiers, leads to a small meadow belonging to Fardorougha Donovan. In this meadow, his son Connor is now making hay, and on seeing Flanagan approach, he rests upon the top of his rake, and exclaims in a soliloquy:—
“God help you and yours, Bartle! If it was in my power, I take God to witness, I'd make up wid a willin' heart for all the hardship and misfortune my father brought upon you all.”
He then resumed his labor, in order that the meeting between him and Bartle might take place with less embarrassment, for he saw at once that the former was about to speak to him.
“Isn't the weather too hot, Connor, to work bareheaded? I think you ought to keep on your hat.”
“Bartle, how are you?—off or on, it's the same thing; hat or no hat, it's broilin' weather, the Lord be praised! What news, Bartle?”
“Not much, Connor, but what you know—a family that was strugglin', but honest, brought to dissolation. We're broken up; my father and mother's both livin' in a cabin they tuck from Billy Nuthy; Mary and Alick's gone to sarvice, and myself's just on my way to hire wid the last man I ought to go to—your father, that is, supposin' we can agree.”
“As heaven's above me, Bartle, there's not a man in the county this day sorrier for what has happened than myself! But the truth is, that when my father heard of Tom Grehan, that was your security, havin' gone to America, he thought every day a month till the note was due. My mother an' I did all we could, but you know his temper; 'twas no use. God knows, as I said before, I'm heart sorry for it.”
“Every one knows, Connor, that if your mother an' you had your way an' will, your father wouldn't be sich a screw as he is.”
“In the meantime, don't forget that he is my father, Bartle, an' above all things, remimber that I'll allow no man to speak disparagingly of him in my presence.”
“I believe you'll allow, Connor, that he was a scourge an' a curse to us, an' that none of us ought to like a bone in his skin.”
“It couldn't be expected you would, Bartle; but you must grant, after all, that he was only recoverin' his own. Still, when you know what my feeling is upon the business, I don't think it's generous in you to bring it up between us.”
“I could bear his harrishin' us out of house an' home,” proceeded the other, “only for one thought that still crasses in an me.”
“What is that, Bartle?—God knows I can't help feelin' for you,” he added, smote with the desolation which his father had brought upon the family.
“He lent us forty pounds,” proceeded the young man; “and when he found that Tom Grehan, our security, went to America, he came down upon us the minute the note was due, canted all we had at half price, and turned us to starve upon the world; now, I could bear that, but there's one thing——”
“That's twice you spoke about that one thing,” said Connor, somewhat sharply, for he felt hurt at the obstinacy of the other, in continuing a subject so distressing to him; “but,” he continued, in a milder tone, “tell me, Bartle, for goodness' sake, what it is, an' let us put an' end to the discoorse. I'm sure it must be unpleasant to both of us.”
“It doesn't signify,” replied the young man, in a desponding voice—“she's gone; it's all over wid me there; I'm a beggar—I'm a beggar!”
“Bartle,” said Connor, taking his hand, “you're too much downhearted; come to us, but first go to my father; I know you'll find it hard to deal with him. Never mind that; whatever he offers you, close wid him, an' take my word for it that my mother and I between us will make you up dacent wages; an' sorry I am that it's come to this wid you, poor fellow!”
Bartle's cheek grew pale as ashes; he wrung Connor's hand with all his force, and fixed an unshrinking eye on him as he replied—
“Thank you Connor, now—but I hope I'll live to thank you better yet, and if I do, you needn't thank me for any return I may make you or yours. I will close wid your father, an' take whatsomever he'll order me; for, Connor,” and he wrung his hand again—“Connor O'Donovan, I haven't a house or home this day, nor a place under God's canopy where to lay my head, except upon the damp floor of my father's naked cabin. Think of that, Connor, an' think if I can forget it; still,” he added, “you'll see, Connor—Connor, you'll see how I'll forgive it.”
“It's a credit to yourself to spake as you do,” replied Connor; “call this way, an' let me know what's done, an' I hope, Bartle, you an' I will have some pleasant days together.”
“Ay, an' pleasant nights, too, I hope,” replied the other: “to be sure I'll call; but if you take my advice, you'd tie a handkerchy about your head; it's mad hot, an' enough to give one a fever bareheaded.”
Having made this last observation, he loaped across a small drain that bounded the meadow, and proceeded up the fields to Fardorougha's house.
Bartle Flanagan was a young man, about five feet six in height, but of a remarkably compact and athletic form. His complexion was dark, but his countenance open, and his features well set and regular. Indeed his whole appearance might be termed bland and prepossessing. If he ever appeared to disadvantage it was whilst under the influence of resentment, during which his face became pale as death, nay, almost livid; and, as his brows were strong and black, the contrast between them and his complexion changed the whole expression of his countenance into that of a person whose enmity a prudent man would avoid. He was not quarrelsome, however, nor subject to any impetuous bursts of passion; his resentments, if he retained any, were either dead or silent, or, at all events, so well regulated that his acquaintances looked upon him as a young fellow of a good-humored and friendly disposition. It is true, a hint had gone abroad that on one or two occasions he was found deficient in courage; but, as the circumstances referred to were rather unimportant, his conduct by many was attributed rather to good sense and a disinclination to quarrel on frivolous grounds, than to positive cowardice. Such he was, and such he is, now that he has entered upon the humble drama of our story.
On arriving at Fardorougha's house, he found that worthy man at dinner, upon a cold bone of bacon and potatoes. He had only a few moments before returned from the residence of the County Treasurer, with whom he went to lodge, among other sums, that which was so iniquitously wrung from the ruin of the Flanagans. It would be wrong to say that he felt in any degree embarrassed on looking into the face of one whom he had so oppressively injured. The recovery of his usurious debts, no matter how merciless the process, he considered only as an act of justice to himself, for his conscience having long ago outgrown the perception of his own inhumanity, now only felt compunction when death or the occasional insolvency of a security defeated his rapacity.
When Bartle entered, Fardorougha and he surveyed each other with perfect coolness for nearly half a minute, during which time neither uttered a word. The silence was first broken by Honora, who put forward a chair, and asked Flanagan to sit down.
“Sit down, Bartle,” said she, “sit down, boy; an' how is all the family?”
“'Deed, can't complain,” replied Bartle, “as time goes; an' how are you, Fardorougha? although I needn't ax—you re takin' care of number one, any how.”
“I'm middlin', Bartle, middlin'; as well as a man can be that has his heart broke every day in the year strivin' to come by his own, an' can't do it; but I'm a fool, an' ever was—sarvin' others an' ruinin' myself.”
“Bartle,” said Mrs. Donovan, “are you unwell, dear? you look as pale as death. Let me get you a drink of fresh milk.”
“If he's weak,” said Fardorougha, “an' he looks weak, a drink of fresh wather 'ud be betther for him; ever an' always a drink of wather for a weak man, or a weak woman aither; it recovers them sooner.”
“Thank you, kindly, Mrs. Donovan, an' I'm obliged to you, Fardorougha, for the wather; but I'm not a bit weak; it's only the heat o' the day ails me—for sure enough it's broilin' weather.”
“'Deed it is,” replied Honora, “kill in' weather to them that has to be out undher it.”
“If it's good for nothin' else, it's good for, the hay—makin',” observed Fardorougha.
“I'm tould, Misther Donovan,” said Bartle, “that' you want a sarvint man: now, if you do, I want a place, an' you see I'm comin' to you to look for one.”
“Heaven above, Bartle!” exclaimed Honora, “what do you mean? Is it one of Dan Flanagan's sons goin' to sarvice?”
“Not one, but all of them,” replied the other, coolly, “an' his daughters, too, Mrs. Donovan; but it's all the way o! the world. If Mr. Donovan 'll hire me I'll thank him.”
“Don't be Mistherin' me, Bartle; Misther them that has means an' substance,” returned Donovan.
“Oh, God forgive you, Fardorougha!” exclaimed his honest and humane wife. “God forgive you! Bartle, from my heart, from the core o' my heart, I pity you, my poor boy. An' is it to this, Fardorougha, you've brought them—Oh, Saviour o' the world!”
She fixed her eyes upon the victim of her husband's extortion, and in an instant they were filled with tears.
“What did I do,” said the latter, “but strive to recover my own? How could I afford to lose forty pounds? An' I was tould for sartin that your father knew Grehan was goin' to Ameriky when he got him to go security. Whisht, Honora, you're as foolish a woman as riz this day; haven't you your sins to cry for?”
“God knows I have, Fardorougha, an' more than my own to cry for.”
“I dare say you did hear as much,” said Bartle, quietly replying to the observation of Fardorougha respecting his father; “but you know it's a folly to talk about spilt milk. If you want a sarvint I'll hire; for, as I said a while ago, I want a place, an' except wid you I don't know where to get one.”
“If you come to me,” observed the other, “you must go to your duty, an' observe the fast days, but not the holydays.”
“Sarvints isn't obliged to obsarve them,” replied Bartle.
“But I always put it in the bargain,” returned the other.
“As to that,” said Bartle, “I don't much mind it. Sure it'll be for the good o' my sowl, any way. But what wages will you be givin'?”
“Thirty shillings every half year;—that's three pounds—sixty shillings a year. A great deal o' money. I'm sure I dunna where it's to come from.”
“It's very little for a year's hard labor,” replied Bartle, “but little as it is, Fardorougha, owin' to what has happened betwixt us, believe me, I'm right glad to take it.”
“Well, but Bartle, you know there's fifteen shillins of the ould account still due, and you must allow it out o' your wages; if you don't, it's no bargain.”
Bartle's face became livid; but he was perfectly cool;—indeed, so much so that he smiled at this last condition of Fardorougha. It was a smile, however, at once so ghastly, dark, and frightful, that, by any person capable of tracing the secret workings of some deadly passion on the countenance, its purport could not have been mistaken.
“God knows, Fardorougha, you might let that pass—considher that you've been hard enough upon us.”
“God knows I say the same,” observed Honora. “Is it the last drop o' the heart's blood you want to squeeze out, Fardorougha?”
“The last drop! What is it but my right? Am I robbin' him? Isn't it due? Will he, or can he deny that? An' if it's due isn't it but honest in him to pay it? They're not livin' can say I ever defrauded them of a penny. I never broke a bargain; an' yet you open on me, Honora, as if I was a rogue! If I hadn't that boy below to provide for, an' settle in the world, what 'ud I care about money? It's for his sake I look afther my right.”
“I'll allow the money,” said Bartle. “Fardorougha's right; it's due, an' I'll pay him—ay will I, Fardorougha, settle wid you to the last farden, or beyant it if you like.”
“I wouldn't take a farden beyant it, in the shape of debt. Them that's decent enough to make a present, may—for that's a horse of another color.”
“When will I come home?” inquired Bartle.
“You may stay at home now that you're here,” said the other. “An' in the mane time, go an' help Connor put that hay in lap-cocks. Anything you want to bring here you can bring afther your day's work tonight.”
“Did you ate your dinner, Bartle?” said Honora; “bekase if you didn't I'll get you something.”
“It's not to this time o' day he'd be without his dinner, I suppose,” observed his new master.
“You're very right, Fardorougha,” rejoined Bartle; “I'm thankful to you, ma'am, I did ate my dinner.”
“Well, you'll get a rake in the barn, Bartle,” said his master; “an' now tramp down to Connor, an' I'll see how you'll handle yourselves, both o' you, from this till night.”
Bartle accordingly—proceeded towards the meadow, and Fardorougha, as was his custom, throwing his great coat loosely about his shoulders, the arms dangling on each side of him, proceeded to another part of his farm.
Flanagan's step, on his way to join Connor, was slow and meditative. The kindness of the son and mother touched him; for the line between their disposition and Fardorougha's was too strong and clear to allow the slightest suspicion of their participation in the spirit which regulated his life. The father, however, had just declared that his anxiety to accumulate money arose from a wish to settle his son independently in life; and Flanagan was too slightly acquainted with human character to see through this flimsy apology for extortion. He took it for granted that Fardorougha spoke truth, and his resolution received a bias from the impression, which, however, his better nature determined to subdue. In this uncertain state of mind he turned about almost instinctively, to look in the direction which Fardorougha had taken, and as he observed his diminutive figure creeping along with his great coat about him, he felt that the very sight of the man who had broken up their hearth and scattered them on the world, filled his heart with a deep and deadly animosity that occasioned him to pause as a person would do who finds himself unexpectedly upon the brink of a precipice.
Connor, on seeing him enter the meadow with the rake, knew at once that the terms had been concluded between them; and the excellent young man's heart was deeply moved at the destitution which forced Flanagan to seek for service with the very individual who had occasioned it.
“I see, Bartle,” said he, “you have agreed.”
“We have,” replied Bartle. “But if there had been any other place to be got in the parish—(an' indeed only for the state I'm in)—I wouldn't have hired myself to him for nothing, or next to nothing, as I have done.”
“Why, what did he promise?”
“Three pounds a year, an' out o' that I'm to pay him fifteen shillings that my father owes him still.”
“Close enough, Bartle, but don't be cast down; I'll undertake that my mother an' I will double it—an' as for the fifteen shillings I'll pay them out o' my own pocket—when I get money. I needn't tell you that we're all kept upon the tight crib, and that little cash goes far with us; for all that, we'll do what I promise, go as it may.”
“It's more than I ought to expect, Connor; but yourself and your mother, all the counthry would put their hands undher both your feets.”
“I would give a great dale, Bartle, that my poor father had a little of the feelin' that's in my mother's heart; but it's his way, Bartle, an' you know he's my father, an' has been kinder to me than to any livin' creature on this earth. I never got a harsh word from him yet. An' if he kept me stinted in many things that I was entitled to as well as other persons like me, still, Bartle, he loves me, an' I can't but feel great affection for him, love the money as he may.”
This was spoken with much seriousness of manner not unmingled with somewhat of regret, if not sorrow. Bartle fixed his eye upon the fine face of his companion, with a look in which there was a character of compassion. His countenance, however, while he gazed on him, maintained his natural color—it was not pale.
“I am sorry, Connor,” said he slowly, “I am sorry that I hired with your father.”
“An' I'm glad of it,” replied the other; “why should you be sorry?”
Bartle made no answer for some time, but looked into the ground, as if he had not heard him.
“Why should you be sorry, Bartle?”
Nearly a minute elapsed before his abstraction was broken. “What's that?” said he at length. “What were you asking me?”
“You said you were sorry.”
“Oh, ay!” returned the other, interrupting him; “but I didn' mind what I was sayin': 'twas thinkin' o' somethin' else I was—of home, Bartle, an' what we're brought to; but the best way's to dhrop all discoorse about that forever.”
“You'll be my friend if you do,” said Connor.
“I will, then,” replied Bartle; “we'll change it. Connor, were you ever in love?”
O'Donovan turned quickly about, and, with a keen glance at Bartle, replied,
“Why, I don't know; I believe I might, once or so.”
“I am,” said Flanagan, bitterly; “I am Connor.”
“An' who's the happy crature, will you tell us?”
“No,” returned the other; “but if there's a wish that I'd make against my worst enemy, 'twould be, that he might love a girl above his means; or if he was her aquil, or even near her aquil, that he might be brought”——he paused, but immediately proceeded, “Well, no matter, I am, indeed, Connor.”
“An' is the girl fond o' you?”
“I don't know; my mind was made up to tell her but it's past that now; I know she's wealthy and proud both, and so is all her family.”
“How do you know she's proud when you never put the subject to her?”
“I'm not sayin' she's proud, in one sinse; wid respect to herself, I believe; she's humble enough; I mane, she doesn't give herself many airs, but her people's as proud as the very sarra, an' never match below them; still, if I'd opportunities of bain' often in her company, I'd not fear to trust to a sweet tongue for comin' round her.”
“Never despair, Bartle,” said Connor; “you know the ould proverb, 'a faintheart;' however, settin' the purty crature aside, whoever she is, I think if we divided ourselves—you to that side, an' me to this—we'd get this hay lapped in half the time; or do you take which side you plase.”
“It's a bargain,” said Bartle; “I don't care a trawneen; I'll stay where I am, thin, an' do you go beyant; let us hurry, too, for, if I'm not mistaken, it's too sultry to be long without rain, the sky, too, is gettin' dark.”
“I observed as much myself,” said Connor; “an' that was what made me spake.”
Both then continued their labor with redoubled energy, nor ceased for a moment until the task was executed, and the business of the day concluded.
Flanagan's observation was indeed correct, as to the change in the day and the appearance of the sky. From the hour of five o'clock the darkness gradually deepened, until a dead black shadow, fearfully still and solemn, wrapped the whole horizon. The sun had altogether disappeared, and nothing was visible in the sky but one unbroken mass of darkness, unrelieved even by a single pile of clouds. The animals, where they could, had betaken themselves to shelter; the fowls of the air sought the covert of the hedges, and ceased their songs; the larks fled from the mid-heaven; and occasionally might be seen a straggling bee hurrying homewards, careless of the flowers which tempted him in his path, and only anxious to reach his hive before the deluge should overtake him. The stillness indeed was awful, as was the gloomy veil which darkened the face of nature, and filled the mind with that ominous terror which presses upon the heart like a consciousness of guilt. In such a time, and under the aspect of a sky so much resembling the pall of death, there is neither mirth nor laughter, but that individuality of apprehension, which, whilst it throws the conscience in upon its own records, and suspends conversation, yet draws man to his fellows, as if mere contiguity were a safeguard against danger.
The conversation between the two young men as they returned from their labor, was short but expressive.
“Bartle,” said Connor, “are you afeard of thundher? The rason I ask,” he added, “is, bekase your face is as white as a sheet.”
“I have it from my mother,” replied Flanagan, “but at all evints such an evenin' as this is enough to make the heart of any man quake.”
I'll feel my spirits low, by rason of the darkness, but I'm not afraid. It's well for them that have a clear conscience; they say that a stormy sky is the face of an angry God—”
“An' the thundher His voice,” added Bartle; “but why are the brute bastes an' the birds afraid, that commit no sin?”
“That's true,” said his companion; “it must be natural to be afraid, or why would they indeed?—but some people are naturally more timersome than others.”
“I intinded to go home for my other clo'es an' linen this evenin',” observed Bartle, “but I won't go out to-night.”
“I must thin,” said Connor; “an, with the blessin' o' God, will too; come what may.”
“Why, what is there to bring you out, if it's a fair question to ax?” inquired the other.
“A promise, for one thing; an' my own inclination—my own heart—that's nearer the thruth—for another. It's the first meetin' that I an' her I'm goin' to ever had.”
“Thigham, Thighum, I undherstand,” said Flanagan; “well, I'll stay at home; but, sure it's no harm to wish you success—an' that, Connor, is more than I'll ever have where I wish for it most.”
This closed their dialogue, and both entered Fardorougha's house in silence.
Up until twilight, the darkness of the dull and heavy sky was unbroken; but towards the west there was seen a streak whose color could not be determined as that of blood or fire. By its angry look, it seemed as if the sky in that quarter were about to burst forth in one awful sweep of conflagration. Connor observed it, and very correctly anticipated the nature and consequences of its appearance; but what will not youthful love dare and overcome? With an undismayed heart he set forward on his journey, which we leave him to pursue, and beg permission, meanwhile, to transport the reader to a scene distant about two miles farther towards the—inland part of the country.
PART II.
The dwelling of Bodagh Buie O'Brien, to which Connor is now directing his steps, was a favorable specimen of that better class of farm-houses inhabited by our most extensive and wealthy agriculturists. It was a large, whitewashed, ornamentally thatched building, that told by its external aspect of the good living, extensive comforts, and substantial opulence which prevailed within. Stretched before its hall-door was a small lawn, bounded on the left by a wall that separated it from the farm-yard into which the kitchen door opened. Here were stacks of hay, oats, and wheat, all upon an immense scale, both as to size and number; together with threshing and winnowing machines, improved ploughs, carts, cars, and all the other modern implements of an extensive farm. Very cheering, indeed, was the din of industry that arose from the clank of machinery, the grunting of hogs, the cackling of geese, the quacking of ducks, and all the various other sounds which proceeded from what at first sight might have appeared to be rather a scene of confusion, but which, on closer inspection, would be found a rough yet well—regulated system, in which every person had an allotted duty to perform. Here might Bodagh Buie be seen, dressed in a gray broad-cloth coat, broad kerseymere breeches, and lambs' wool stockings, moving from place to place with that calm, sedate, and contented air, which betokens an easy mind and a consciousness of possessing a more than ordinary share of property and influence. With hands thrust into his small-clothes pockets, and a bunch of gold seals suspended from his fob, he issued his orders in a grave and quiet tone, differing very little in dress from an absolute Squireen, save in the fact of his Caroline hat being rather scuffed, and his strong shoes begrimed with the soil of his fields or farm-yard. Mrs. O'Brien was, out of the sphere of her own family, a person of much greater pretension than the Bodagh her husband; and, though in a different manner, not less so in the discharge of her duty as a wife, a mother, or a mistress. In appearance, she was a large, fat, good-looking woman, eternally in a state of motion and bustle, and, as her education had been extremely scanty, her tone and manner, though brimful of authority and consequence, were strongly marked with that ludicrous vulgarity which is produced by the attempt of an ignorant person to accomplish a high style of gentility. She was a kind-hearted, charitable woman, however; but so inveterately conscious of her station in life, that it became, in her opinion, a matter of duty to exhibit a refinement and elevation of language suitable to a matron who could drive every Sunday to Mass on her own jaunting car. When dressed on these Occasions in her rich rustling silks, she had, what is called in Ireland, a comfortable flaghoola look, but at the same time a carriage so stiff and rustic, as utterly overcame all her attempts, dictated as they were by the simplest vanity, at enacting the arduous and awful character of a Squireen's wife. Their family consisted of a son and daughter; the former, a young man of a very amiable disposition, was, at the present period of our story, a student in Maynooth College, and the latter, now in her nineteenth year, a promising pupil in a certain seminary for young ladies, conducted by that notorious Master of Arts, Little Cupid. Oona, or Una, O'Brien, was in truth a most fascinating and beautiful brunette; tall in stature, light and agile in all her motions, cheerful and sweet in temper, but with just as much of that winning caprice, as was necessary to give zest and piquancy to her whole character. Though tall and slender, her person was by no means thin; on the contrary, her limbs and figure were very gracefully rounded, and gave promise of that agreeable fulness, beneath or beyond which no perfect model of female proportion can exist. If our readers could get one glance at the hue of her rich cheek, or fall for a moment under the power of her black mellow eye, or witness the beauty of her white teeth, while her face beamed with a profusion of dimples, or saw her while in the act of shaking out her invincible locks, ere she bound them up with her white and delicate hands—then, indeed, might they understand why no war of the elements could prevent Connor O'Donovan from risking life and limb sooner than disappoint her in the promise of their first meeting.
Oh that first meeting of pure and youthful love! With what a glory is it ever encircled in the memory of the human heart! No matter how long or how melancholy the lapse of time since its past existence may be, still, still, is it remembered by our feelings when the recollection of every tie but itself has departed. The charm, however, that murmured its many-toned music through the soul of Una O'Brien was not, upon the evening in question, wholly free from a shade of melancholy for which she could not account; and this impression did not result from any previous examination of her love for Connor O'Donovan, though many such she had. She knew that in this the utmost opposition from both her parents must be expected; nor was it the consequence of a consciousness on her part, that in promising him a clandestine meeting, she had taken a step which could not be justified. Of this, too, she had been aware before; but, until the hour of appointment drew near, the heaviness which pressed her down was such as caused her to admit that the sensation, however painful and gloomy, was new to her, and bore a character distinct from anything that could proceed from the various lights in which she had previously considered her attachment. This was, moreover, heightened by the boding aspect of the heavens and the dread repose of the evening, so unlike anything she had ever witnessed before. Notwithstanding all this, she was sustained by the eager and impatient buoyancy of first affection; which, when imagination pictured the handsome form of her young and manly lover, predominated for the time over every reflection and feeling that was opposed to itself. Her mind, indeed, resembled a fair autumn landscape, over which the cloud-shadows may be seen sweeping for a moment, whilst again the sun comes out and turns all into serenity and light.
The place appointed for their interview was a small paddock shaded by alders, behind her father's garden, and thither, with trembling limbs and palpitating heart, did the young and graceful daughter of Bodagh Buie proceed.
For a considerable time, that is to say, for three long years before this delicious appointment, had Connor O'Donovan and Una been wrapped in the elysium of mutual love. At mass, at fair, and at market, had they often and often met, and as frequently did their eyes search each other out, and reveal in long blushing glances the state of their respective hearts. Many a time did he seek an opportunity to disclose what he felt, and as often, with confusion, and fear, and delight, did she afford him what he sought. Thus did one opportunity after another pass away, and as often did he form the towering resolution to reveal his affection if he were ever favored with another. Still would some disheartening reflection, arising from the uncommon gentleness and extreme modesty of his character, throw a damp upon his spirit. He questioned his own penetration; perhaps she was in the habit of glancing as much at others as she glanced at him. Could it be possible that the beautiful daughter of Bodagh Buie, the wealthiest man, and of his wife, the proudest woman, within a large circle of the country, would love the son of Fardorougha Donovan, whose name had, alas, become so odious and unpopular? But then the blushing face, and dark lucid eyes, and the long earnest glance, rose before his imagination, and told him that, let the difference in the character and the station of their parents be what it might, the fair dark daughter of O'Brien was not insensible to him, nor to the anxieties he felt.
The circumstance which produced the first conversation they ever had arose from an incident of a very striking and singular character. About a week before the evening in question, one of Bodagh Buie's bee-skeps hived, and the young colony, though closely watched and pursued, directed their course to Fardorougha's house, and settled in the mouth of the chimney. Connor, having got a clean sheet, secured them, and was about to submit them to the care of the Bodagh's servants, when it was suggested that the duty of bringing them home devolved on himself, inasmuch as he was told they would not remain, unless placed in a new skep by the hands of the person on whose property they had settled. While on his way to the Bodagh's he was accosted in the following words by one of O'Brien's servants:
“Connor, there's good luck before you, or the bees wouldn't pick you out amongst all the rest o' the neighbors. You ought to hould up your head, man. Who knows what mainin's in it?”
“Why, do you b'lieve that bees sittin' wid one is a sign o' good luck?”
“Surely I do. Doesn't every one know it to be thrue? Connor, you're a good-lookin' fellow, an' I need scarcely tell you that we have a purty girl at home; can you lay that an' that together? Arrah, be my sowl, the richest honey ever the same bees'll make, is nothin' but alloways, compared wid that purty mouth of her own! A honey-comb is a fool to it.”
“Why, did you ever thry, Mike?”
“Is it me? Och, och, if I was only high enough in this world, maybe I wouldn't be spakin' sweet to her; no, no, be my word! thry, indeed, for the likes o' me! Faith, but I know a sartin young man that she does be often spakin' about.”
Connor's heart was in a state of instant commotion.
“An' who—who is he—who is that sartin young man, Mike?”
“Faith, the son o' one that can run a shillin' farther than e'er another man in the country. Do you happen to be acquainted wid one Connor O'Donovan, of Lisnamona?”
“Connor O'Donovan—that's good, Mike—in the mane time don't be goin' it on us. No, no;—an' even if she did, it isn't to you she spake about any one, Michael ahagur!”
“No, nor it wasn't to me—sure I didn't say it was—but don't you know my sister's at sarvice in the Bodagh's family? Divil the word o' falsity I'm tellin' you; so, if you haven't the heart to spake for yourself, I wouldn't give knots o' straws for you; and now, there's no harm done I hope—moreover, an' by the same token, you needn't go to the trouble o' puttin' up an advertisement to let the parish know what I've tould you.”
“Hut, tut, Mike, it's all folly. Una Dhun O'Brien to think of me!—nonsense, man; that cock would never fight.”
“Very well; divil a morsel of us is forcin' you to b'lieve it. I suppose the mother o' you has your wooden spoon to the fore still. I'd kiss the Bravery you didn't come into the world wid a silver ladle in your mouth, anyhow. In the mane time, we're at the Bodagh's—an' have an eye about you afther what you've heard—Nabocklish!”
This, indeed, was important intelligence to Connor, and it is probable that, had he not heard it, another opportunity of disclosing his passion might have been lost.
Independently of this, however, he was not proof against the popular superstition of the bees, particularly as it appeared to be an augury to which his enamored heart could cling with all the hope of young and passionate enthusiasm.
Nor was it long till he had an opportunity of perceiving that she whose image had floated in light before his fancy, gave decided manifestations of being struck by the same significant occurrence. On entering the garden, the first person his eye rested upon was Una herself, who, as some of the other hives were expected to swarm, had been engaged watching them during the day. His appearance at any time would have created a tumult in her bosom, but, in addition to this, when she heard that the bees which had rested on Connor's house, had swarmed from her own hive, to use the words of Burns—
She looked—she reddened like the rose,
Syne pale as ony lily,
and, with a shy but expressive glance at Connor, said, in a low hurried voice, “These belong to me.”
Until the moment we are describing, Connor and she, notwithstanding that they frequently met in public places, had never yet spoken; nor could the words now uttered by Una be considered as addressed to him, although from the glance that accompanied them it was sufficiently evident that they were intended for him alone. It was in vain that he attempted to accost her; his confusion, her pleasure, his timidity, seemed to unite in rendering him incapable of speaking at all. His lips moved several times, but the words, as they arose, died away unspoken.
At this moment, Mike, with waggish good-humor, and in a most laudable fit of industry, reminded the other servants, who had been assisting to secure the bees, that as they (the bees) were now safe, no further necessity existed for their presence.
“Come, boys—death-alive, the day's passin'—only think. Miss Una, that we have all the hay in the Long-shot meadow to get into cocks yet, an' here we're idlin' an' ghosther—in' away our time like I dunna what. They're schamin', Miss Una—divil a thing else, an' what'll the masther say if the same meadow's not finished to—night?”
“Indeed, Mike,” replied Una—; “if the meadow is to be finished this night, there's little time to be lost.”
“Come, boys,” exclaimed Mike, “you hear what Miss Una says—if it's to be finished to-night there's but little time to be lost—turn out—march. Miss Una can watch the bees widout our help. Good evenin', Misther Donovan; be my word, but you're entitled to a taste o' honey any way, for bringing back Miss Una's bees to her.”
Mike, after having uttered this significant opinion relative to his sense of justice, drove his fellow-servants out of the garden, and left the lovers together. There was now a dead silence, during the greater part of which, neither dared to look at the other; at length each hazarded a glance; their eyes met, and their embarrassment deepened in a tenfold degree. Una, on withdrawing her gaze, looked with an air of perplexity from one object to another, and at length, with downcast lids, and glowing cheeks, her eyes became fixed on her own white and delicate finger.
“Who would think,” said she, in a voice tremulous with agitation, “that the sting of a bee could be so painful.”
Connor advanced towards her with a beating heart. “Where have you been stung, Miss O'Brien?” said he, in a tone shaken out of it's fulness by what he felt.
“In the finger,” she replied, and she looked closely into the spot as she uttered the words.
“Will you let me see it?” asked Connor.
She held her hand towards him without knowing what she did, nor was it till after a strong effort that Connor mastered himself so far as to ask her in which finger she felt the pain. In fact, both saw at once that their minds were engaged upon far different thoughts, and that their anxiety to pour out the full confession of their love was equally deep and mutual.
As Connor put the foregoing question to her, he took her hand in his.
“In what finger?” she replied, “I don't—indeed—I—I believe in the—the—but what—what is this?—I am very—very weak.”
“Let me support you to the summer—house, where you can sit,” returned Connor, still clasping her soft delicate hand in his; then, circling her slender waist with the other, he helped her to a seat under the thick shade of the osiers.
Una's countenance immediately became pale as death, and her whole frame trembled excessively.
“You are too weak even to sit without support,” said Connor, “your head is droopin'. For God's sake, lean it over on me! Oh! I'd give ten thousand lives to have it on my breast only for one moment!”
Her paleness still continued; she gazed on him, and, as he gently squeezed her hand, a slight pressure was given in return. He then drew her head over upon his shoulder, where it rather fell than leaned; a gush of tears came from her eyes, and the next moment, with sobbing hearts, they were encircled in each other's arms.
From this first intoxicating draught of youthful love, they were startled by the voice of Mrs. O'Brien calling upon her daughter, and, at the same time, to their utter dismay, they observed the portly dame sailing, in her usual state, down towards the arbor, with an immense bunch of keys dangling from her side.
“Oonagh, Miss—Miss Oonagh—where are you, Miss, Ma Colleen?—Here's a litther,” she proceeded, when Una appeared, “from Mrs. Fogarty, your school-misthress, to your fadher—statin' that she wants you to finish your Jiggraphy at the dancin', wid a new dancin'—teacher from Dubling. Why—Eah! what ails you, Miss, Ma Colleen? What the dickens wor you cryin' for?”
“These nasty bees that stung me,” returned the girl. “Oh, for goodness sake, mother dear, don't come any farther, except you wish to have a whole hive upon you!”
“Why, sure, they wouldn't sting any one that won't meddle wid them,” replied the mother in a kind of alarm.
“The sorra pin they care, mother—don't come near them; I'll be in, by an' by. Where's my father?”
“He's in the house, an' wants you to answer Mrs. Fogarty, statin' feder you'll take a month's larnin' on the flure or not.”
“Well, I'll see her letter in a minute or two, but you may tell my father he needn't wait—I won't answer it to-night at all event's.”
“You must answer it on the nail,” replied her mother, “becase the messager's waitin' in the kitchen 'ithin.”
“That alters the case altogether,” returned Una, “and I'll follow you immediately.”
The good woman then withdrew, having once more enjoined the daughter to avoid delay, and not to detain the messenger.
“You must go instantly,” she said to Connor. “Oh, what would happen me if they knew that I lov—that I—” a short pause ensued, and she blushed deeply.
“Say, what you were goin' to say,” returned Connor; “Oh, say that one word, and all the misfortunes that ever happened to man, can't make me unhappy! Oh, God! an' is it possible? Say that word—Oh! say it—say it!”
“Well, then,” she continued, “if they knew that I love the son of Fardorougha Donovan, what would become of me? Now go, for fear my father may come out.”
“But when will I see you again?”
“Go,” said she anxiously; “go, you can easily see me.”
“But when?—when? say on Thursday.”
“Not so soon—not so soon,” and she cast an anxious eye towards the garden gate.
“When then—say this day week.”
“Very well—but go—maybe my father has heard from the servants that you are here.”
“Dusk is the best time.”
“Yes—yes—about dusk; under the alders, in the little green field behind the garden.”
“Show me the wounded finger,” said he with a smile, “before I go.”
“There,” said she, extending her hand; “but for Heaven's sake go.”
“I'll tell you how to cure it,” said he, tenderly; “honey is the medicine; put that sweet finger to your own sweeter lip—and, afterwards, I'll carry home the wound.”
“But not the medicine, now,” said she, and, snatching her hand from his, with light, fearful steps, she fled up the garden and disappeared.
Such, gentle reader, were the circumstances which brought our young and artless lovers together in the black twilight of the singularly awful and ominous evening which we have already described.
Connor, on reaching the appointed spot, sat down; but his impatience soon overcame him; and, while hurrying to and fro, under the alders, he asked himself in what was this wild but rapturous attachment to terminate? That the proud Bodagh, and his prouder wife, would never suffer their beautiful daughter, the heiress of all their wealth, to marry the son of Fardorougha, the miser, was an axiom, the truth of which pressed upon his heart with a deadly weight. On the other hand, would his father, or rather could he, change his nature so far as to establish him in life, provided Una and he were united without the consent of her parents? Alas! he knew his father's parsimony too well; and, on either hand, he was met by difficulties that appeared to him to be insurmountable. But again came the delightful and ecstatic consciousness, that, let their parents act as they might, Una's heart and his were bound to each other by ties which, only to think of, was rapture. In the midst of these reflections, he heard her light foot approach, but with a step more slow and melancholy than he could have expected from the ardor of their love.
When she approached, the twilight was just sufficient to enable him to perceive that her face was pale, and tinged apparently with melancholy, if not with sorrow. After the first salutations were over, he was proceeding to inquire into the cause of her depression, when, to his utter surprise, she placed her hands upon her face, and burst into a fit of grief.
Those who have loved need not be told that the most delightful office of that delightful passion is to dry the tears of the beloved one who is dear to us beyond all else that life contains. Connor literally performed this office, and inquired, in a tone so soothing and full of sympathy, why she wept, that her tears for a while only flowed the faster. At length her grief abated, and she was able to reply to him.
“You ask me why I am raying,” said the fair young creature; “but, indeed, I cannot tell you. There has been a sinking of the heart upon me during the greater part of this day. When I thought of our meeting I was delighted; but again some heaviness would come over me that I can't account for.”
“I know what it is,” replied Connor, “a very simple thing; merely the terrible calm an' blackness of the evenin'. I was sunk myself a little.”
“I ought to cry for a better reason,” she returned. “In meeting you I have done—an' am doing—what I ought to be sorry for—that is, a wrong action that my conscience condemns.”
“There is nobody perfect, my dear Una,” said Connor; “an' none without their failins; they have little to answer for that have no more than you.”
“Don't flatter me,” she replied; “if you love me as you say, never flatter me while you live; I will always speak what I feel, and I hope you'll do the same.”
“If I could spake what I feel,” said he, “you would still say I flattered you—it's not in the power of any words that ever were spoken, to tell how I love you—how much my heart an' soul's fixed upon you. Little you know, my own dear Una, how unhappy I am this minute, to see you in low spirits. What do you think is the occasion of it? Spake now, as you say you will do, that is, as you feel.”
“Except it be that my heart brought me to meet you tonight contrary to my conscience, I do not know. Connor, Connor, that heart is so strongly in your favor, that if you were not to be happy neither could its poor owner.”
Connor for a moment looked into the future, but, like the face of the sky above him, all was either dark or stormy; his heart sank, but the tenderness expressed in Una's last words filled his whole soul with a vehement and burning passion, which he felt must regulate his destiny in life, whether for good or evil. He pulled her to his breast, on which he placed her head; she looked up fondly to him, and, perceiving that he wrought under some deep and powerful struggle, said in a low, confiding voice, whilst the tears once more ran quietly down her cheeks, “Connor, what I said is true.”
“My heart's burnin'—my heart's burnin'!” he exclaimed. “It's not love I feel for you, Una—it's more than love; oh, what is it—Una, Una, this I know, that I cannot live long without you, or from you; if I did, I'd go wild or mad through the world. For the last three years you have never been out of my mind, I may say awake or asleep; for I believe a night never passed during that time that I didn't drame of you—of the beautiful young crature. Oh! God in heaven, can it be thrue that she loves me at last? Say them blessed words again, Una; oh, say them again! But I'm too happy—I can hardly bear this delight.”
“It is true that I love you, and if our parents could think as we do, Connor, how easy it would be for them to make us happy, but—”
“It's too soon, Una; it's too soon to spake of that. Happy! don't we love one another? Isn't that happiness? Who or what can deprive us of that? We are happy without them; we can be happy in spite of them; oh, my own fair girl! sweet, sweet life of my life, and heart of my heart! Heaven—heaven itself would be no heaven to me, if you weren't with me!”
“Don't say that, Connor dear; it's wrong. Let us not forget what is due to religion, if we expect our love to prosper. You may think this strange from one that has acted contrary to religion in coming to meet you against the will and knowledge of her parents; but beyond that, dear Connor, I hope I never will go. But is it true that you've loved me so long?”
“It is,” said he; “the second Sunday in May next was three years, I knelt opposite you at mass. You were on the left hand side of the altar, I was on the right; my eyes were never off you; indeed, you may remember it.”
“I have a good right,” said she, blushing and hiding her face on his shoulder. “I ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it, an' me so young at the time; little more than sixteen. From that day to this, my story has been just your own. Connor, can you tell me how I found it out but I knew you loved me?”
“Many a thing was to tell you that, Una dear. Sure my eyes were never off you, whenever you wor near me; an' wherever you were, there was I certain to be too. I never missed any public place if I thought you would be at it, an' that merely for the sake of seein' you. An', now will you tell me why it was that I could 'a sworn you lov'd me?”
“You have answered for us both,” she replied. “As for me, if I only chance to hear your name mentioned my heart would beat; if the talk was about you I could listen to nothing else, and I often felt the color come and go on my cheek.”
“Una, I never thought I could be born to such happiness. Now that I know that you love me, I can hardly think that it was love I felt for you all along; it's wonderful—it's wonderful!”
“What is so wonderful?” she inquired.
“Why, the change that I feel since knowin' that you love me; since I had it from your own lips, it has overcome me—I'm a child—I'm anything, anything you choose to make me; it was never love—it's only since I found you loved me that my heart's burnin' as it is.”
“I'll make you happyr if I can,” she replied, “and keep you so, I hope.”
“There's one thing that will make me still happier than I am,” said Connor.
“What is it? If it's proper and right I'll do it.”
“Promise me that if I live you'll never marry any one else than me.”
“You wish then to have the promise all on one side,” she replied with a smile and a blush, each as sweet as ever captivated a human heart.
“No, no, no, my darling Una, acushla gra gal machree, no! I will promise the same to you.”
She paused, and a silence of nearly a minute ensued.
“I don't know that it's right, Connor; I have taken one wrong step as it is, but, well as I love you, I won't take another; whatever I do I must feel that it's proper. I'm not sure that this is.”
“Don't you say you love me, Una?”
“I do; you know I do.”
“I have only another question to ask; could you, or would you, love me as you do, and marry another?”
“I could not, Connor, and would not, and will not. I am ready to promise; I may easily do it; for God knows the very thought of marrying another, or being deprived of you, is more than I can bear.”
“Well, then,” returned her lover, seizing her hand, “I take God to witness that, whilst you are alive an' faithful to me, I will never marry any woman but yourself. Now,” he continued, “put your right hand into mine, and say the same words.”
She did so, and was in the act of repeating the form, “I take God to witness——” when a vivid flash of lightning shot from the darkness above them, and a peal of thunder almost immediately followed, with an explosion so loud as nearly to stun both. Una started with terror, and instinctively withdrew her hand from Connor's.
“God preserve us!” she exclaimed; “that's awful. Connor, I feel as if the act I am goin' to do is not right. Let us put it off at all events, till another time.”
“Is it because there comes an accidental brattle of thunder?” he returned. “Why, the thunder would come if we were never to change a promise. You have mine, now, Una dear, an' I'm sure you wouldn't wish me to be bound an' yourself free. Don't be afraid, darling; give me your hand, an' don't tremble so; repeat the words at wanst, an' let it be over.”
He again took her hand, when she repeated the form in a distinct, though feeble voice, observing, when it was concluded,
“Now, Connor, I did this to satisfy you, but I still feel like one who has done a wrong action. I am yours now, but I cannot help praying to God that it may end happily for us both.”
“It must, darling Una—it must end happily for us both. How can it be otherwise? For my part, except to see you my wife, I couldn't be happier than I am this minute; exceptin' that, my heart has all it wished for. Is it possible—Oh! is it possible that this is not a dream, my heart's life? But if it is—if it is—I never more will wish to waken.”
Her young lover was deeply affected as he uttered these words, nor was Una proof against the emotion they produced.
“I could pray to God, this moment, with a purer heart than I ever had before,” he proceeded, “for makin' my lot in life so happy. I feel that I am better and freer from sin than I ever was yet. If we're faithful and true to one another, what can the world do to us?”
“I couldn't be otherwise than faithful to you,” she replied, “without being unhappy myself; an' I trust it's no sin to love each other as we do. Now let us——God bless me, what a flash! and here's the rain beginning. That thunder's dreadful; Heaven preserve us! It's an awful night! Connor, you must see me as far as the corner of the garden; as for you, I wish you were safe at home.”
“Hasten, dear,” said he, “hasten; it's no night for you to be out in, now that the rain's coming. As for me, if it was ten times as dreadful I won't feel it. There's but one thought—one thought in my mind, and that I wouldn't part with for the wealth of the universe.”
Both then proceeded at a quick puce until they reached the corner of Bodagh's garden, where, with brief but earnest reassurances of unalterable attachment, they took a tender and affectionate farewell.
It is not often that the higher ranks can appreciate the moral beauty of love as it is experienced by those humbler classes to whom they deny the power of feeling in its most refined and exalted character. For our parts we differ so much from them in this, that, if we wanted to give an illustration of that passion in its purest and most delicate state, we would not seek for it in the saloon or the drawing—room, but among the green fields and the smiling landscapes of rural life. The simplicity of humble hearts is more accordant with the unity of affection than any mind can be that is distracted by the competition of rival claims upon its gratification. We do not say that the votaries of rank and fashion are insensible to love; because, how much soever they may be conversant with the artificial and unreal, still they are human, and must, to a certain extent, be influenced by a principle that acts wherever it can find a heart on which to operate. We say, however, that their love, when contrasted with that which is felt by the humble peasantry, is languid and sickly; neither so pure, nor so simple, nor so intense. Its associations in high life are unfavorable to the growth of a healthy passion; for what is the glare of a lamp, a twirl through the insipid maze of the ball-room, or the unnatural distortions of the theatre, when compared to the rising of the summer sun, the singing of birds, the music of the streams, the joyous aspect of the varied landscape, the mountain, the valley, the lake, and a thousand other objects, each of which transmits to the peasant's heart silently and imperceptibly that subtle power which at once strengthens and purifies the passion? There is scarcely such a thing as solitude in the upper ranks, nor an opportunity of keeping the feelings unwasted, and the energies of the heart unspent by the many vanities and petty pleasures with which fashion forces a compliance, until the mind falls from its natural dignity, into a habit of coldness and aversion to everything but the circle of empty trifles in which it moves so giddily. But the enamored youth who can retire to the beautiful solitude of the still glen to brood over the image of her he loves, and who, probably, sits under the very tree where his love was avowed and returned; he, we say, exalted with the fulness of his happiness, feels his heart go abroad in gladness upon the delighted objects that surround him, for everything that he looks upon is as a friend; his happy heart expands over the whole landscape; his eye glances to the sky; he thinks of the Almighty Being above him, and though without any capacity to analyze his own feelings—love—the love of some humble, plain but modest girl—kindles by degrees into the sanctity and rapture of religion.
Let not our readers of rank, then, if any such may honor our pages with a perusal, be at all surprised at the expression of Connor O'Donovan when, under the ecstatic power of a love so pure and artless as that which bound his heart and Una's together, he exclaimed, as he did, “Oh! I could pray to God this moment with a purer heart than I ever had before!” Such a state of feeling among the people is neither rare nor anomalous; for, however, the great ones and the wise ones of the world may be startled at our assertion, we beg to assure them that love and religion are more nearly related to each other than those, who have never felt either in its truth and purity, can imagine.
As Connor performed his journey home, the thunder tempest passed fearfully through the sky; and, though the darkness was deep and unbroken by anything but the red flashes of lightning, yet, so strongly absorbed was his heart by the scene we have just related, that he arrived at his father's house scarcely conscious of the roar of elements which surrounded him.
The family had retired to bed when he entered, with the exception of his parents, who, having felt uneasy at his disappearance, were anxiously awaiting his return, and entering into fruitless conjectures concerning the cause of an absence so unusual.
“What,” said the alarmed mother, “what in the wide world could keep him so long out, and on sich a tempest as is in it? God protect my boy from all harm an' danger, this fearful night! Oh, Fardorougha, what 'ud become of us if anything happened him? As for me—my heart's wrapped up in him; wid—out our darlin' it 'ud break, break, Fardorougha.”
“Hut; he's gone to some neighbor's an' can't come out till the storm is over; he'll soon be here now that the thunder an' lightnin's past.”
“But did you never think, Fardorougha, what 'ud become of you, or what you'd do or how you'd live, if anything happened him? which the Almighty forbid this night and forever! Could you live widout him?”
The old man gazed upon her like one who felt displeasure at having a contingency so painful forced upon his consideration. Without making any reply, however, he looked thoughtfully into the fire for some time, after which he rose up, and, with a querulous and impatient voice, said,
“What's the use of thinkin' about sich things? Lose him! why would I lose him? I couldn't lose him—I'd as soon lose my own life—I'd rather be dead at wanst than lose him.”
“God knows your love for him is a quare love, Fardorougha,” rejoined the wife; “you wouldn't give him a guinea if it 'ud save his life, or allow him even a few shillings now an' then, for pocket-money, that he might be aquil to other young boys like him.”
“No use, no use in that, except to bring him into drink an' other bad habits; a bad way, Honora, of showin' one's love for him. If you had your will you'd spoil him; I'm keepin' whatsomever little shillin's we've scraped together to settle him dacently in life; but, indeed, that's time enough yet; he's too young to marry for some years to come, barrin' he got a fortune.”
“Well, one thing, Fardorougha, if ever two people were blessed in a good son, praise be God we are that!”
“We are, Honor, we are; there's not his aquil in the parish—achora machree that he is. When I'm gone he'll know what I've done for him.”
“Whin you're gone; why, Saver of arth, sure you wouldn't keep him out of his—— husth!——here he is, God be thanked! poor boy he's safe. Oh, thin, vich no Hoiah, Connor jewel, were you out undher this terrible night?”
“Connor, avich machree,” added the father, “you're lost! My hand to you, if he's worth three hapuns; sthrip an' throw my Cothamore about you, an' draw in to the fire; you're fairly lost.”
“I'm worth two lost people yet,” said Connor, smiling; “mother, did you ever see a pleasanter night?”
“Pleasant, Connor, darlin'! Oh thin it's you may say so, I'm sure!”
“Father, you're a worthy—only your Cothamore's too scimpt for me. Faith, mother, although you think I'm jokin', the devil a one o' me is; a pleasanter night—a happier night I never spent. Father, you ought to be proud o' me, an' stretch out a bit with the cash; faith, I'm nothin' else than a fine handsome young fellow.”
“Be me soul an' he ought to be proud out of you, Connor, whether you're in arnest or not,” observed the mother, “an' to stretch out wid the arrighad too if you want it.”
“Folly on, Connor, folly on! your mother'll back you, I'll go bail, say what you will; but sure you know all I have must be yours yet, acushla.”
Connor now sat down, and his mother stirred up the fire, on which she placed additional fuel. After a little time his manner changed, and a shade of deep gloom fell upon his manly and handsome features. “I don't know,” he at length proceeded, “that, as we three are here together, I could do betther than ask your advice upon what has happened to me to-night.”
“Why, what has happened you, Connor?” said the mother alarmed; “plase God, no harm, I hope.”
“Who else,” added the father, “would you be guided by, if not by your mother an' myself?”
“No harm, mother, dear,” said Connor in reply to her; “harm! Oh! mother, mother, if you knew it; an' as for what you say, father, it's right; what advice but my mother's an' yours ought I to ask?”
“An' God's too,” added the mother.
“An' my heart was nevir more ris to God than it was', an' is this night,” replied their ingenuous boy.
“Well, but what has happened, Connor?” said his father; “if it's anything where our advice can serve you, of coorse we'll advise you for the best.”
Connor then, with a glowing heart, made them acquainted with the affection which subsisted between himself and Una O'Brien, and ended by informing them of the vow of marriage which they had that night solemnly pledged to each other.
“You both know her by sight,” he added, “an' afther what I've sed, can you blame me for sayin' that I found this a pleasant and a happy night?”
The affectionate mother's eyes filled with tears of pride and delight, on hearing that her handsome son was loved by the beautiful daughter of Bodagh Buie, and she could not help exclaiming, in the enthusiasm of the moment,
“She's a purty girl—the purtiest indeed I ever laid my two livin' eyes upon, and by all accounts as good as she's purty; but I say that, face to face, you're as good, ay, an' as handsome, Fardorougha, as she is. God bless her, any way, an' mark her to grace and happiness, ma colleen dhas dhun.”
“He's no match for her,” said the father, who had listened with an earnest face, and compressed lips, to his son's narrative; “he's no match for her—by four hundred guineas.”
Honora, when he uttered the previous part of his observation, looked upon him with a flash of indignant astonishment; but when he had concluded, her countenance fell back into its original expression. It was evident that, while she, with the feelings of a woman and a mother, instituted a parallel between their personal merits alone, the husband viewed their attachment through that calculating spirit which had regulated his whole life.
“You're thinkin' of her money now,” she added; “but remimber, Fardorougha, that it wasn't born wid her. An' I hope, Connor, it's not for her money that you have any grah for her?”
“You may swear that, mother; I love her little finger betther than all the money in the king's bank.”
“Connor, avich, your mother has made a fool of you, or you wouldn't spake the nonsense you spoke this minute.”
“My word to you, father, I'll take all the money I'll get; but what am I to do? Bodagh Buie an' his wife will never consent to allow her to marry me, I can tell you; an' if she marries me without their consent, you both know I have no way of supportin' her, except you, father, assist me.”
“That won't be needful, Connor; you may manage them; they won't see her want; she's an only daughter; they couldn't see her want.”
“An' isn't he an only son, Fardorougha?” exclaimed the wife. “An' my sowl to happiness but I believe you'd see him want.”
“Any way,” replied her husband, “I'm not for matches against the consint of parents; they're not lucky; or can't you run away wid her, an' thin refuse marryin' her except they come down wid the cash?”
“Oh, father!” exclaimed Connor, “father, father, to become a villain!”
“Connor,” said his mother, rising up in a spirit of calm and mournful solemnity, “never heed; go to bed, achora, go to bed.”
“Of coorse I'll never heed, mother,” he replied; “but I can't help sayin' that, happy as I was awhile agone, my father is sendin' me to bed with a heavy heart. When I asked your advice, father, little I thought it would be to do—but no matter; I'll never be guilty of an act that 'ud disgrace my name.”
“No, avillish,” said his mother, “you never will; God knows it's as much an' more than you an' other people can do, to keep the name we have in decency.”
“It's fine talk,” observed Fardorougha, “but what I advise has been done by hundreds that wor married an' happy afterwards; how—an—iver you needn't get into a passion, either of you; I'm not pressin' you,' Connor, to it.”
“Connor, achree,” said his mother, “go to bed, an' instead of the advice you got, ax God's; go, avillish!”
Connor, without making any further observation, sought his sleeping-room, where, having recommended himself to God, in earnest prayer, he lay revolving all that had occurred that night, until the gentle influence of sleep at length drew him into oblivion.
“Now,” said his mother to Fardorougha, when Connor had gone, “you must sleep by yourself; for, as for me, my side I'll not stretch on the same bed wid you to-night.”
“Very well, I can't help that,” said her husband; “all I can say is this, that I'm not able to put sinse or prudence into you or Connor; so, since you won't be guided by me, take your own coorse. Bodagh Buie's very well able to provide for them—; an' if he won't do so before they marry, why let Connor have nothing to say to her.”
“I'll tell you what, Fardorougha, God wouldn't be in heaven, or you'll get a cut heart yet, either through your son or your money; an' that it may not be through my darlin' boy, O, grant, sweet Saver o' the earth, this night! I'm goin' to sleep wid Biddy Casey, an' you'll find a clane nightcap on the rail o' the bed; an', Fardorougha, afore you put it an, kneel down an' pray to God to change your heart—for it wants it—it wants it.”
In Ireland the first object of a servant man, after entering the employment of his master, is to put himself upon an amicable footing with his fellow-servants of the other sex. Such a step, besides being natural in itself, is often taken in consequence of the esprit du corps which prevails among persons of that class. Bartle Flanagan, although he could not be said to act from any habit previously acquired in service, went to work with all the tact and adroitness of a veteran. The next morning, after having left the barn where he slept, he contrived to throw himself in the way of Biddy Duggan, a girl, who, though vain and simple, was at the same time conscientious and honest. On passing from the barn to the kitchen, he noticed her returning from the well with a pitcher of water in each hand, and as it is considered an act of civil attention for the male servant, if not otherwise employed, to assist the female in small, matters of the kind, so did Flanagan, in his best manner and kindest voice, bid her good-morning and offer to carry home the pitcher.
“It's the least I may do,” said he, “now that I'm your fellow-servant; but before you go farther, lay down your burden, an' let us chat awhile.”
“Indeed,” replied Biddy, “it's little we expected ever to see your father's son goin' to earn his bread undher another man's roof.”
“Pooh! Biddy! there's greater wondhers in the world than that, woman alive! But tell me—pooh—ay, is there a thousand quarer things—but I say, Biddy, how do you like to—live wid this family?”
“Why, troth indeed, only for the withered ould leprechaun himself, divil a dacenter people ever broke bread.”
“Yet, isn't it a wondher that the ould fellow is what he is, an' he so full o' money?”
“Troth, there's one thing myself wondhers at more than that.”
“What, Biddy? let us hear it.”
“Why, that you could be mane an' shabby! enough to come as a sarvint to ate the bread of the man that ruined yees!”
“Biddy,” replied Flanagan, “I'm glad! you've said it; but do you think that I have so bad a heart as too keep revinge in against an inimy? How could I go to my knees at night, if I—no, Biddy, we must be Christians. Well! let us drop that; so you tell me this mother an' son are kind to you.”
“As good-hearted a pair as ever lived.”
“Connor, of course, can't but be very kind to so good-looking a girl as you are, Biddy,” said Bartle, with a knowing smile.
“Very kind! good-looking! ay, indeed, I'm sure o' that, Bartle; behave! an' don't be gettin' an wid any o' your palavers. What 'ud make Connor be kind to the likes of me, that way?”
“I don't see why you oughtn't an' mightn't—you're as good as him, if it goes to that.”
“Oh, yis, indeed!”
“Why, you know you'r handsome.”
“Handsome,” replied the vain girl, tightening her apron-strings, and assuming a sly, coquettish look; “Bartle, go 'an mind your business, and let me bring home my pitchers; it's time the breakwist was down. Sich nonsense!”
“Very well, you're not, thin; you've a bad leg, a bad figure, an' a bad face, an' it would be a terrible thing all out for Connor O'Donovan to fall in consate wid you.”
“Well, about Connor I could tell you something;—me! tut! go to the sarra;—faix, you don't know them that Connor's afther, nor the collogin' they all had about it no longer ago than last night itself. I suppose they thought I was asleep, but it was like the hares, wid my eyes open.”
“An' it's a pity, Biddy, ever the same two eyes should be shut. Begad, myself is beginning to feel quare somehow, when I look at them.”
A glance of pretended incredulity was given in return, after which she proceeded—
“Bartle, don't be bringin' yourself to the fair wid sich folly. My eyes is jist as God made them; but I can tell you that before a month o' Sundays passes, I wouldn't be surprised if you seen Connor married to—you wouldn't guess!”
“Not I; divil a hap'orth I know about who he's courtin'.”
“No less than our great beauty, Bodagh Buie's daughter, Una O'Brien. Now, Bartle, for goodness sake, don't let this cross your lips to a livin' mortal. Sure I heard him tellin' all to the father and mother last night—they're promised to one another. Eh! blessed saints, Bartle, what ails you? you're as white as a sheet. What's wrong? and what did you start for?”
“Nothin',” replied Flanagan, coolly, “but a stitch in my side. I'm subject to that—it pains me very much while it lasts, and laves me face, as you say, the color of dimity; but about Connor, upon my throth, I'm main proud to hear it; she's a purty girl, an' besides he'll have a fortune that'll make a man of him. I am, in throth, heart proud to hear it. It's a pity Connor's father isn't as dacent as himself. Arrah, Biddy, where does the ould codger keep his money?”
“Little of it in the house any way—sure, whenever he scrapes a guinea together he's away wid it to the county —— county —— och, that countryman that keeps the money for the people.”
“The treasurer; well, much good may his thrash do him, Biddy, that's the worst I wish him. Come now and I'll lave your pitchers at home, and remember you owe me something for this.”
“Good will, I hope.”
“That for one thing,” he replied, as they went along; “but we'll talk more about it when we have time; and I'll thin tell you the truth about what brought me to hire wid Fardorougha Donovan.”
Having thus excited that most active principle called female curiosity, both entered the kitchen, where they found Connor and his mother in close and apparently confidential conversation—Fardorougha himself having as usual been abroad upon his farm for upwards of an hour before any of them had risen.
The feelings with which they met that morning at breakfast may be easily understood by our readers without much assistance of ours. On the part of Fardorougha there was a narrow, selfish sense of exultation, if not triumph, at the chance that lay before his son of being able to settle himself independently in life, without the necessity of making any demand upon the hundreds which lay so safely in the keeping of the County Treasurer. His sordid soul was too deeply imbued with the love of money to perceive that what he had hitherto looked upon as a proof of parental affection and foresight, was nothing more than a fallacy by which he was led day after day farther into his prevailing vice. In other words, now that love for his son, and the hope of seeing him occupy a respectable station in society, ought to have justified the reasoning by which he had suffered himself to be guided, it was apparent that the prudence which he had still considered to be his duty as a kind parent, was nothing else than a mask for his own avarice. The idea, therefore, of seeing Connor settled without any aid from himself, filled his whole soul with a wild, hard satisfaction, which gave him as much delight as perhaps he was capable of enjoying. The advice offered to his son on the preceding night appeared to him a matter so reasonable in itself, and the opportunity offered by Una's attachment so well adapted for making it an instrument to work upon the affections of her parents, that he could not for the life of him perceive why they should entertain any rational objection against it.
The warm-hearted mother participated so largely in all that affected the happiness of her son, that, if we allow for the difference of sex and position, we might describe their feelings as bearing, in the character of their simple and vivid enjoyment, a very remarkable resemblance. This amiable woman's affection for Connor was reflected upon Una O'Brien, whom she now most tenderly loved, not because the fair girl was beautiful, but because she had plighted her troth to that Son who had been during his whole life her own solace and delight.
No sooner was the morning meal concluded, and the servants engaged at their respective employments, than Honor, acting probably under Connor's suggestion, resolved at once to ascertain whether her husband could so far overcome his parsimony as to establish their son and Una in life; that is, in the event of Una's parents opposing their marriage, and declining to render them any assistance. With this object in view, she told him, as he was throwing his great-coat over his shoulders, in order to proceed to the fields, that she wished to speak to him upon a matter of deep importance.
“What is it?” said Fardorougha, with a hesitating shrug, “what is it? This is ever an' always the way when you want money; but I tell you I have no money. You wor born to waste and extravagance, Honor, an' there's no curin' you. What is it you want? an' let me go about my business.”
“Throw that ould threadbare Cothamore off o' you,” replied Honor, “and beg of God to give you grace to sit down, an' have common feeling and common sense.”
“If it's money to get cloes either for yourself or Connor, there's no use in it. I needn't sit; you don't want a stitch, either of you.”
Honor, without more ado, seized the coat, and, flinging it aside, pushed him over to a seat on which she forced him to sit down.
“As heaven's above me,” she exclaimed, “I dunna what come over you at all, at all. Your money, your thrash, your dirt an' filth, ever, ever, an' for evermore in your thought, heart and sowl. Oh, Chierna! to think of it, an' you know there is a God above you, an' that you must meet Him, an' that widout your money too!”
“Ay, ay, the money's what you want to come at; but I'll not sit here to be hecthor'd. What is it, I say again, you want?”
“Fardorougha ahagur,” continued the wife, checking herself, and addressing him in a kind and affectionate voice, “maybe I was spakin' too harsh to you, but sure it was an' is for your own good. How an' ever, I'll thry kindness, and if you have a heart at all, you can't but show it when you hear what I'm goin' to say.”
“Well, well, go an,” replied the pertinacious husband; “but—money—ay, ay, is there. I feel, by the way you're comin' about me, that there is money at the bottom of it.”
The wife raised her hands and eyes to heaven, shook her head, and after a slight pause, in which she appeared to consider her appeal a hopeless one, she at length went on in an earnest but subdued and desponding spirit—
“Fardorougha, the time's now come that will show the world whether you love Connor or not.”
“I don't care a pin about the world; you an' Connor know well enough that I love him.”
“Love for one's child doesn't come out merely in words, Fardorougha; actin' for their benefit shows it better than spakin'. Don't you grant that?”
“Very well, may be I do, and again may be I don't; there's times when the one's better than the other; but go an; may be I do grant it.”
“Now tell me where in this parish, ay, or in the next five parishes to it, you'd find sich a boy for a father or mother to be proud out of, as Connor, your own darlin' as you often cau him?”
“Divil a one, Honor; damnho to the one; I won't differ wid you in that.”
“You won't differ wid me! the divil thank you for that. You won't indeed! but could you, I say, if you wor willin'?”
“I tell you I could not.”
“Now there's sinse an' kindness in that. Very well, you say you're gatherin' up all the money you can for him.”
“For him—him,” exclaimed the unconscious miser, “why, what do you mane—for—well—ay—yes, yes, I did say for him; it's for him I'm keeping it—it is, I tell you.”
“Now, Fardorougha, you know he's ould enough to be settled in life on his own account, an' you heard last night the girl he can get, if you stand to him, as he ought to expect from a father that loves him.”
“Why, last night, thin, didn't I give my—”
“Whist, ahagur! hould your tongue awhile, and let me go on. Thruth's best—he dotes on that girl to such a degree, that if he doesn't get her, he'll never see another happy day while he's alive.”
“All feasthalagh, Honor—that won't pass wid me; I know otherwise myself. Do you think that if I hadn't got you, I'd been unhappy four-an'-twenty hours, let alone my whole life? I tell you that's feasthalagh, an' won't pass. He wouldn't eat an ounce the less if he was never to get her. You seen the breakfast he made this mornin'; I didn't begrudge it to him, but may I never stir if that Flanagan wouldn't ate a horse behind the saddle; he has a stomach that'd require a king's ransom to keep it.”
“You know nothing of what I'm spakin' about,” replied his wife. “I wasn't Una dhas dhun O'Brien in my best days; an' be the vestment, you warn't Connor, that has more feelin', an' spirit, an' generosity in the nail of his little finger than ever you had in your whole carcass. I tell you if he doesn't get married to that girl he'll break his heart. Now how can he marry her except you take a good farm for him, and stock it dacently, so that he may have a home sich as she desarves to bring her to?”
“How do you know but they'll give her a fortune when they find her bent on him?”
“Why, it's not unpossible,” said the wife, immediately changing her tactics, “it's not impossible, but I can tell you it's very unlikely.”
“The best way, then, in my opinion, 'ud be to spake to Connor about breaking it to the family.”
“Why, that's fair enough,” said the wife. “I wondher myself I didn't think of it, but the time was so short since last night.”
“It is short,” replied the miser, “far an' away too short to expect any one to make up their mind about it. Let them not be rash themselves aither, for I tell you that when people marry in haste, they're apt to have time enough to repint at laysure.”
“Well, but Fardorougha acushla, now hear me, throth it's thruth and sinse what you say; but still, avourneen, listen; now set in case that the Bodagh and his wife don't consint to their marriage, or to do anything for them, won't you take them a farm and stock it bravely? Think of poor Connor, the darlin' fine fellow that he is. Oh, thin, Saver above, but it's he id go to the well o' the world's end to ase you, if your little finger only ached. He would, or for myself, and yet his own father to trate him wid sich—”
It was in vain she attempted to proceed; the subject was one in which her heart felt too deep an interest to be discussed without tears. A brief silence ensued, during which Fardorougha moved uneasily on his seat, took the tongs, and mechanically mended the fire, and, peering at his wife with a countenance twitched as if by tic douloureux, stared round the house with a kind of stupid wonder, rose up, then sat instantly down, and in fact exhibited many of those unintelligible and uncouth movements, which, in person of his cast, may be properly termed the hieroglyphics of human action, under feelings that cannot be deciphered either by those on whom they operate, or by those who witness them.
“Yes,” said he, “Connor is all you say, an' more—an' more—an'—an'—a rash act is the worst thing he could do. It's betther, Honor, to spake to him as I sed, about lettin' the matther be known to Una's family out of hand.”
“And thin, if they refuse, you can show them a ginerous example, by puttin' them into a dacent farm. Will you promise me that, Fardorougha? If you do, all's right, for they're not livin' that ever knew you to braak your word or your promise.”
“I'll make no promise, Honor; I'll make no promise; but let the other plan be tried first. Now don't be pressin' me; he is a noble boy, and would, as you say, thravel round the earth to keep my little finger from pain; but let me alone about it now—let me alone about it.”
This, though slight encouragement, was still, in Honor's opinion, quite as much as, if not more, than she expected. Without pressing him, therefore, too strongly at that moment, she contented herself with a full-length portrait of their son, drawn with all the skill of a mother who knew, if her husband's heart could be touched at all, those points at which she stood the greatest chance of finding it accessible.
For a few days after this the subject of Connor's love was permitted to lie undebated, in the earnest hope that Fardorougha's heart might have caught some slight spark of natural affection from the conversation which had taken place between him and Honor. They waited, consequently, with patience for some manifestation on his part of a better feeling, and flattered themselves that his silence proceeded from the struggle which they knew a man of his disposition must necessarily feel in working up his mind to any act requiring him to part with that which he loved better than life, his money. The ardent temperament of Connor, however, could ill brook the pulseless indifference of the old man; with much difficulty, therefore, was he induced to wait a whole week for the issue, though sustained by the mother's assurance, that, in consequence of the impression left on her by their last conversation, she was certain the father, if not urged beyond his wish, would declare himself willing to provide for them. A week, however, elapsed, and Fardorougha moved on in the same hard and insensible spirit which was usual to him, wholly engrossed by money, and never, either directly or indirectly, appearing to remember that the happiness and welfare of his son were at stake, or depending upon the determination to which he might come.
Another half week passed, during which Connor had made two unsuccessful attempts to see Una, in order that some fixed plan of intercourse might be established between them, at least until his father's ultimate resolution on the subject proposed to him should be known. He now felt deeply distressed, and regretted that the ardor of his attachment had so far borne him away during their last meeting, that he had forgotten to concert measures with Una for their future interviews.
He had often watched about her father's premises from a little before twilight until the whole family had gone to bed, yet without any chance either of conversing with her, or of letting her know that he was in the neighborhood. He had gone to chapel, too, with the hope of seeing her, or snatching a hasty opportunity of exchanging a word or two, if possible; but to his astonishment she had not attended mass—an omission of duty of which she had not been guilty for the last three years. What, therefore, was to be done? For him to be detected lurking about the Bodagh's house might create suspicion, especially after their interview in the garden, which very probably had, through the officiousness of the servants, been communicated to her parents. In a matter of such difficulty he bethought him of a confidant, and the person to whom the necessity of the ease directed him was Bartle Flanagan. Bartle, indeed, ever since he entered into his father's service, had gained rapidly upon Connor's good will, and on one or two occasions well-nigh succeeded in drawing from him a history of the mutual attachment which subsisted between him and Una. His good humor, easy language, and apparent friendship for young O'Donovan, together with his natural readiness of address, or, if you will, of manner, all marked him out as admirably qualified to act as a confidant in a matter which required the very tact and talent he possessed.
“Poor fellow,” thought Connor to himself, “it will make him feel more like one of the family than a servant. If he can think that he's trated as my friend and companion, he may forget that he's ating the bread of the very man that drove him an' his to destruction. Ay, an' if we're married, I'm not sure but I'll have him to give me away too.”
This resolution of permitting Flanagan to share his confidence had been come to by Connor upon the day subsequent to that on which he had last tried to see Una. After his return home, disappointment on one hand, and his anxiety concerning his father's liberality on the other, together with the delight arising from the certainty of being beloved, all kept his mind in a tumult, and permitted him to sleep but little. The next day he decided on admitting Bartle to his confidence, and reposing this solemn trust to his integrity. He was lying on his back in the meadow—for they had been ricking the hay from the lapcocks—when that delicious languor which arises from the three greatest provocatives to slumber, want of rest, fatigue, and heat, so utterly overcame him, that, forgetting his love, and all the anxiety arising from it, he fell into a dreamless and profound sleep.
From this state he was aroused after about an hour by the pressure of something sharp and painful against his side, near the region of the heart, and on looking up, he discovered Bartle Flanagan standing over him with pitchfork in his hand, one end of which was pressed against his breast, as if he had been in the act of driving it forward into his body. His face was pale, his dark brows frightfully contracted, and his teeth apparently set together, as if working over some fearful determination. When Connor awoke, Flanagan broke out into a laugh that no language could describe. The character of mirth which he wished to throw into his face, jarred so terrifically with his demoniacal expression when first seen by Connor, that, even unsuspecting as he was, he started up with alarm, and asked Flanagan what was the matter. Flanagan, however, laughed on—peal after peal succeeded—he tossed the pitchfork aside, and, clapping both his hands upon his face, continued the paroxysms until he recovered his composure.
“Oh,” said he, “I'm sick, I'm as wake as a child wid laughin'; but, Lord bless us, after all, Connor, what is a man's life worth whin he has an enemy near him? There was I, ticklin' you wid the pitchfork, strivin' to waken you, and one inch of it would have baked your bread for life. Didn't you feel me, Connor?”
“Divil a bit, till the minute before I ris.”
“Then the divil a purtier jig you ever danced in your life; wait till I show you how your left toe wint.”
He accordingly lay down and illustrated the pretended action, after which he burst out into another uncontrollable fit of mirth.
“'Twas just for all the world,” said he, “as if I had tied a string to your toe, for you groaned an' grunted, an' went on like I dunna what; but, Connor, what makes you so sleepy to-day as well as on Monday last?”
“That's the very thing,” replied the unsuspicious and candid young man, “that I wanted to spake to you about.”
“What! about sleepin' in the meadows?”
“Divil a bit o' that, Bartle, not a morsel of sleepin' in the meadows is consarned in what I'm goin' to mintion to you. Bartle, didn't you tell me, the day you hired wid my father, that you wor in love?”
“I did, Connor, I did.”
“Well, so am I; but do you know who I'm in love with?”
“How the divil, man, could I?”
“Well, no swerin', Bartle; keep the commandments, my boy. I'll tell you in the mane time, an' that's more than you did me, you close-mouth-is-a-sign-of-a-wise-head spalpeen!”
“Did you ever hear tell of one Colleen dhas dhun as she's called, known by the name Una or Oona O'Brien, daughter to one Bodagh Buie O'Brien, the richest man, barin' a born gentleman, in the three parishes?”
“All very fair, Connor, for you or any one else to be in love wid her—ay, man alive, for myself, if it goes to that—but, but, Connor, avouchal, are you sure that sure you'll bring her to be in love wid you?”
“Bartle,” said Connor, seriously and after a sudden change in his whole manner, “in this business I'm goin' to trate you as a friend, and a brother. She loves me, Bartle, and a solemn promise of marriage has passed between us.”
“Connor,” said Bartle, “it's wondherful, it's wondherful! you couldn't believe what a fool I am—fool! no, but a faint-hearted, cowardly villain.”
“What do you mane, Bartle? what the dickens are you drivin' at!”
“Driven at! whenever I happen to have an opportunity of makin' a drive that id—but! I'm talkin' balderdash. Do you see here, Connor,” said he, putting his hand to his neck, “do you see here?”
“To be sure I do. Well, what about there?”
“Be my sowl, I'm very careful of—but!—sure I may as well tell you the whole truth—I sed I was in love; well, man, that was thrue, an',” he added in a low, pithy whisper, “I was near—no, Connor, I won't but go an; it's enough for you to know that I was an' am in love, an' that it'll go hard wid me if ever any one else is married to the girl I'm in love wid. Now that my business is past, let me hear yours, poor fellow, an' I'm devilish glad to know, Connor, that—that—why, tunder an' ouns, that you're not as I am. Be the crass that saved us, Connor, I'm glad of that!”
“Why, love will set you mad, Bartle, if you don't take care of yourself; an', faith, I dunna but it may do the same with myself, if I'm disappointed. However, the truth is, you must sarve me in this business. I struv to see her twiste, but couldn't, an' I'm afraid of bein' seen spyin' about their place.”
“The truth is, Connor, you want to make me a go-between—a blackfoot; very well, I'll do that same on your account, an' do it well, too, I hope.”
It was then arranged that Flanagan, who was personally known to some of the Bodagli's servants, should avail himself of that circumstance, and contrive to gain an interview with Una, in order to convey her a letter from O'Donovan. He was further enjoined by no means to commit it to the hands of any person save those of Una herself, and, in the event of his not being able to see her, then the letter was to be returned to Connor. If he succeeded, however, in delivering it, he was to await an answer, provided she found an opportunity of sending one; if not, she was to inform Connor, through Flanagan, at what time and place he could see her. This arrangement having been made, Connor immediately wrote the letter, and, after having despatched Flanagan upon his errand, set himself to perform, by his individual labor, the task which his father had portioned out for both. Ere Bartle's return, Fardorougha came to inspect their progress in the meadow, and, on finding that the servant was absent, he inquired sharply into the cause of it.
“He's gone on a message for me,” replied Connor, with the utmost frankness.
“But that's a bad way for him to mind his business,” said the father.
“I'll have the task that you set both of us finished,” replied the son, “so that you'll lose nothin' by his absence, at all events.”
“It's wrong, Connor, it's wrong; where did you sind him to?”
“To Bodagh Buie's wid a letter to Una.”
“It's a waste of time, an' a loss of work; about that business I have something to say to your mother an' you to—night, afther the supper, when the rest goes to bed.”
“I hope, father,you'll do the dacent thing still.”
“No; but I hope, son, you'll do the wise thing still; how—an—ever let me alone now; if you expect me to do anything, you mustn't drive me as your mother does. To-night we'll make up a plan that'll outdo Bodagh Buie. Before you come home, Connor, throw a stone or two in that gap, to prevent the cows from gettin' into the hay; it won't cost you much throuble. But, Connor, did you ever see sich a gut as Bartle has? He'll brake me out o'house an' home feedin' him; he has a stomach for ten-penny-nails; be my word it 'ud be a charity to give him a dose of oak bark to make him dacent; he's a divil at aitin', an' little good may it do him!”
The hour of supper arrived without Bartle's returning, and Connor's impatience began to overcome him, when Fardorougha, for the first time, introduced the subject which lay nearest his son's heart.
“Connor,” he began, “I've been thinkin' of this affair with Una O'Brien; an' in my opinion there's but one way out of it; but if you're a fool an' stand in your own light, it's not my fault.”
“What is the way, father?” inquired Connor.
“The very same I tould your mother an' you before—run away wid her—I mane make a runaway match of it—then refuse to marry her unless they come down wid the money. You know afther runnin' away wid you nobody else ever would marry her; so that rather than see their child disgraced, never fear but they'll pay down on the nail, or maybe bring you both to live wid 'em.”
“My sowl to glory, Fardorougha,” said the wife, “but you're a bigger an' cunninner ould rogue than I ever took you for! By the scapular upon me, if I had known how you'd turn out, the sorra carry the ring ever you'd put on my finger!”
“Father,” said Connor, “I must be disobedient to you in this at all events. It's plain you'll do nothing for us; so there's no use in sayin' anything more about it. I have no manes of supportin' her, an' I swear I'll never bring her to poverty. If I had money to carry me, I'd go to America an' thry my fortune there; but I have not. Father, it's too hard that you should stand in my way when you could so easily make me happy. Who have you sich a right to assist as your son—your only son, an' your only child too?”
This was spoken in a tone of respect and sorrow at once impressive and affectionate. His fine features were touched with something beyond sadness or regret, and, as the tears stood in his eyes, it was easy to see that he felt much more deeply for his father's want of principle than for anything connected with his own hopes and prospects. In fact, the tears that rolled silently down his cheeks were the tears of shame and sorrow for a parent who could thus school him to an act of such unparalleled baseness. As it was, the genius of the miser felt rebuked by the natural delicacy and honor of his son; the old man therefore shrunk back abashed, confused, and moved at the words which he had heard—simple and inoffensive though they were.
“Fardorougha,” said the wife, wiping her eyes, that were kindling into indignation, “we're now married goin' an—”
“I think, mother,” said Connor, “the less we say about it now the better—with my own good will I'll never speak on the subject.”
“You're right, avourneen,” replied the mother; “you're right; I'll say nothing—God sees it's no use.”
“What would you have me do?” said the old man, rising and walking' about in unusual distress and agitation; “you don't know me—I can't do it—I cant do it. You say, Honor, I don't care about him—I'd give him my blood—I'd give him my blood to save a hair of his head. My life an' happiness depinds on him; but who knows how he an' his wife might mismanage that money if they got it—both young an' foolish? It wasn't for nothing it came into my mind what I'm afeard will happen to me yet.”
“And what was that, Fardorougha?” asked the wife.
“Sich foreknowledge doesn't come for nothing, Honor. I've had it an' felt it hangin' over me this many a long day, that I'd come to starvation yit; an' I see, that if you force me to do as you wish, that it 'ill happen. I'm as sure of it as that I stand before you. I'm an unfortunate man wid sich a fate before me; an' yet I'd shed my blood for my boy—I would, an' he ought to know that I would; but he wouldn't ax me to starve for him—would you, Connor, avick machree, would you ax your father to starve? I'm unhappy—unhappy—an' my heart's breakin'!”
The old man's voice failed him as he uttered the last words; for the conflict which he felt evidently convulsed his whole frame. He wiped his eyes, and, again sitting down, he wept bitterly and in silence, for many minutes.
A look of surprise, compassion, and deep distress passed between Connor and his mother. The latter also was very much affected, and said,
“Fardorougha, dear, maybe I spake sometimes too cross to you; but if I do, God above knows it's not that I bear you ill will, but bekase I'm troubled about poor Connor. But I hope I won't spake angry to you again; at all events, if I do, renumber it's only the mother pladin' for her son—the only son an' child that God was plazed to sind her.”
“Father,” added Connor, also deeply moved, “don't distress yourself about me—don't, father dear. Let things take their chance; but come or go what will, any good fortune that might happen me wouldn't be sweet if it came by givin' you a sore heart.”
At this moment the barking of the dog gave notice of approaching footsteps; and in a few moments the careless whistle of Bartle Flanagan was heard within a few yards of the door.
“This is Bartle,” said Connor; “maybe, father, his answer may throw some light upon the business. At any rate, there's no secret in it; we'll all hear what news he brings us.”
He had scarcely concluded when the latch was lifted, but Bartle could not enter.
“It's locked and bolted,” said Fardorougha; “as he sleeps in the barn I forgot that he was to come in here any more to-night—open it, Connor.”
“For the sake of all the money you keep in the house, father,” said Connor, smiling, “it's hardly worth your while to be so timorous; but God help the county treasurer if he forgot to bar his door—Asy, Bartle, I'm openin' it.”
Flanagan immediately entered, and, with all the importance of a confidant, took his seat at the fire.
“Well, Bartle,” said Connor, “what news?”
“Let the boy get his supper first,” said Honor; “Bartle, you must be starved wid hunger.”
“Faith, I'm middlin' well, I thank you, that same way,” replied Bartle; “divil a one o' me but's as ripe for my supper as a July cherry; an' wid the blessin' o' Heaven upon my endayvors I'll soon show you what good execution is.”
A deep groan from Fardorougha gave back a fearful echo to the truth of this formidable annunciation.
“Aren't you well, Fardorougha?” asked Bartle.
“Throth I'm not, Bartle; never was more uncomfortable in my life.”
Flanagan immediately commenced his supper, which consisted of flummery and new milk—a luxury among the lower ranks which might create envy in an epicure. As he advanced in the work of destruction, the gray eye of Fardorougha, which followed every spoonful that entered his mouth, scintillated like that of a cat when rubbed down the back, though from a directly opposite feeling. He turned and twisted on the chair, and looked from his wife to his son, then turned up his eyes, and appeared to feel as if a dagger entered his heart with every additional dig of Bartle's spoon into the flummery. The son and wife smiled at each other; for they could enjoy those petty sufferings of Fardorougha with a great deal of good-humor.
“Bartle,” said Connor, “what's the news?”
“Divil a word worth telling; at laste that I can hear.”
“I mane from Bodagh Buie's.”
Bartle stared at him; “Bodagh Buie's!—what do I know about Bodagh Buie? are you ravin'?”
“Bartle,” said Connor, smiling, “my father and mother knows all about it—an' about your going to Una with the letter. I have no secrets from them.”
“Hoot toot! That's a horse of another color; but you wouldn't have me, widout knowin' as much, to go to betray trust. In the mane time, I may as well finish my supper before I begin to tell you what-som-ever I happen to know about it.”
Another deep groan from Fardorougha followed the last observation.
At length the work of demolition ceased, and after Honor had put past the empty dish, Bartle, having wiped his mouth, and uttered a hiccup or two, thus commenced to dole out his intelligence:—
“Whin I wint to the Bodagh's,” said Bartle, “it was wid great schamin' an' throuble I got a sight of Miss Una at all, in regard of —(hiccup)—in regard of her not knowin' that there was any sich message for her—(hiccup). But happenin' to know Sally Laffan, I made bould to go into the kitchen to ax, you know, how was her aunt's family up in Skelgy, when who should I find before me in it but Sally an' Miss Una—(hiccup). (Saver of earth this night! from Fardorougha.) Of coorse I shook hands wid her—wid Sally, I mane; an', 'Sally,' says I, 'I was sent in wid a message from the masther to you; he's in the haggard an' wants you.' So, begad, on—-(hiccup) out she goes, an' the coast bein' clear, 'Miss Una,' says I, 'here's a scrap of a letther from Misther Connor O'Donovan; read it, and if you can write him an answer, do; if you haven't time say whatever you have to say by me.' She go—(hiccup) she got all colors when I handed it to her; an' run away, say—in' to me, 'wait for a while, an' don't go till I see you.' In a minute or two Sally comes in agin as mad as the dickens wid me, 'The curse o' the crows an' you!' says she, 'why did you make me run a fool's erran' for no rason? The masther wasn't in the haggard, an' didn't want me good or bad.'”
“Bartle,” said the impatient lover, “pass all that over for the present, an' let us know the answer, if she sent any.”
“Sent any! be my sowl, she did so! Afther readin' your letther, an' findin' that she could depind on me, she said that for fear of any remarks bein' made about my waitin', espishally as I live at present in this family, it would be better she thought to answer it by word o' mouth. 'Tell him,' said she, 'that I didn't think he wa—(hiccup) (Queen o' heaven!) was so dull an' ignorant o' the customs of the country, as not to know that whin young people want to see one another they stay away from mass wid an expectation that'—begad, I disremimber exactly her own words; but it was as much as to say that she staid at home on last Sunday expectin' to see you.”
“Well, but Bartle, what else?—short an' sweet, man.”
“Why, she'll meet you on next Thursday night, God willin', in the same place; an' whin I axed her where, she said you knew it yourself.”
“An' is that all?”
“No, it's not all; she sed it 'ud be better to mention the thing to her father. Afther thinkin' it over she says, 'as your father has the na—(hiccup) '(Saints above!) the name of being so rich, she doesn't know if a friend 'ud interfere but his consint might be got;' an' that's all I have to say about it, barrin' that she's a very purty girl, an' I'd advise you not to be too sure of her yet, Bartle. So now I'm for the barn—Good night, Far—(hiccup) (at my cost, you do it!) Fardorougha.”
He rose and proceeded to his sleeping—place in the barn, whither Connor, who was struck by his manner, accompanied him.
“Bartle,” said O'Donovan, “did you take anything since I saw you last?”
“Only a share of two naggins wid my brother Antony at Peggy Finigan's.”
“I noticed it upon you,” observed Connor; “but I don't think they did.”
“An' if they did, too, it's not high thrason, I hope.”
“No; but, Bartle, I'm obliged to you. You've acted as a friend to me, an' I won't forget it to you.”
“An' I'm so much obliged to you, Connor, that I'll remimber your employin' me in this the longest day I have to live. But, Connor?”
“Well, Bartle.”
“I'd take the sacrament, that, after all, a ring you'll never put on her.”
“And what makes you think so, Bartle?”
“I don't—I do—(hiccup) don't know; but somehow something or another tells it to me that you won't; others is fond of her, I suppose, as well as yourself; and of coorse they'll stand betune you.”
“Ay, but I'm sure of her.”
“But you're not; wait till I see you man and wife, an' thin I'll say so. Here's myself, Bartle, is in love, an' dhough I don't expect ever the girl will or would marry me, be the crass of heaven, no other man will have her. Now, how do you know but you may have some one like me—like me, Connor, to stand against you?”
“Bartle,” said Connor, laughing, “your head's a little moidher'd; give me your hand; whish! the devil take you, man! don't wring my fingers off. Say your prayers, Bartle, an' go to sleep. I say agin I won't forget your kindness to me this night.”
Flanagan had now deposited himself upon his straw bed, and, after having tugged the bedclothes about him, said, in the relaxed, indolent voice of a man about to sleep,
“Good night, Connor; throth my head's a little soft to-night—good night.”
“Good night, Bartle.”
“Connor?”
“Well?”
“Didn't I stand to you to-night? Very well—goo—(hiccup) good night.”
On Connor's return, a serious conclave was held upon the best mode of procedure in a manner which presented difficulties that appeared to be insurmountable. The father, seizing upon the advice transmitted by Una herself, as that which he had already suggested, insisted that the most judicious course was to propose for her openly, and without appearing to feel that there was any inferiority on the part of Connor.
“If they talk about wealth, Connor,” said he, “say that you are my son, an' that—that—no—no—I'm too poor for such a boast, but say that you will be able to take good care of anything you get.”
At this moment the door, which Connor had not bolted, as his father would have done, opened, and Bartle, wrapped in the treble folds of a winnow—cloth, made a distant appearance.
“Beg pardon, Connor; I forgot to say that Una's brother, the young priest out o' Maynooth, will be at home from his uncle's, where it appears he is at present; an' Miss Una would wish that the proposal 'ud be made while he's at his father's. She says he'll stand her friend, come or go what will. I forgot, begad, to mintion it before—so beg pardon, an' wishes you all good—night!”
This information tended to confirm them in the course recommended by Fardorougha. It was accordingly resolved upon that he (Fardorougha) himself should wait upon Bodagh Buie, and in the name of his son formally propose for the hand of his daughter.
To effect this, however, was a matter of no ordinary difficulty, as they apprehended that the Bodagh and his wife would recoil with indignation at the bare notion of even condescending to discuss a topic which, in all probability, they would consider as an insult. Not, after all, that there existed, according to the opinion of their neighbors, such a vast disparity in the wealth of each; on the contrary, many were heard to assert, that of the two Fardorougha had the heavier purse. His character, however, was held in such abhorrence by all who knew him, and he ranked, in point of personal respectability and style of living, so far beneath the Bodagh, that we question if any ordinary occurrence could be supposed to fall upon the people with greater amazement than a marriage, or the report of a marriage, between any member of the two families. The O'Donovans felt, however, that it was better to make the experiment already agreed on, than longer to remain in a state of uncertainty about it. Should it fail, the position of the lovers, though perhaps rendered somewhat less secure, would be such as to suggest, as far as they themselves were concerned, the necessity of a more prompt and effectual course of action. Fardorougha expressed his intention of opening the matter on the following day; but his wife, with a better knowledge of female character, deemed it more judicious to defer it until after the interview which was to take place between Connor and Una on the succeeding Thursday. It might be better, for instance, to make the proposal first to Mrs. O'Brien herself, or, on the other hand, to the Bodagh; but touching that and other matters relating to what was proposed to be done, Una's opinion and advice might be necessary.
Little passed, therefore, worthy of note, during the intermediate time, except a short conversation between Bartle and Connor on the following day, as they returned to the field from dinner.
“Bartle,” said the other, “you wor a little soft last night; or rather a good deal so.”
“Faith, no doubt o' that—but when a man meets an old acquaintance or two, they don't like to refuse a thrate. I fell in wid three or four boys—all friends o' mine, an' we had a sup on account o' what's expected.”
As he uttered these words, he looked at Connor with an eye which seemed to say—you are not in a certain secret with which I am acquainted.
“Why,” replied Connor, “what do you mane, Bartle? I thought you were with your brother—at laste you tould me so.”
Flanagan started on hearing this.
“Wid my brother,” said he—“why, I—I—what else could I tell you? He was along wid the boys when I met them.”
“Took a sup on account o' what's expected!—an' what's the manin'o' that, Bartle?”
“Why, what would it mane—but—but—your marriage?”
“An' thunder an' fury?” exclaimed Connor, his eyes gleaming; “did you go to betray trust, an' mintion Una's name an' mine, afther what I tould you?”
“Don't be foolish, Connor,” replied Flanagan; “is it mad you'd have me to be? I said there was something expected soon, that 'ud surprise them; and when they axed me what it was—honor bright! I gave them a knowin' wink, but said notion'. Eh! was that breakin' trust? Arrah, be me sowl, Connor, you don't trate me well by the words you spoke this blessed minute.”
“An' how does it come, Bartle, my boy, that you had one story last night, an' another to-day?”
“Faix, very aisily, bekase I forget what I sed last night—for sure enough I was more cut than you thought—but didn't I keep it well in before the ould couple?”
“You did fairly enough; I grant that—but the moment you got into the barn a blind man could see it.”
“Bekase I didn't care a button wanst I escaped from the eye of your father; anyhow, bad luck to it for whiskey; I have a murdherin' big heddick all day afther it.”
“It's a bad weed, Bartle, and the less a man has to do with it, the less he'll be throubled afther wid a sore head or a sore conscience.”
“Connor, divil a one, but you're the moral of a good boy; I dunna a fault you have but one.”
“Come, let us hear it.”
“I'll tell you some day, but not now, not now—but I will tell you—an' I'll let you know the raison thin that I don't mintion it now; in the mane time I'll sit down an take a smoke.”
“A smoke! why, I never knew you smoked.”
“Nor I, myself, till last night. This tindher—box I was made a present of to light my pipe, when not near a coal. Begad, now that I think of it, I suppose it was smokin' that knocked me up so much last night, an' mide my head so sick to-day.”
“It helped it, I'll engage; if you will take my advice, it's a custom you won't larn.”
“I have a good deal to throuble me, Connor; you know I have; an' what we are brought down to now; I have more nor you'd believe to think of; as much, any way, as'll make this box an' steel useful, I hope, when I'm frettin'.”
Flanagan spoke truth, in assuring Connor that the apology given for his intoxication on the preceding night had escaped his memory. It was fortunate for him, indeed, that O'Donovan, like all candid and ingenuous persons, was utterly devoid of suspicion, otherwise he might have perceived, by the discrepancy in the two accounts, as well as by Flanagan's confusion, that he was a person in whom it might not be prudent to entrust much confidence.
PART III.
The tryste between Connor and Una was held at the same place and hour as before, and so rapid a progress had love made in each of their hearts, that we question if the warmth of their interview, though tender and innocent, would be apt to escape the censure of our stricter readers. Both were depressed by the prospect that lay before them, for Connor frankly assured her that he feared no earthly circumstances could ever soften his father's heart so far as to be prevailed upon to establish him in life.
“What then can I do, my darling Una? If your father and mother won't consent—as I fear they won't—am I to bring you into the miserable cabin of a day laborer? for to this the son of a man so wealthy as my father is, must sink. No, Una dear, I have sworn never to bring you to poverty, and I will not.”
“Connor,” she replied somewhat gravely, “I thought you had formed a different opinion of me. You know but little of your own Una's heart, if you think she wouldn't live with you in a cabin a thousand and a thousand times sooner than she would live with any other in a palace. I love you for your own sake, Connor; but it appears you don't think so.”
Woman can never bear to have her love undervalued, nor the moral dignity of a passion which can sacrifice all worldly and selfish considerations to its own purity and attachment, unappreciated. When she uttered the last words, therefore, tears of bitter sorrow, mingled with offended pride, came to her aid. She sobbed for some moments, and again went on to reproach him with forming so unfair an estimate of her affection.
“I repeat that I loved you for yourself only, Connor, and think of what I would feel, if you refused to spend your life in a cottage with me. If I thought you wished to marry me, not because I am Una O'Brien, but the daughter of a wealthy man, my heart would break, and if I thought you were not true—minded, and pure—hearted, and honorable, I would rather be dead than united to you at all.”
“I love you so well, and so much, Una, that I doubt I'm not worthy of you—and it's fear of seeing you brought down to daily labor that's crushing and breaking my heart.”
“But, dear Connor—what is there done by any cottager's wife that I don't do every day of my life? Do you think my mother lets me pass my time in idleness, or that I myself could bear to be unemployed even if she did; I can milk, make butter, spin, sew, wash, knit, and clean a kitchen; why, you have no notion,” she added, with a smile, “what a clever cottager's wife I'd make!”
“Oh, Una,” said Connor, now melting into tenderness greater than he had ever before felt; “Una dear, it's useless—it's useless—I can't, no, I couldn't—and I will not live without you, even if we were to beg together—but what is to be done?”
“Now, while my brother John is at home, is the time to propose it to my father and mother who look upon him with eyes of such affection and delight that I am half inclined to think their consent may be gained.”
“Maybe, darling, his consent will be as hard to gain as their own.”
“Now,” she replied, fondly, “only you're a hard—hearted thing that's afraid to live in a cottage with me, I could tell you some good news—or rather you doubt me—and fear that I wouldn't live in one with you.”
A kiss was the reply, after which he said—
“With you, my dear Una, now that you're satisfied, I would live and die in a prison—with you, with you—in whatever state of life we may be placed, with you, but without you—never, I could not—I could not——”
“Well, we are young, you know, and neither of us proud—and I am not a lazy girl—indeed, I am not; but you forget the good news.”
“I forget that, and everything else but yourself, darling, while I'm in your company. O heavens! if you were once my own, and that we were never to be separated!”
“Well, but the good news!”
“What is it, dear?”
“I haye mentioned our affection to my brother, and he has promised to assist us. He has heard of your character, and of your mother's, and says that it's unjust to visit upon you——”
She paused—“You know, my dear Connor, that you must not be offended with anything I say.”
“I know, my sweet treasure, what you're going to say,” replied Connor, with a smile; “nobody need be delicate in saying that my father loves the money, and knows how to put guinea to guinea; that's no secret. I wish he loved it less, to be sure, but it cannot be helped; in the mean time, ma colleen dhas dhun—O, how I love them words! God bless your brother! he must have a kind heart, Una dear, and he must love you very much when he promises to assist us.”
“He has, and will; but, Connor, why did you send such a disagreeable, forward, and prying person, as your father's servant to bring me your message? I do not like him—he almost stared me out of countenance.”
“Poor fellow,” said Connor, “I feel a good dale for him, and I think he's an honest, good—hearted boy, and besides, he's in love himself.”
“I know he, was always a starer, and I say again I don't like him.”
“But, as the case stands, dear Una, I have no one else to trust to—at all events, he's in our secret, and the best way, if he's not honest, is to keep him in it; at laste, if we put him out of it now, he might be talking to our disadvantage.”
“There's truth in that, and we must only trust him with as little of our real secrets as possible; I cannot account for the strong prejudice I feel against him, and have felt for the past two years. He always dressed above his means, and once or twice attempted to speak to me.”
“Well, but I know he's in love with some one, for he told me so; poor fellow, I'm bound, my dear Una, to show him any kindness in my power.”
After some further conversation, it was once more decided that Fardorougha should, on the next day, see the Bodagh and his wife, in order to ascertain whether their consent could be obtained to the union of our young and anxious lovers. This step, as the reader knows, was every way in accordance with Fardorougha's inclination. Connor himself would have preferred his mother's advocacy to that of a person possessing such a slender hold on their good-will as his other parent. But upon consulting with her, she told him that the fact of the proposal coming from Fardorougha might imply a disposition on his part to provide for his son. At all events, she hoped that contradiction, the boast of superior wealth, or some fortunate collision of mind and principle, might strike a spark of generous feeling out of her husband's heart, which nothing, she knew, under strong excitement, such as might arise from the bitter pride of the O'Brien's, could possibly do. Besides, as she had no favorable expectations from the interview, she thought it an unnecessary and painful task to subject herself to the insults which she apprehended from the Bodagh's wife, whose pride and importance towered far and high over those of her consequential husband.
This just and sensible view of the matter, on the part of the mother, satisfied Connor, and reconciled him to the father's disinclination to be accompanied by her to the scene of conflict; for, in truth, Fardorougha protested against her assistance with a bitterness which could not easily be accounted for. “If your mother goes, let her go by herself,” said he; “for I'll not interfere in't if she does. I'll take the dirty Bodagh and his fat wife my own way, which I can't do if Honor comes to be enibbin' and makin' little o' me afore them. Maybe I'll pull down their pride for them better than you think, and in a way they're not prepared for; them an' their janting car!”
Neither Connor nor his mother could help being highly amused at the singularity of the miserable pomp and parsimonious display resorted to by Fardorougha, in preparing for this extraordinary mission. Out of an old strongly locked chest he brought forth a gala coat, which had been duly aired, but not thrice worn within the last twenty years. The progress of time and fashion had left it so odd, outre, and ridiculous, that Connor, though he laughed, could not help feeling depressed on considering the appearance his father must make when dressed, or rather disfigured, in it. Next came a pair of knee—breeches by the same hand, and which, in compliance with the taste of the age that produced them, were made to button so far down as the calf of the leg. Then appeared a waistcoat, whose long pointed flaps reached nearly to the knees. Last of all was produced a hat not more than three inches deep in the crown, and brimmed so narrowly, that a spectator would almost imagine the leaf had been cut off. Having pranked himself out in these habiliments, contrary to the strongest expostulations of both wife and son, he took his staff and set forth. But lest the reader should expect a more accurate description of his person when dressed, we shall endeavor at all events to present him with a loose outline. In the first place, his head was surmounted with a hat that resembled a flat skillet, wanting the handle; his coat, from which avarice and penury had caused him to shrink away, would have fitted a man twice his size, and, as he had become much stooped, its tail, which, at the best, had been preposterously long, now nearly swept the ground. To look at him behind, in fact, he appeared all body. The flaps of his waistcoat he had pinned up with his own hands, by which piece of exquisite taste, he displayed a pair of thighs so thin and disproportioned to his small—clothes, that he resembled a boy who happens to wear the breeches of a full-grown man, so that to look at him in front he appeared all legs. A pair of shoes, polished with burned straw and buttermilk, and surmounted by two buckles, scoured away to skeletons, completed his costume. In this garb he set out with a crook-headed staff, into which long use, and the habit of griping fast whatever he got in his hand, had actually worn the marks of his forefinger and thumb.
Bodagh Buie, his wife, and their two children, were very luckily assembled in the parlor, when the nondescript figure of the deputy-wooer made his appearance on that part of the neat road which terminated at the gate of the little lawn that fronted the hall-door. Here there was another gate to the right that opened into the farm or kitchen yard, and as Fardorougha hesitated which to enter, the family within had an opportunity of getting a clearer view of his features and person.
“Who is that quare figure standing there?” inquired the Bodagh; “did you ever see sich a——ah, thin, who can he be?”
“Somebody comin', to see some of the sarvints, I suppose,” replied his wife; “why, thin, it's not unlike little Dick Croaitha, the fairyman.”
In sober truth, Fardorougha was so completely disguised by his dress, especially by his hat, whose shallowness and want of brim, gave his face and head so wild and eccentric an appearance, that we question if his own family, had they not seen him dress, could I have recognized him! At length he turned into the kitchen-yard, and, addressing a laborer whom he met, asked—
“I say, nabor, which is the right way into Bodagh Buie's house?”
“There's two right ways into it, an' you may take aither o' them—but if you want any favor from him, you had better call him Mr. O'Brien. The Bodagh's a name was first given to his father, an' he bein' a dacenter man, doesn't like it, although it sticks to him; so there's a lift for you, my hip striddled little codger.”
“But which is the right door o' the house?”
“There it is, the kitchen—peg in—that's your intrance, barrin' you're a gintleman in disguise, an' if be, why turn out again to that other gate, strip off your shoes, and pass up ginteely on your tipytoes, and give a thunderin' whack to the green ring that's hangin' from the door. But see, friend,” added the man, “maybe you'd do one a sarvice?”
“How,” said Fardorougha, looking earnestly at him; “what is it?”
“Why, to lave us a lock o' your hair before you go,” replied the wag, with a grin.
The miser took no notice whatsoever of this, but was turning quietly out of the yard, to enter by the lawn, when the man called out in a commanding voice—
“Back here, you codger!—tundher an' thump!—back I say! You won't be let in that way—thramp back, you leprechaun, into the kitchen—eh! you won't—well, well, take what you'll get—an' that'll be the way back agin.”
'Twas at this moment that the keen eye of Una recognized the features of her lover's father, and a smile, which she felt it impossible to subdue, settled upon her face, which became immediately mantled with blushes. On hurrying out of the room she plucked her brother's sleeve, who followed her to the hall.
“I can scarcely tell you, dear John,” she said, speaking rapidly, “it's Fardorougha O'Donovan, Connor's father; as you know his business, John, stay in the parlor;” she squeezed his hand, and added with a smile on her face, and a tear in her eye, “I fear it's all over with me—I don't know whether to laugh or cry—but stay, John dear, an' fight my battle—Una's battle.”
She ran upstairs, and immediately one of the most beggarly, sordid, and pusillanimous knocks that ever spoke of starvation and misery was heard at the door.
“I will answer it myself,” thought the amiable brother; “for if my father or mother does, he surely will not be allowed in.”
John could scarcely preserve a grave face, when Fardorougha presented himself.
“Is Misther O'Brien widin?” inquired the usurer, shrewdly availing himself of the hint he received from the servant.
“My father is,” replied John; “have the goodness to step in.”
Fardorougha entered immediately, followed by young O'Brien, who said,
“Father, this is Mr. O'Donovan, who, it appears, has some important business with the family.”
“Don't be mistherin' me,” replied Fardorougha, helping himself to a seat; “I'm too poor to be misthered.”
“With this family!” exclaimed the father in amazement; “what business can Fardorougha Donovan have with this family, John?”'
“About our children,” replied the miser; “about my son and your daughter.”
“An' what about them?” inquired Mrs. O'Brien; “do you dar to mintion them in the same day together?”
“Why not,” said the miser; “ay, an' on the same night, too?”
“Upon my reputaytion, Mr. O'Donovan, you're extramely kind—now be a little more so, and let us undherstand you,” said the Bodagh.
“Poor Una!” thought John, “all's lost; he will get himself kicked out to a certainty.”
“I think it's time we got them married,” replied Fardorougha; “the sooner it's done the better, and the safer for both o' them; especially for the colleen.”
“Dar a Lorha, he's cracked,” said Mrs. O'Brien; “sorra one o' the poor soul but's cracked about his money.”
“Poor sowl, woman alive! wor you never poor yourself?”
“Yis I wor; an' I'm not ashamed to own it; but, Chierna, Frank,” she added, addressing her husband, “there's no use in spakin' to him.”
“Fardorougha,” said O'Brien, seriously, “what brought you here?”
“Why, to tell you an' your wife the state that my son, Connor, and your daughter's in about one another; an' to advise you both, if you have sinse, to get them married afore worse happen. It's your business more nor mine.”
“You're right,” said the Bodagh, aside to his wife; “he's sartinly deranged. Fardorougha,” he added, “have you lost any money lately?”
“I'm losin' every day,” said the other; “I'm broke assistin' them that won't thank me, let alone paying me as they ought.”
“Then you have lost nothing more than usual?”
“If I didn't, I tell you there's a good chance of losin' it before me;—can a man call any money of his safe that's in another man's pocket?”
“An' so you've come to propose a marriage between your son and my daughter, yet you lost no money, an' you're not mad!”
“Divil a morsel o' me is mad—but you'll be so if you refuse to let this match go an.”
“Out wid him—a shan roghara,” shouted Mrs. O'Brien, in a state of most dignified offence; “Damho orth, you ould knave! is it the son of a miser that has fleeced an' robbed the whole counthry side that we 'ud let our daughther, that resaved the finish to her edication in a Dubling boardin' school, marry wid?—Vic na hoiah this day!”
“You had no sich scruple yourself, ma'am,” replied the bitter usurer, “when you bounced at the son of the ould Bodagh Buie, an' every one knows what he was.”
“He!” said the good woman; “an' is it runnin' up comparishments betuxt yourself an' him you are afther? Why, Saint Peter wouldn't thrive on your money, you nager.”
“Maybe Saint Pethur thruv on worse—but havn't you thruv as well on the Bodagh's, as if it had been honestly come by? I defy you an' the world both—to say that ever I tuck a penny from any one, more than my right. Lay that to the mimory of the ould Bodagh, an' see if it'll fit. It's no light guinea, any how.”
Had Fardorougha been a man of ordinary standing and character in the country, from whom an insult could be taken, he would no doubt have been by a very summary process expelled the parlor. The history of his querulous and irascible temper, however, was so well known, and his offensive eccentricity of manner a matter of such established fact, that the father and son, on glancing at each other, were seized with the same spirit, and both gave way to an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Is it a laughin' stock you're makin' of' it?” said Mrs. O'Brien, highly indignant.
“Faith, achora, it may be no laughin' stock afther all,” replied the Bodagh.
“I think, mother,” observed John, “that you and my father had better treat the matter with more seriousness. Connor O'Donovan is a young man not to be despised by any person at all near his own class of life who regards the peace and welfare of a daughter. His character stands very high; indeed, in every way unimpeachable.”
The bitter scowl which had sat upon the small dark features of Fardorougha, when replying to the last attack of Mrs. O'Brien, passed away as John spoke. The old man turned hastily around, and, surveying the eulogist of his son, said,
“God bless you, asthore, for thim words! and they're thrue—thrue as the gospel, arrah what are you both so proud of? I defy you to get the aquil of my son in the barony of Lisnamona, either for face, figure or temper! I say he's fit to be a husband for as good a gill as ever stood in your daughter's shoes; an' from what I hear of her, she's as good a girl as ever the Almighty put breath in. God bless you, young man, you're a credit yourself to any parents.”
“An' we have nothin' to say aginst your son, nor aginst your wife aither,” replied the Bodagh; “an' if your own name was as clear——if you wor looked upon as they are—tut, I'm spakin' nonsense! How do I know whether ever your son and my daughter spoke a word to one another or not?”
“I'll go bail Oona never opened her lips to him,” said her mother; “I'll go bail she had more spirit.”
“An' I'll go bail she can't live widout him, an' will have him whether you like it or not,” said Fardorougha.
“Mother,” observed John, “will you and my father come into the next room for a minute—I wish to say a word or two to each of you; and will you, Fardorougha, have the goodness to sit here till we return?”
“Divil a notion,” replied O'Donovan, “I have of stirrin' my foot till the thing's settled one way or other.”
“Now,” said young O'Brien, when they got into the back parlor, “it's right that you both should know to what length the courtship between Una and Connor O'Donovan has gone.”
“Coortship! Vich no hoiah! sure she wouldn't go to coort wid the son o' that ould schamer.”
“I'm beginning to fear that it's too thrue,” observed the Bodagh; “and if she has—but let us hear John.”
“It's perfectly true, indeed, mother, that she has,” said the son. “Yes, and they are both this moment pledged, betrothed, promised, solemnly promised to each other; and in my opinion the old man within is acting a more honorable part than either of you give him credit for.”
“Well, well, well,” exclaimed the mother; “who afther that would ever thrust a daughter? The girl that we rared up as tindher as a chicking, to go to throw herself away upon the son of ould Fardorougha Donovan, the misert! Confusion to the ring ever he'll put an her! I'd see her stretched (dead) first.”
“I agree with you in that, Bridget,” said the husband; “if it was only to punish her thrachery and desate, I'll take good care a ring will never go on them; but how do you know all this, John?”
“From Una's own lips, father.”
The Bodagh paced to and fro in much agitation; one hand in his small—clothes pocket, and the other twirling his watch-key as rapidly as he could. The mother, in the meantime, had thrown herself into a chair, and gave way to a violent fit of grief.
“And you have this from Una's own lips?”
“Indeed, father, I have; and it is much to her credit that she was candid enough to place such confidence in her brother.”
“Pledged and promised to one another. Bridget, who could believe this?”
“Believe it! I don't believe it—it's only a schame of the hussy to get him. Oh, thin, Queen of Heaven this day, but it's black news to us!”
“John,” said the father, “tell Una to come down to us.”
“Father, I doubt that's rather a trying task for her. I wish, you wouldn't insist.”
“Go off, sir; she must come down immediately, I'll have it from her own lips, too.”
Without another word of remonstrance the son went to bring her down. When the brother and sister entered the room, O'Brien still paced the floor. He stood, and, turning his eyes upon his daughter with severe displeasure, was about to speak, but he appeared to have lost the power of utterance; and, after one or two ineffectual attempts, the big tears fairly rolled down his cheeks.
“See, see,” said the mother, “see what you have brought us to. Is it thrue that you're promised to Fardorougha's son?”
Una tottered over to a chair, and the blood left her cheeks; her lips became dry, and she gasped for breath.
“Why, don't you think it worth your while to answer me?” continued the mother.
The daughter gave a look of deep distress and supplication at her brother; but when she perceived her father in tears, her head sank down upon her bosom.
“What! what! Una,” exclaimed the Bodagh, “Una—” But ere he could complete the question, the timid creature fell senseless upon the floor.
For a long time she lay in that friendly trance, for such, in truth, it was to a delicate being, subjected to an ordeal so painful as that she was called upon to pass through. We have, indeed, remarked that there is in the young, especially in those of the softer sex, a feeling of terror, and shame, and confusion, when called upon by their parents to disclose a forbidden passion, that renders its avowal perhaps the most formidable task which the young heart can undergo. It is a fearful trial for the youthful, and one which parents ought to conduct with surpassing delicacy and tenderness, unless they wish to drive the ingenuous spirit into the first steps of falsehood and deceit.
“Father,” said John, “I think you may rest satisfied with what you witness; and I am sure it cannot make you or mother happy to see poor Una miserable.”
Una, who had been during the greater part of her swoon supported in her weeping and alarmed mother's arms, now opened her eyes, and, after casting an affrighted look about the room, she hid her face in her mother's bosom, and exclaimed, as distinctly as the violence of sobbing grief would permit her:
“Oh, mother dear, have pity on me! bring me up stairs and I will tell you.”
“I do, I do pity you,” said the mother, kissing her; “I know you'll be a good girl yet, Oona.”
“Una,” said her father, placing his hand gently on her shoulder, “was I ever harsh to you, or did I—”
“Father dear,” she returned, interrupting him, “I would have told you and my mother, but that I was afraid.”
There was something so utterly innocent and artless in this reply, that each of the three persons present felt sensibly affected by its extreme and childlike simplicity.
“Don't be afraid of me, Una,” continued the Bodagh, “but answer—me truly, like a good girl, and I swear upon my reputation, that I won't be angry. Do you love the son of this Fardorougha?”
“Not, father, because he's Fardorougha's son,” said Una, whose face was still hid in her mother's bosom; “I would rather he wasn't.”
“But you do love him?”
“For three years he has scarcely been out of my mind.”
Something that might be termed a smile crossed the countenance of the Bodagh at this intimation.
“God help you for a foolish child!” said he; “you're a poor counsellor when left to defend your own cause.”
“She won't defend it by a falsehood, at all events,” observed her trustworthy and affectionate brother.
“No, she wouldn't,” said the mother; “and I did her wrong a while ago, to say that she'd schame anything about it.”
“And are you and Connor O'Donovan promised to aich other?” inquired the father again.
“But it wasn't I that proposed the promise,” returned Una.
“Oh, the desperate villain,” exclaimed her father, “to be guilty of such a thing! but you took the promise Una—you did—you did—I needn't ask.”
“No,” replied Una.
“No!” reechoed the father; “then you did not give the promise?”
“I mean,” she rejoined, “that you needn't ask.”
“Oh, faith, that alters the case extremely. Now, Una, this—all this promising that has passed between you and Connor O'Donovan is all folly. If you prove to be the good obedient girl that I hope you are, you'll put him out of your head, and then you can give back to one another whatever promises you made.”
This was succeeded by a silence of more than a minute. Una at length arose, and, with a composed energy of manner, that was evident by her sparkling eye and bloodless cheek, she approached her father, and calmly kneeling down, said slowly but firmly:
“Father, if nothing else can satisfy you, I will give back my promise; but then, father, it will break my heart, for I know—I feel—how I love him, and how I am loved by him.”
“I'll get you a better husband,” replied her father—“far more wealthy and more respectable than he is.”
“I'll give back the promise,” said she; “but the man is not living, except Connor O'Donovan, that will ever call me wife. More wealthy! more respectable!—Oh, it was only himself I loved. Father, I'm on my knees before you, and before my mother. I have only one request to make—Oh, don't break your daughter's heart!”
“God direct us,” exclaimed her mother; “it's hard to know how to act. If it would go so hard upon her, sure—”
“Amen,” said her husband; “may God direct us to the best! I'm sure God knows,” he continued, now much affected, “that I would rather break my own heart than yours, Una. Get up, dear—rise. John, how would you advise us?”
“I don't see any serious objection, after all,” replied the son, “either you or my mother can have to Connor O'Donovan. He is every way worthy of her, if he is equal to his character; and as for wealth, I have often heard it said that his father was a richer man than yourself.”
“Afther all,” said the mother, “she might be very well wid him.”
“I'll tell you what I'll do, then,” said the Bodagh—“let us see the ould man himself, and if he settles his son dacently in life, as he can do if he wishes, why, I won't see the poor, foolish, innocent girl breaking her heart.”
Una, who had sat with her face still averted, now ran to her father, and, throwing her arms about his neck, wept aloud, but said nothing.
“Ay, ay,” said the latter, “it's very fine now that you have everything your own way, you girsha; but, sure, you're all the daughter we have, achora, and it would be too bad not to let you have a little of your own opinion in the choice of a husband. Now go up stairs, or where you please, till we see what can be done with Fardorougha himself.”
With smiling face and glistening eyes Una passed out of the room, scarcely sensible whether she walked, ran, or flew, while the others went to renew the discussion with Pardorougha.
“Well,” said the miser, “you found out, I suppose, that she can't do widout him?”
“Provided we consent to the marriage,” asked the Bodagh, “how will you settle your son in life?”
“Who would I settle in life if I wouldn't settle my only son?” replied the other; “who else is there to get all I have?”
“That's very true,” observed the Bodagh; “but state plainly what you'll do for him on his marriage.”
“Do you consint to the marriage all of yees?”
“That's not the question,” said the other. “Divil a word I'll answer till I know whither yees do or not,” said Fardorougha. “Say at once that you consint, and then I'll spake—I'll say what I'll do.”
The Bodagh looked inquiringly at his wife and son. The latter nodded affirmatively. “We do consent,” he added.
“That shows your own sinse,” said the old man. “Now what fortune will you portion your colleen wid?”
“That depinds upon what you'll do for your son,” returned the Bodagh.
“And that depinds upon what you'll do for your daughter,” replied the sagacious old miser.
“At this rate we're not likely to agree.”
“Nothin's asier; you have only to spake out; besides it's your business, bein' the colleen's father.”
“Try him, and name something fair,” whispered John.
“If I give her a farm of thirty acres of good land, stocked and all, what will you do for Connor?”
“More than that, five times over; I'll give him all I have. An' now when will we marry them? Throth it was best to make things clear,” added the knave, “and undherstand one another at wanst. When will we marry them?”
“Not till you say out openly and fairly the exact amount of money you'll lay down on the nail—an' that before even a ring goes upon them.”
“Give it up, acushla,” said the wife, “you see there's no screwin' a promise out of him, let alone a penny.”
“What 'ud yees have me do?” said the old man, raising his voice. “Won't he have all I'm worth? Who else is to have it? Am I to make a beggar of myself to please you? Can't they live on your farm till I die, an' thin it'll all come to them?”
“An' no thanks to you for that, Fardorougha,” said the Bodagh. “No, no; I'll never buy a pig in a poke. If you won't act generously by your son, go home, in the name of goodness, and let us hear no more about it.”
“Why, why?” asked the miser, “are yees mad to miss what I can leave him? If you knew how much it is, you'd snap—; but God help me! what am I sayin'? I'm poorer than anybody thinks. I am—I am; an' will starve among you all, if God hasn't sed it. Do you think I don't love my son as well, an' a thousand times better, than you do your daughter? God alone sees how my heart's in him—in my own Connor, that never gave me a sore heart—my brave, my beautiful boy!”
He paused, and the scalding tears here ran down his shrunk and furrowed cheeks, whilst he wrung his hands, started to his feet, and looked about him like a man encompassed by dangers that threatened instant destruction.
“If you love your son so well,” said John, mildly, “why do you grudge to share your wealth with him? It is but natural and it is your duty.”
“Natural! what's natural?—to give away—is it to love him you mane? It is, it's unnatural to give it away. He's the best son—the best—what do you mane, I say?—let me alone—let me alone—I could give him my blood, my blood—to sich a boy; but, you want to kill me—you want to kill me, an' thin you'll get all; but he'll cross you, never fear—my boy will save me—he's not tired of me—he'd give up fifty girls sooner than see a hair of his father's head injured—so do your best, while I have Connor, I'm not afraid of yees. Thanks be to God that sent him!” he exclaimed, dropping suddenly on his knees—“oh, thanks be to God that sent him to comfort an' protect his father from the schames and villainy of them that 'ud bring him to starvation for their own ends!”
“Father,” said John, in a low tone, “this struggle between avarice and natural affection is awful. See how his small gray eyes glare, and the froth rises white to his thin shrivelled lips. What is to be done?”
“Fardorougha,” said the Bodagh, “it's over; don't distress yourself—keep your money—there will be no match between our childhre.”
“Why? why won't there?” he screamed—“why won't there, I say? Havn't you enough for them until I die? Would you see your child breakin' her heart? Bodagh, you have no nather in you—no bowels for your colleen dahs. But I'll spake for her—I'll argue wid you till this time to-morrow, or I'll make you show feelin' to her—an' if you don't—if you don't—”
“Wid the help o' God, the man's as mad as a March hare,” observed Mrs. O'Brien, “and there's no use in losin' breath wid him.”
“If it's not insanity,” said John, “I know not what it is.”
“Young man,” proceeded Fardorougha, who evidently paid no attention to what the mother and son said, being merely struck by the voice of the latter, “young man, you're kind, you have sinse and feelin'—spake to your father—don't let him destroy his child—don't ax him to starve me, that never did him harm. He loves you—he loves you, for he can't but love you—sure, I know how I love my own darlin' boy. Oh, spake to him—here I go down on my knees to you, to beg, as you hope to see God in heaven, that't you'll make him not break his daughter's heart! She's your own sister—there's but the two of yees, an' oh, don't desart her in this throuble—this heavy, heavy throuble!”
“I won't interfere farther in it,” replied the young man, who, however, felt disturbed and anxious in the extreme.
“Mrs. O'Brien,” said he, turning imploringly, and with a wild, haggard look to the Bodngh's wifs, “I'm turnin' to you—you're her mother—Oh think, think”—
“I'll think no more about it,” she replied. “You're mad, an' thank God, we know it. Of coorse it'll run in the family, for which reasing my daughter 'ill never be joined to the son of a madman.”
He then turned as a last resource to O'Brien himself. “Bodagh, Bodagh, I say,” here his voice rose to a frightful pitch, “I enthrate, I order, I command you to listen to me! Marry them—don't kill your daughter, an' don't, don't, dare to kill my son. If you do I'll curse you till the marks of your feet will scorch the ground you tread on. Oh,” he exclaimed, his voice now sinking, and his reason awaking apparently from exhaustion, “what is come over me? what am I sayin'?—but it's all for my son, my son.” He then rose, sat down, and for more than tweny minutes wept like an infant, and sobbed and sighed as if his heart would break.
A feeling very difficult to be described hushed his amazed auditory into silence; they felt something like pity towards the unfortunate old man, as well as respect for that affection which struggled with such moral heroism against the frightful vice that attempted to subdue this last surviving virtue in the breast of the miser.
On his getting calm, they spoke to him kindly, but in firm and friendly terms communicated their ultimate determination, that, in consequence of his declining to make an adequate provision for the son, the marriage could by no means take place. He then got his hat, and attempted to reach the road which led down to the little lawn, but so complete was his abstraction, and so exhausted his faculties, that it was not without John's assistance he could reach the gate which lay before his eyes. He first turned out of the walk to the right, then crossed over to the left, and felt surprised that a wall opposed him in each direction.
“You are too much disturbed,” said John, “to perceive the way, but I will show you.”
“I suppose I thought it was at home I was,” he replied, “bekase at my own house one must turn aither to the right or to the left, as, indeed, I'm in the custom of doin'.”
Whilst Fardorougha was engaged upon his ill-managed mission, his wife, who felt that all human efforts at turning the heart of her husband from his wealth must fail, resolved to have recourse to a higher power. With this purpose in view, she put on her Sunday dress, and informed Connor that she was about to go for a short time from home.
“I'll be back if I can,” she added, “before your father; and, indeed, it's as good not to let him know anything about it.”
“About what, mother? for I know as little about it as he does.”
“Why, my dear boy, I'm goin' to get a couple o' masses sed, for God to turn his heart from that cursed airaghid it's fixed upon. Sure it houlds sich a hard grip of his poor sowl, that it'll be the destruction of him here an' hereafther. It'll kill him afore his time, an' then I thrimble to think of his chance above.”
“The object is a good one, sure enough, an' it bein' for a spiritual purpose the priest won't object to it.”
“Why would he, dear, an' it for the good of his sowl? Sure, when Pat Lanigan was jealous, his wife got three masses sed for him; and, wid the help o' God, he was cured sound and clane.”
Connor could not help smiling at this extraordinary cure for jealousy, nor at the simple piety of a heart, the strength of whose affection he knew so well. After her return she informed the son, that, in addition to the masses to be said against his father's avarice, she had some notion of getting another said towards his marriage with Una.
“God help you, mother,” said Connor, laughing; “for I think you're one of the innocentest women that ever lived; but whisht!” he added, “here's my father—God grant that he may bring good news!”
When Fardorougha entered he was paler or rather sallower than usual; and, on his thin, puckered face, the lines that marked it were exhibited with a distinctness greater than ordinary. His eyes appeared to have sunk back more deeply into his head; his cheeks had fallen farther into his jaws; his eyes were gleamy and disturbed; and his Whole appearance bespoke trouble and care and the traces of a strong and recent struggle within him.
“Father,” said Connor, with a beating heart, “for Heaven's sake, what news—what tidings? I trust in God it's good.”
“They have no bowels, Connor—they have no bowels, thim O'Briens.”
“Then you didn't succeed.”
“The father's as great a bodagh as him he was called after—they're a bad pack—an' you mustn't think of any one belongin'to them.”
“But tell us, man dear,” said the wife, “what passed—let us know it all.”
“Why, they would do nothin'—they wouldn't hear of it. I went on my knees to them—ay, to every one of them, barrin' the colleen herself; but it was all no use—it's to be no match.”
“And why, father, did you go on your knees to any of them,” said Connor; “I'm sorry you did that.”
“I did it on your account, Connor, an' I'd do it again on your account, poor boy.”
“Well, well, it can't be helped.”
“But tell me, Fardorougha,” inquired Honor, “was any of the fault your own—what did you offer to do for Connor?”
“Let me alone,” said he, peevishly; “I won't be cross-questioned about it. My heart's broke among you all—what did I offer to do for Connor? The match is knocked up, I tell you—and it must be knocked up. Connor's young, an' it'll be time enough for him to marry this seven years to come.”
As he said this, the fire of avarice blazed in his eyes, and he looked angrily at Honor, then at the son; but, while contemplating the latter, his countenance changed from anger to sorrow, and from sorrow to a mild and serene expression of affection.
“Connor, avick,” said he, “Connor, sure you'll not blame me in this business? sure you won't blame your poor, heart—broken father, let thim say what they will, sure you won't, avilish?”
“Don't fret on my account, father,” said the sonj “why should I blame you? God knows you're strivin' to do what you would wish for me.”
“No, Honor, I know he wouldn't; no,” he shouted, leaping up, “he wouldn't make a saicrefize o' me! Connor, save me, save me,” he shrieked, throwing his arms about his neck; “save me; my heart's breakin'—somethin's tearin' me different ways inside; I can cry, you see; I can cry, but I'm still as hard as a stone; it's terrible this I'm sufferin'—terrible all out for a weak ould man like me. Oh, Connor, avick, what will I do? Honor, achora, what 'ill become o' me—ainn't I strugglin', strugglin' against it, whatever it is; don't yees pity me? Don't ye, avick machree, don't ye, Honor? Oh, don't yees pity me?”
“God pity you!” said the wife, bursting into tears; “what will become of you? Pray to God, Fardorougha, pray to Him. No one alive can change your heart but God. I wint to the priest to-day, to get two masses said to turn your heart from that cursed money. I didn't intind to tell you, but I do, bekase it's your duty to pray now above all times, an' to back the priest as well as you can.”
“It's the best advice, father, you could get,” said the son, as he helped the trembling old man to his seat.
“An' who bid you thin to go to lavish money that way?” said he, turning snappishly to Honor, and relapsing again into the peevish spirit of avarice; “Saver o' Heaven, but you'll kill me, woman, afore you have done wid me! How can I stand it, to have my hard—earned——an' for what? to turn my heart from money? I don't want to be turned from it—I don't wish it! Money!—I have no money—nothin'—nothin'—an' if there's not better decreed for me, I'll be starved yet—an' is it any wondh'er? to be robbin' me the way you're doin'!”
His wife clasped her hands and looked up towards heaven in silence, and Connor, shaking his head despairingly, passed out to join Flanagan at his labor, with whom he had not spoken that day. Briefly, and with a heavy heart, he communicated to him the unsuccessful issue of his father's interference, and asked his opinion as to how he should conduct himself under circumstances so disastrous to his happiness and prospects. Bartle advised him to seek another interview with Una, and, for that purpose, offered, as before, to ascertain, in the course of that evening, at what time and place she would see him. This suggestion, in itself so natural, was adopted, and as Connor felt, with a peculiar acuteness, the pain of the situation in which he was! placed, he manifested little tendency to conversation, and the evening consequently passed heavily and in silence.
Dusk, however, arrived, and Bartle prepared himself to execute the somewhat difficult commission he had so obligingly undertaken. He appeared, however, to have caught a portion of Connor's despondency, for, when about to set out, he said “that he felt his spirits sunk and melancholy; just,” he added, “as if some misfortune, Connor, was afore aither or both of us; for my part I'd stake my life that things will go ashanghran one way or other, an' that you'll never call Una O'Brien your wife.”
“Bartle,” replied the other, “I only want you to do my message, an' not be prophesyin' ill—bad news comes to soon, without your tellin' us of it aforehand. God knows, Bartle dear, I'm distressed enough as it is, and want my spirits to be kept up rather than put down.”
“No, Connor, but you want somethin' to divart your mind off this business altogether, for a while; an' upon my saunies it 'ud be a charity for some friend to give you a fresh piece of fun to think of—so keep up your heart, how do you know but I may do that much for you myself? But I want you to lend me the loan of a pair of shoes; divil a tatther of these will be together soon, barrin' I get them mended in time; you can't begrudge that, any how, an' me wearin' them on your own business.”
“Nonsense, man—to be sure I will; stop an' I'll bring them out to you in half a shake.”
He accordingly produced a pair of shoes, nearly new, and told Bartle that if he had no objection to accept of them as a present, he might consider them as his own.
This conversation took place in Fardorougha's barn, where Flanagan always slept, and kept his small deal trunk.
He paused a moment when this good—natured offer was made to him; but as it was dark no particular expression could be discovered on his countenance,
“No!” said he vehemently; “may I go to perdition if I ought!—Connor—Connor O' Donovan—you'd turn the div—”
“Halt, Bartle, don't be angry—whin I offered them, I didn't mane to give you the slightest offence; it's enough for you to tell me you won't have them without gettin' into a passion.”
“Have what? what are you spakin' about?”
“Why—about the shoes; what else?”
“Yes, faith, sure enough—well, ay, the shoes!—don't think of it, Connor—I'm hasty; too much so, indeed, an' that's my fault. I'm like all good-natured people in that respect; however, I'll borry them for a day or two, till I get my own patched up some way. But, death alive, why did you get at this season o' the year three rows of sparables in the soles o' them?”
“Bekase they last longer, of coorse; and now, Bartle, be off, and don't let the grass grow under your feet till I see you again.”
Connor's patience, or rather his impatience, that night, was severely taxed. Hour after hour elapsed, and yet Bartle did not return. At length he went to his father's sleeping-room, and informed him of the message he had sent through Flanagan to Una.
“I will sleep in the barn to-night, father,” he added; “an' never fear, let us talk as we may, but we'll be up early enough in the morning, plase God. I couldn't sleep, or go to sleep, till I hear what news he brings back to us; so do you rise and secure the door, an' I'll make my shakedown wid Bartle this night.”
The father who never refused him anything unpecuniary (if we may be allowed the word), did as the son requested him, and again went to bed, unconscious of the thundercloud which was so soon to burst upon them both.
Bartle, however, at length returned, and Connor had the satisfaction of hearing that his faithful Una would meet him the next night, if possible, at the hour of twelve o'clock, in her father's haggard. Her parents, it appeared, had laid an injunction upon her never to see him again; she was watched, too, and, unless when the household were asleep, she found it altogether impracticable to effect any appointment whatsoever with her lover. She could not even promise with certainty to meet him on that night, but she desired him to come, and if she failed to be punctual, not to leave the place of appointment for an hour. After that, if she appeared not, then he was to wait no longer. Such was the purport of the message which Flanagan delivered him.
Flanagan was the first up the next morning, for the purpose of keeping an appointment which he had with Biddy Neil, whom we have already introduced to the reader. On being taxed with meanness by this weak but honest creature, for having sought service with the man who had ruined his family, he promised to acquaint her with the true motive which had induced him to enter into Fardorougha's employment. Their conversation on this point, however, was merely a love scene, in which Bartle satisfied the credulous girl, that to an attachment for herself of some months' standing, might be ascribed his humiliation in becoming a servant to the oppressor and destroyer of his house. He then passed from themselves and their prospects to Connor and Una O'Brien, with whose attachment for each other, as the reader knows, he was first made acquainted by his fellow-servant.
“It's terrible, Biddy,” said he, “to think of the black and revengeful heart that Connor bears to Bodagh Buie and his family merely bekase they rufuse to let him marry Una. I'm afeard, Biddy darlin', that there'll be dark work about it on Connor's side; an' if you hear of anything bad happenin' to the Bodagh, you'll know where it comes from.”
“I don't b'lieve it, Bartle, nor I won't b'lieve it—not, any way, till I hear that it happens. But what is it he intends to do to them?”
“That's more than I know myself,” replied Bartle; “I axed as much, an' he said till it was done nobody would be the wiser.”
“That's quare,” said the girl, “for a better heart than Connor has, the Saver o' the world never made.”
“You think so, agra, but wait; do you watch, and you'll find that he don't come in to-night. I know nothin' myself of what he's about, for he's as close as his father's purse, an' as deep as a draw—well; but this I know, that he has black business on his hands, whatever it is. I trimble to think of it!”
Flanagan then got tender, and, after pressing his suit with all the eloquence he was master of, they separated, he to his labor in the fields, and she to her domestic employment, and the unusual task of watching the motions of her master's son.
Flanagan, in the course of the day, suggested to Connor the convenience of sleeping that night also in the barn. The time of meeting, he said was too late, and his father's family, who were early in their hours, both night and morning, would be asleep even before they set out. He also added, that lest any of the O'Briens or their retainers should surprise him and Una, he had made up his mind to accompany him, and act as a vidette during their interview.
Connor felt this devotion of Bartle to his dearest interests, as every grateful and generous heart would.
“Bartle,” said he, “when we are married, if it's ever in my power to make you aisy in life, may I never prosper if I don't do it! At all events, in some way I'll reward you.”
“If you're ever able, Connor, I'll have no objection to be behoulden to you; that is, if you're ever able, as you say.”
“And if there's a just God in heaven, Bartle, who sees my heart, however things may go against me for a time, I say I will be able to sarve you, or any other friend that desarves it. But about sleepin' in to-night—coorse I wouldn't be knockin' up my father, and disturbin' my poor mother for no rason; so, of coorse, as I said, I'll sleep in the barn; it makes no difference one way or other.”
“Connor,” said Flanagan, with much solemnity, “if Bodagh Buie's wise, he'll marry you and his daughter as fast as he can.”
“An' why, Bartle?”
“Why, for rasons you know nothin' about. Of late he's got very much out o' favor, in regard of not comin' in to what people wish.”
“Speak plainer, Bartle; I'm in the dark now.”
“There's work goin' on in the counthry, that you and every one like you ought to be up to; but you know nothin', as I said, about it. Now Bodagh Buie, as far as I hear—for I'm in the dark myself nearly as much as you—Bodagh Buie houlds out against them; an' not only that, I'm tould, but gives them hard words, an' sets them at defiance.”
“But what has all this to do with me marrying his daughter?”
“Why, he wants some one badly to stand his friend wid them; an' if you were married to her, you should on his account become one o' thim; begad, as it is, you ought, for to tell the truth there's talk—strong talk too—about payin' him a nightly visit that mayn't sarve him.”
“Then, Bartle, you're consarned in this business.”
“No, faith, not yet; but I suppose I must, if I wish to be safe in the counthry; an' so must you too, for the same rason.”
“And, if not up, how do you know so much about it?”
“From one o' themselves, that wishes the! Bodagh well; ay, an' let me tell you, he's a marked man, an' the night was appointed to visit him; still it was put back to thry if he could be managed, but he couldn't; an' all I know about it is that the time to remimber him is settled, an' he's to get it, an', along wid other things, he'll be ped for turnin' off—however, I can't say any more about that.”
“How long is it since you knew this?”
“Not long—only since last night, or you'd a got it before this. The best way, I think, to put him on his guard 'ud be to send him a scrape of a line wid no name to it.”
“Bartle,” replied Connor, “I'm as much behoulden to you for this, as if it had been myself or my father that was marked. God knows you have a good heart, an' if you don't sleep sound, I'm at a loss to know who ought.”
“But it's hard to tell who has a good heart, Connor; I'd never say any one has till I'd seen them well thried.”
At length the hour for setting out arrived, and both, armed with good oaken cudgels proceeded to Bodagh Buie's haggard, whither they arrived a little before the appointed hour. An utter stillness prevailed around the place—not a dog barked—not a breeze blew, nor did a leaf move on its stem, so calm and warm was the night. Neither moon nor stars shone in the firmament, and the darkness seemed kindly to throw its dusky mantle over this sweet and stolen interview of our young lovers. As yet, however, Una had not come, nor could Connor, on surveying the large massy farm—house of the Bodagh, perceive any appearance of light, or hear a single sound, however faint, to break the stillness in which it slept. Bartle, immediately after their arrival in the haggard, separated from his companion, in order, he said, to give notice of interruption, should Una be either watched or followed.
“Besides, you know,” he added, “sweethearts like nobody to be present but themselves, when they do be spakin' soft to one another. So I'll just keep dodgin' about, from place to place wid my eye an' ear both open, an' if any intherloper comes I'll give yees the hard word.”
Heavily and lazily creep those moments during which an impatient lover awaits the approach of his mistress; and woe betide the wooer of impetuous temperament who is doomed, like our hero, to watch a whole hour and a half in vain. Many a theory did his fancy body forth, and many a conjecture did he form, as to the probable cause of her absence. Was it possible that they watched her even in the dead hour of night? Perhaps the grief she felt at her father's refusal to sanction the match had brought on indisposition; and—oh, harrowing thought!—perhaps they had succeeded in prevailing upon her to renounce him and his hopes forever. But no; their affection was too pure and steadfast to admit of a supposition so utterly unreasonable. What, then, could have prevented her from keeping an appointment so essential to their future prospects, and to the operations necessary for them to pursue? Some plan of intercourse—some settled mode of communication must be concerted between them; a fact as well known to herself as to him.
“Well, well,” thought he, “whatever's the reason of her not coming, I'm sure the fault is not hers; as it is, there's no use in waitin' this night any longer.”
Flanagan, it appeared, was of the same opinion, for in a minute or two he made his appearance, and urged their return home. It was clear, he said, that no interview could take place that night, and the sooner they reached the barn and got to bed the better.
“Folly me,” he added; “we can pass through the yard, cross the road before the hall-door, and get over the stile, by the near way through the fields that's behind the orchard.”
Connor, who was by no means so well acquainted with the path as his companion, followed him in the way pointed out, and in a few minutes they found themselves walking at a brisk pace in a direction that led homewards by a shorter cut. Connor's mind was too much depressed for conversation, and both were proceeding in silence, when Flanagan started in alarm, and pointed out the figure of some one walking directly towards them. In less than a minute the person, whoever he might be, had come within speaking distance, and, as he shouted “Who comes there?” Flanagan bolted across the ditch, along which they had been going, and disappeared. “A friend,” returned Connor, in reply to the question.
The other man advanced, and, with a look of deep scrutiny, peered into his face. “A friend,” he exclaimed; “faith, it's, a quare hour for a friend to be out. Who are you, eh? Is this Connor O'Donovan?”
“It is; but you have the advantage of me.”
“If your father was here he would know Phil Curtis, any way.''
“I ought to 'a known the voice myself,” said Connor; “Phil, how are you? an' what's bringin' yourself out at this hour?”
“Why, I want to buy a couple o' milk cows in the fair o' Kilturbit, an' I'm goin' to catch my horse, an' make ready. It's a stiff ride from this, an' by the time I'm there it I'll be late enough for business, I'm thinkin'. There was some one wid you; who was it?”
“Come, come,” said Connor, good—humoredly, “he was out coortin', and doesn't wish to be known; and Phil, as you had the luck to meet me, I beg you, for Heaven's sake, not to breathe that you seen me near Bodagh Buie's to-night; I have various reasons for it.”
“It's no secret to me as it is,” replied Curtis; “half the parish knows it; so make your mind asy on that head. Good night, Connor! I wish you success, anyhow; you'll be a happy man if you get her; although, from what I hear has happened, you have a bad chance, except herself stands to you.”
The truth was, that Fardorougha's visit to the Bodagh, thanks to the high tones of his own shrill voice, had drawn female curiosity, already suspicious of the circumstances, to the keyhole of the parlor-door, where the issue and object of the conference soon became known. In a short time it had gone among the servants, and from them was transmitted, in the course of that and the following day, to the tenants and day-laborers! who contrived to multiply it with such effect, that, as Curtis said, it was indeed no secret to the greater part of the parish.
Flanagan soon rejoined Connor, who, on taxing him with his flight, was informed, with an appearance of much regret, that a debt of old standing due to Curtis had occasioned it.
“And upon my saunies, Connor, I'd rather any time go up to my neck in wather than meet a man that I owe money to, whin I can't pay him. I knew Phil very well, even before he spoke, and that was what made me cut an' run.”
“What!” said Connor, looking towards the east, “can it be day-light so soon?”
“Begad, it surely cannot,” replied his companion.
“Holy mother above us, what is this?”
Both involuntarily stood to contemplate the strange phenomenon which presented itself to their observation; and, as it was certainly both novel and startling in its appearance, we shall pause a little to describe it more minutely.
The night, as we have already said, was remarkably dark, and warm to an unusual degree. To the astonishment, however, of our two travellers, a gleam of light, extremely faint, and somewhat resembling that which precedes the rising of a summer sun, broke upon their path, and passed on in undulating sweeps for a considerable space before them. Connor had scarcely time to utter the exclamation just alluded to, and Flanagan to reply to him, when the light around them shot farther into the distance and deepened from its first pale hue into a rich and gorgeous purple. Its effect, however, was limited within a circle of about a mile, for they could observe that it got faint gradually, from the centre to the extreme verge, where it melted into utter darkness.
“They must mean something extraordinary,” said Connor; “whatever it is, it appears to be behind the hill that divides us from Bodagh's Buie's house. Blessed earth! it looks as if the sky was on fire!”
The sky, indeed, presented a fearful but sublime spectacle. One spot appeared to glow with the red-white heat of a furnace, and to form the centre of a fiery cupola, from which the flame was flung in redder and grosser masses, that darkened away into wild and dusky indistinctness, in a manner that corresponded with the same light, as it danced in red and frightful mirth upon the earth. As they looked, the cause of this awful phenomenon soon became visible. From behind the hill was seen a thick shower of burning particles rushing up into the mid air, and presently the broad point of a huge pyramid of fire, wavering in terrible and capricious power, seemed to disport itself far up in the very depths of the glowing sky. On looking again upon the earth they perceived that this terrible circle was extending itself over a wider circumference of country, marking every prominent object around them with a dark blood—red tinge, and throwing those that were more remote into a visionary but appalling relief.
“Dhar Chriestha,” exclaimed Flanagan, “I have it; thim I spoke about has paid Bodagh Buie the visit they promised him.”
“Come round the hip o' the hill,” said Connor, “till we see where it really is; but I'll tell you what, Bartle, if you be right, woe betide you! all the water in Europe wouldn't wash you free in my mind, of being connected in this same Ribbon business that's spreading through the country. As sure as that sky—that fearful sky's above us, you must prove to me and other's how you came to know that this hellish business was to take place. God of heaven! let us run—surely it couldn't be the dwelling-house!”
His speed was so great that Bartle could find neither breath nor leisure to make any reply.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed; “oh, thank God it's not the house, and there lives are safe! but blessed Father, there's the man's whole haggard in flames!”
“Oh, the netarnal villains!” was the simple exclamation of Flanagan.
“Bartle,” said his companion, “you heard what I said this minute?”
Their eyes met as he spoke, and for the first time O'Donovan was struck by the pallid malignity of his features. The servant gazed steadily upon him, his lips slightly but firmly drawn back, and his eye, in which was neither sympathy nor alarm, charged with the spirit of a cool and devilish triumph.
Connor's blazed at the bare idea of his villainy, and, in a fit of manly and indignant rage, he seized Flanagan and hurled him headlong to the earth at his feet. “You have hell in your face, you villain!” he exclaimed; “and if I thought that—if I did—I'd drag you down like a dog, an' pitch you head—foremost into the flames!”
Bartle rose, and, in a voice wonderfully calm, simply observed, “God knows, Connor, if I know either your heart or mine, you'll be sorry for this treatment you've given me for no rason. You know yourself that, as soon as I heard anything of the ill-will against the Bodagh, I tould it to you, in ordher—mark that—in ordher that you might let him know it the best way you thought proper; an' for that you've knocked me down!”
“Why, I believe you may be right, Bartle—there's truth in that—but I can't forgive you the look you gave me.”
“That red light was in my face, maybe; I'm sure if that wasn't it, I can't tell—I was myself wonderin' at your own looks, the same way; but then it was that quare light that was in your face.”
“Well, well, maybe I'm wrong—I hope I am. Do you think we could be of any use there?”
“Of use! an' how would we account for being there at all, Connor? how would you do it, at any rate, widout maybe bringin' the girl into blame?”
“You're right agin, Bartle; I'm not half so cool as you are; our best plan is to go home—”
“And go to bed; it is; an' the sooner we're there the better; sowl, Connor, you gev me a murdherin' crash.”
“Think no more of it—think no more of it—I'm not often hasty, so you must overlook it.”
It was, however, with an anxious and distressed heart that Connor O'Donovan reached his father's barn, where, in the same bed with Flanagan, he enjoyed, towards morning, a brief and broken slumber that brought back to his fancy images of blood and fire, all so confusedly mingled with Una, himself, and their parents, that the voice of his father calling upon them to rise, came to him as a welcome and manifest relief.
At the time laid in this story, neither burnings nor murders were so familiar nor patriotic, as the fancied necessity of working out political progress has recently made them. Such atrocities, in these bad and unreformed days, were certainly looked upon as criminal, rather than meritorious, however unpatriotic it may have been to form so erroneous an estimate of human villainy. The consequence of all this was, that the destruction of Bodagh Buie's property created a sensation in the country, of which, familiarized as we are to such crimes, we can entertain but a very faint notion. In three days a reward of five hundred pounds, exclusive of two hundred from government, was offered for such information as might bring the incendiary, or incendiaries, to justice. The Bodagh and his family were stunned as much with amazement at the occurrence of a calamity so incomprehensible to them, as with the loss they had sustained, for that indeed was heavy. The man was extremely popular, and by many acts of kindness had won the attachment and goodwill of all who knew him, either personally or by character. How, then, account for an act so wanton and vindictive? They could not understand it; it was not only a—crime, but a crime connected with some mysterious motive, beyond their power to detect.
But of all who became acquainted with the outrage, not one sympathized more sincerely and deeply with O'Brien's family than did Connor O'Donovan; although, of course, that sympathy was unknown to those for whom it was felt. The fact was, that his own happiness became, in some degree, involved in their calamity; and, as he came in to breakfast on the fourth morning of its occurrence, he could not help observing as much to his mother. His suspicions of Flanagan, as to possessing some clue to the melancholy business, were by no means removed. On the contrary, he felt that he ought to have him brought before the bench of magistrates who were conducting the investigation from day to day, and, with this determination, he himself resolved to state fully and candidly to the bench, all the hints which had transpired from Flanagan respecting the denunciations said to be held out against O'Brien and the causes assigned for them. Breakfast was now ready, and Fardorougha himself entered, uttering petulant charges of neglect and idleness against his servant.
“He desarves no breakfast,” said he; “not a morsel; it's robbin' me by his idleness and schaming he is. What is he doin', Connor? or what has become of him? He's not in the field nor about the place.”
Connor paused.
“Why, now that I think of it, I didn't see him to-day,” he replied; “I thought that he was mendin' the slap at the Three-Acres. I'll thry if he's in the barn.”
And he went accordingly to find him. “I'm afraid, father,” said he, on his return, “that Bartle's a bad boy, an' a dangerous one; he's not in the barn, an' it appears, from the bed, that he didn't sleep there last night. The truth is, he's gone; at laste he has brought all his clothes, his box, an' everything with him; an' what's more, I suspect the reason of it; he thinks he has let out too much to me; an' it 'ill go hard but I'll make him let out more.”
The servant-maid, Biddy, now entered and informed them that four men, evidently strangers, were approaching the house from the rear, and ere she could add anything further on the subject, two of them walked in, and, seizing Connor, informed him that he was their prisoner.
“Your prisoner!” exclaimed his mother, getting pale; “why, what could our poor boy do to make him your prisoner? He never did hurt or harm to the child unborn.”
Fardorougha's keen gray eye rested sharply upon them for a moment; it then turned to Honor, afterwards to Connor, and again gleamed bitterly at the intruders—“What is this?” said he, starting up; “what is this? you don't mane to rob us?”
“I think,” said the son, “you must be undher a mistake; you surely can have no business with me. It's very likely you want some one else.”
“What is your name?” inquired he who appeared to be the principal of them.
“My name is Connor O'Donovan; an' I know no reason why I should deny it.”
“Then you are the very man we come for,” said the querist, “so you had better prepare to accompany us; in the mean time you must excuse us if we search your room. This is unpleasant, I grant, but we have no discretion, and must perform our duty.”
“What do you want in this room?” said Fardorougha; “it's robbery you're on for—it's robbery you're on for—in open daylight, too; but you're late; I lodged the last penny yesterday; that's one comfort; you're late—you're late.”
“What did my boy do?” exclaimed the affrighted mother; “what did he do that you come to drag him away from us?”
This question she put to the other constable, the first having entered her son's bedroom.
“I am afraid, ma'am, you'll know it too soon,” replied the man; “it's a heavy charge if it proves to be true.”
As he spoke his companion re-entered the apartment, with Connor's Sunday coat in his hand, from the pocket of which he drew a steel and tinder-box.
“I'm sorry for this,” he observed; “it corroborates what has been sworn against you by your accomplice, and here, I fear, comes additional proof.”
At the same moment the other two made their appearance, one of them holding in his hand the shoes which Connor had lent to Flanagan, and which he wore on the night of the conflagration.
On seeing this, and comparing the two circumstances together, a fearful light broke on the unfortunate young man, who had already felt conscious of the snare into which he had fallen. With an air of sorrow and manly resignation he thus addressed his parents:—
“Don't be alarmed; I see that there is an attempt made to swear away my life; but, whatever happens, you both know that I am innocent of doin' an injury to any one. If I die, I would rather die innocent than live as guilty as he will that must have my blood to answer for.”
His mother, on hearing this, ran to him, and with her arms about his neck, exclaimed,
“Die! die! Connor darlin'—my brave boy—my only son—why do you talk about death? What is it for? what is it about? Oh, for the love of God, tell us what did our boy do?”
“He is charged by Bartle Flanagan,” replied one of the constables, “with burning Bodagh Buie O'Brien's haggard, because he refused him his daughter. He must now come with us to jail.”
“I see the whole plot,” said Connor, “and a deep one it is; the villain will do his worst; still I can't but have dependence upon justice and my own innocence. I can't but have dependence upon God, who knows my heart.”
PART IV.
Fardorougha stood amazed and confounded, looking from one to another like a man who felt incapable of comprehending all that had passed before him. His forehead, over which fell a few gray thin locks, assumed a deadly paleness, and his eye lost the piercing expression which usually characterized it. He threw his Cothamore several times over his shoulders, as he had been in the habit of doing when about to proceed after breakfast to his usual avocations, and as often laid it aside, without being at all conscious of what he did. His limbs appeared to get feeble, and his hands trembled as if he labored under palsy. In this mood he passed from one to another, sometimes seizing a constable by the arm with a hard, tremulous grip, and again suddenly letting go his hold of him without speaking. At length a singular transition from this state of mind became apparent; a gleam of wild exultation shot from his eye; his sallow and blasted features brightened; the Cothamore was buttoned under his chin with a rapid energy of manner evidently arising from the removal of some secret apprehension.
“Then,” he exclaimed, “it's no robbery; it's not robbery afther all; but how could it? there's no money here; not a penny; an' I'm belied, at any rate; for there's not a poorer man in the barony—thank God, it's not robbery!”
“Oh, Fardorougha,” said the wife, “don't you see they're goin' to take him away from us?”
“Take who away from us?”
“Connor, your own Connor—our boy—the light of my heart—the light of his poor mother's heart! Oh, Connor, Connor, what is it they're goin' to do to you?”
“No harm, mother, I trust; no harm—don't be frightened.”
The old man put his open hands to his temples, which he pressed bitterly, and with all his force, for nearly half a minute. He had, in truth, been alarmed into the very worst mood of his habitual vice, apprehension concerning his money; and felt that nothing, except a powerful effort, could succeed in drawing his attention to the scene which was passing before him.
“What,” said he; “what is it that's wrong wid Connor?”
“He must come to jail,” said one of the men, looking at him with surprise; “we have already stated the crime for which he stands committed.”
“To jail! Connor O'Donovan to jail!”
“It's too true, father; Bartle Flanagan has sworn that I burned Mr. O'Brien's haggard.”
“Connor, Connor,” said the old man, approaching him as he spoke, and putting his arms composedly about his neck, “Connor, my brave boy, my brave boy, it wasn't you did it; 'twas I did it,” he added, turning to the constables; “lave him, lave him wid her, an' take me in his place! Who would if I would not—who ought, I say—an' I'll do it—take me; I'll go in his place.”
Connor looked down upon the old man, and as he saw his heart rent, and his reason absolutely tottering, a sense of the singular and devoted affection which he had ever borne him, overcame him, and with a full heart he dashed away a tear from his eye, and pressed his father to his breast.
“Mother,” said he; “this will kill the old man; it will kill him!”
“Fardorougha, a hagur,” said Ha wife, feeling it necessary to sustain him as much as possible, “don't take it so much to heart, it won't signify—Connor's innocent, an' no harm will happen to him!”
“But are you lavin' us, Connor? are they—must they bring you to jail?”
“For a while, father; but I won't be long there I hope.”
“It's an unpleasant duty on our part,” said the principal of them; “still it's one we must perform. Your father should lose no time in taking the proper steps for your defence.”
“And what are we to do?” asked the mother; “God knows the boy's as innocent as I am.”
“Yes,” said Fardorougha, still upon dwelling the resolution he had made; “I'll go stand for you, Connor; you won't let them bring me instead of you.”
“That's out of the question,” replied the constable; “the law suffers nothing of the kind to take place; but if you will be advised by me, lose no time in preparing to defend him. It would be unjust to disguise the matter from you, or to keep you ignorant of its being a case of life and death.”
“Life and death! what do you mane?” asked Fardorougha, staring vacantly at the last speaker.
“It's painful to distress you; but if he's found guilty, it's death.”
“Death! hanged!” shrieked the old man, awaking as it were for the first time to a full perception of his son's situation; “hanged! my boy hanged! Connor, Connor, don't go from me!”
“I'll die wid him,” said the mother; “I'll die wid you, Connor. We couldn't live widout him,” she added, addressing the strangers; “as God is in heaven we couldn't! Oh Connor, Connor, avourneen, what is it that has come over us, and brought us to this sorrow?”
The mother's grief then flowed on, accompanied by a burst of that unstudied, but pathetic eloquence, which in Ireland is frequently uttered in the tone of wail and lamentation peculiar to those who mourn over the dead.
“No,” she added, with her arms tenderly about him, and her streaming eyes fixed with a wild and mournful look of despair upon his face; “no, he is in his loving mother's arms, the boy that never gave to his father or me a harsh word or a sore heart! Long were we lookin' for him, an' little did we think it was for this heavy fate that the goodness of God sent him to us! Oh, many a look of lovin' affection, many a happy heart did he give us! Many a time Connor, avillish, did I hang over your cradle, and draw out to myself the happiness and the good that I hoped was before you. You wor too good—too good, I doubt—to be long in such a world as this, an' no wondher that the heart of the fair young colleen, the heart of the Colleen dhas dhun should rest upon you and love you; for who ever knew you that didn't? Isn't there enough, King of heaven! enough of the bad an' the wicked in this world for the law to punish, an' not to take the innocent—not to take away from us the only one—the only one—I can't—I can't—but if they do—Connor—if they do, your lovin' mother will die wid you!”
The stern officers of justice wiped their eyes, and were proceeding to afford such consolation as they could, when Fardorougha, who had sat down after having made way for Honor to recline on the bosom of their son, now rose, and seizing the breast of his coat, was about to speak, but ere he could utter a word he tottered, and, would have instantly fallen, had not Connor caught him in his arms. This served for a moment to divert the mother's grief, and to draw her attention from the son to the husband, who was now insensible. He was carried to the door by Connor; but when they attempted to lay him in a recumbent posture, it was found almost impossible to unclasp the deathlike grip which he held of the coat. His haggard face was shrunk and collapsed; the individual features sharp and thin, but earnest and stamped with traces of alarm; his brows, too, which were slightly knit, gave to his whole countenance a character of keen and painful determination. But that which struck those who were present, most, was the unyielding grasp with which he clung even in his insensibility to the person of Connor.
If not an affecting sight, it was one at least strongly indicative of the intractable and indurated attachment which put itself forth with such vague and illusive energy on behalf of his son. At length he recovered, and on opening his eyes he fixed them with a long look of pain and distraction upon the boy's countenance.
“Father,” said Connor, “don't be cast down—you need not—and you ought not to be so much disheartened—do you feel better?”
When the father heard his voice he smiled; yes—his shrunk, pale, withered face was lit up by a wild, indescribable ecstasy, whose startling expression waa borrowed, one would think, as much from the light of insanity as from that of returning consciousness. He sucked in his thin cheeks, smacked his parched, skinny lips, and with difficulty called for drink. Having swallowed a little water, he looked round him with more composure, and inquired—
“What has happened me? am I robbed? are you robbers? But I tell you there's no money in the house. I lodged the last penny yesterday—afore my God I did—but—oh, what am I sayin'? what is this, Connor?”
“Father dear, compose yourself—we'll get over this throuble.”
“We will, darlin',” said Honor, wiping the pale brows of her husband; “an' we won't lose him.”
“No, achora,” said the old man; “no, we won't lose him! Connor?”
“Well, father dear!”
“There's a thing here—here”—and he placed his hand upon his heart—“something it is that makes me afeard—a sinkin'—a weight—and there's a strugglin', too, Connor. I know I can't stand it long—an' it's about you—it's all about you.”
“You distress yourself too much, father; indeed you do. Why, I hoped that you would comfort my poor mother till I come back to her and you, as I will, plase God.”
“Yes,” he replied; “yes, I will, I will.”
“You had better prepare,” said one of the officers; “the sooner this is over the better—he's a feeble man and not very well able to bear it.”
“You are right,” said Connor; “I won't delay many minutes; I have only to change my clothes, an' I am ready.”
In a short time he made his appearance dressed in his best suit; and, indeed, it would be extremely difficult to meet, in any rank of life, a finer specimen of vigor, activity, and manly beauty. His countenance, at all times sedate and open, was on this occasion shaded by an air of profound melancholy that gave a composed grace and dignity to his whole bearing.
“Now, father,” said he, “before I go, I think it right to lave you and my poor mother all the consolation I can. In the presence of God, in yours, in my dear mother's, and in the presence of all who hear me, I am as innocent of the crime that's laid to my charge as the babe unborn. That's a comfort for you to know, and let it prevent you from frettin'; and now, good by; God be with you, and strengthen, and support you both!”
Fardorougha had already seized his hand; but the old man could neither speak nor weep; his whole frame appeared to have been suddenly pervaded by a dry agony that suspended the beatings of his very heart. The mother's grief, on the contrary, was loud, and piercing, and vehement. She threw herself once more upon his neck; she kissed his lips, she pressed him to her heart, and poured out as before the wail of a wild and hopeless misery. At length, by the aid of some slight but necessary force, her arms were untwined from about his neck; and Connor then, stooping, embraced his father, and, gently placing him on a settle—bed, bade him farewell! On reaching the door he paused, and, turning about, surveyed his mother struggling in the hands of one of the officers to get embracing him again, and his gray—haired father sitting in speechless misery on the settle. He stood a moment to look upon them, and a few bitter tears rolled, in the silence of manly sorrow, down his cheeks.
“Oh, Fardorougha!” exclaimed his mother, after they had gone, “sure it isn't merely for partin' wid him that we feel so heart—broken. He may never stand under this roof again, an' he all we have and had to love!”
“No,” returned Fardorougha, quietly; “no, it's not, as you say, for merely partin' wid him—hanged! God! God! Mm—here—Honor—here, the thought of it—I'll die—it'll break! Oh, God support me! my heart—here—my heart'll break! My brain, too, and my head—oh! if God 'ud take me before I'd see it! But it can't be—it's not possible that our innocent boy should meet sich a death!”
“No, dear, it is not; sure he's innocent—that's one comfort; but, Fardorougha, as the men said, you must go to a lawyer and see what can be done to defind him.”
The old man rose up and proceeded to his son's bedroom.
“Honor,” said he, “come here;” and while uttering these words he gazed upon her face with a look of unutterable and hopeless distress; “there's his bed, Honor—his bed—he may never sleep on it more—he may be cut down like a flower in his youth—an' then what will become of us?”
“Forever, from this day out,” said the distracted mother, “no hands will ever make it but my own; on no other will I sleep—we will both sleep—where his head lay there will mine be too—avick machree—machree! Och, Fardorougha, we can't stand this; let us not take it to heart, as we do; let us trust in God, an' hope for the best.”
Honor, in fact, found it necessary to assume the office of a comforter; but it was clear that nothing urged or suggested by her could for a moment win back the old man's heart from the contemplation of the loss of his son. He moped about for a considerable time; but, ever and anon, found himself in Connor's bedroom, looking upon his clothes and such other memorials of him as it contained.
During the occurrence of these melancholy incidents at Fardorougha's, others of a scarcely less distressing character were passing under the roof of Bodagh Buie O'Brien.
Our readers need not be informed that the charge brought by Bartle Flanagan against Connor, excited the utmost amazement in all who heard it. So much at variance were his untarnished reputation and amiable manners with a disposition so dark and malignant as that which must have prompted the perpetration of such a crime, that it was treated at first by the public as an idle rumor. The evidence, however, of Phil Curtis, and his deposition to the conversation which occurred between him and Connor, at the time and place already known to the reader, together with the corroborating circumstances arising from the correspondence of the footprints about the haggard with the shoes produced by the constable—all, when combined together, left little doubt of his guilt. No sooner had this impression become general, than the spirit of the father was immediately imputed to the son, and many sagacious observations made, all tending to show, that, as they expressed it, “the bad drop of the old rogue would sooner or later come out in the young one;” “he wouldn't be what he was, or the bitter heart of the miser would appear;” with many other apothegms of similar import. The family of the Bodagh, however, were painfully and peculiarly circumstanced. With the exception of Una herself, none of them entertained a doubt that Connor was the incendiary. Flanagan had maintained a good character, and his direct impeachment of Connor, supported by such exact circumstantial evidence, left nothing to be urged in the young man's defence. Aware as they were of the force of Una's attachment, and apprehensive that the shock, arising from the discovery of his atrocity, might be dangerous if injudiciously disclosed to her, they resolved, in accordance with the suggestion of their son, to break the matter to herself with the utmost delicacy and caution.
“It is better,” said John, “that she should hear of the misfortune from ourselves; for, after breaking it to her as gently as possible, we can at least attempt to strengthen and console her under it.”
“Heaven above sees,” exclaimed his mother, “that it was a black and unlucky business to her and to all of us; but now that she knows what a revingeful villain he is, I'm sure she'll not find it hard to banish him out of her thoughts. Deah Grasthias for the escape she had from him at any rate!”