Fardorougha, The Miser Part 13

"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 b.u.t.ton wanst I escaped from the eye of your father; anyhow, bad luck to it for whiskey; I have a murdherin' big hedd.i.c.k 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 a.s.suring 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 a.s.sured her that he feared no earthly circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sion 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 crus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.s my time in idleness, or that I myself could bear to be unemployed even if she did; I can milk, make b.u.t.ter, 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 a.s.sist 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; "n.o.body 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! G.o.d bless your brother! he must have a kind heart, Una dear, and he must love you very much when he promises to a.s.sist 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 a.s.sistance 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 b.u.t.ton 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 b.u.t.termilk, 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.