Fardorougha, The Miser Part 17

"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' ma.s.ses sed, for G.o.d 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 ma.s.ses sed for him; and, wid the help o' G.o.d, 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 ma.s.ses to be said against his father's avarice, she had some notion of getting another said towards his marriage with Una.

"G.o.d 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--G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed--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? G.o.d 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?"

"G.o.d pity you!" said the wife, bursting into tears; "what will become of you? Pray to G.o.d, Fardorougha, pray to Him. No one alive can change your heart but G.o.d. I wint to the priest to-day, to get two ma.s.ses 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, pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion."

"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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d. 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 pa.s.sed 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.