Fardorougha, The Miser Part 32

She had hardly uttered the last words, when O'Brien entered.

"Young man," said this superior woman, '"it's a poor welcome we can give you to a house of sorrow."

"Ay," said Fardorougha, "his mother an' I's here, but where is he? Nine days from this; but it 'ill kill me--it will--it will. Whin he's taken from me, I don't care how soon I folly him; G.o.d forgive me if it's a sin to say so!"

"Fardorougha," said his wife, in a tone of affectionate reproof, "remember what you promised me, an', at all evints, you forget that Mr.

O'Brien here may have his own troubles; I heard your sister was unwell.

Oh, how is she, poor thing?"

"I thank you, a great deal better; I will not deny but she heard a piece of intelligence this day, that has relieved her mind and taken a dead weight off her heart."

Honor, with uncommon firmness and solemnity of manner, placed her hand upon his shoulder, and, looking him earnestly in the face, said,

"That news is about our son?"

"It is," replied O'Brien, "and it's good; his sentence is changed, and he is not to die."

"Not to die!" shrieked the old man, starting up, and clapping his hands frantically--"not to die! our son--Connor, Connor--not to be hanged--not to be hanged! Did you say that, son of O'Brien Buie, did you--did you?"

"I did," replied the other; "he will not suffer."

"Now that's G.o.d," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Fardorougha, wildly; "that's G.o.d an' his mother's prayers. Boys," he shrieked, "come here; come here, Biddy Nulty, come her; Connor's not to die; he won't suffer--he won't suffer!"

He was rus.h.i.+ng wildly to the door, but Honor placed herself before him, and said, in that voice of calmness which is uniformly that of authority and power:

"Fardorougha, dear, calm yourself. If this is G.o.d's work, as you say, why not resave it as comm' from G.o.d? It's upon your two knees you ought to drop, an'--Saver above, what's the matther wid him? He's off; keep him up. Oh, G.o.d bless you! that's it, avourneen; jist place him on the chair there fornext the door, where he can have air. Here, dear," said she to Biddy Nulty, who, on hearing herself called by her master, had come in from another room; "get some feathers, Biddy, till we burn them undher his nose; but first fetch a jug of cold water."

On looking at the face of the miser, O'Brien started, as indeed well he might, at such a pallid, worn, and death--like countenance; why, thought he to himself, surely this must be death, and the old man's cares, and sorrows, and hopes, are all pa.s.sed forever.

Honor now bathed his face, and wet his lips with water, and as she sprinkled and rubbed back the gray hair from his emaciate! temples, there might be read there an expression of singular wildness that resembles the wreck produced by insanity.

"He looks ill," observed O'Brien, who actually thought him dead; "but I hope it won't signify."

"I trust in G.o.d's mercy it won't," replied Honor; "for till his heart, poor man, is brought more to G.o.d--"

She paused with untaught delicacy, for she reflected that he was her husband.

"For that matther, who is there," she continued, "that is fit to go to their last account at a moment's warnin'? That's a good girl, Biddy; give me the feathers; there's nothing like them. Dheah Gratihias! Dheah Gratihias!" she exclaimed, "he's not--he's not--an' I was afeard he was--no, he's recoverin'. Shake him; rouse him a little; Fardorougha, dear!"

"Where--where am I?" exclaimed her husband; "what is this? what ails me?"

He then looked inquiringly at his wife and O'Brien; but it appeared that the presence of the latter revived in his mind the cause of his excitement.

"Is it--is it thrue, young man? tell me--tell me!"

"How, dear, can any one have spirits to tell you good news, when you can't bear it aither like a man or a Christian?"

"Good news! You say, then, it's thrue, an' he's not to be hanged by the neck, as the judge said; an' my curse--my heavy curse upon him for a judge!"

"I hate to hear the words of his sentence, Fardorougha," said the wife; "but if you have patience you'll find that his life's granted to him; an', for Heaven's sake, curse n.o.body. The judge only did his duty."

"Well," he exclaimed, sinking upon his knees, "now, from this day out, let what will happen, I'll stick to my duty to G.o.d--I'll repent--I'll repent and lead a new life. I will, an' while I'm alive I'll never say a word against the will of my heavenly Saviour; never, never."

"Fardorougha," replied his--wife, "it's good, no doubt, to have a grateful heart to G.o.d; but I'm afeard there's sin in what you're sayin', for you know, dear, that, whether it plased the Almighty to take yur boy, or not, what you've promised to do is your duty. It's like sayin', 'I'll now turn my heart bekase G.o.d has deserved it at my hands.' Still, dear, I'm not goin' to condimn you, only I think it's betther an' safer to love an' obey G.o.d for His own sake! blessed be His holy name!"

Young O'Brien was forcibly struck by the uncommon character of Honor O'Donovan. Her patience, good sense, and sincere acquiescence in the will of G.o.d, under so severe a trial, were such as he had never seen: equalled. Nor could he help admitting to himself, while contemplating her conduct, that the example of such a woman was not only the most beautiful comment on religious truth, but the n.o.blest testimony of its power.

"Yes, Honor," said the husband, in reply, "you're right, for I know that what you say is always thrue. It is, indeed," he added, addressing O'Brien, "she's aquil to a prayer-book."

"Yes, and far superior to any," replied the latter; "for she not only gives you the advice, but sets you the example."

"Ay, the sorra lie in it; an', oh, Honor, he's not to die--he's not to be h----, not to suffer. Our son's to live! Oh, Saver of earth, make me thankful this day!"

The tears ran fast from his eyes as he looked up to heaven, and uttered, the last; words. Indeed, it was impossible not to feel deep compa.s.sion for this aged man, whose heart had been smitten so heavily, and on the only two points where it was capable of feeling the blow.

After having indulged his grief for some time, he became considerably more composed, if not cheerful. Honor made many kind inquiries after Una's health, to which her brother answered with strict candor, for he had heard from Una that she was acquainted with the whole history of their courts.h.i.+p.

"Who knows," said she, speaking with reference to their melancholy fate, "but the G.o.d who has saved his life, an' most likely hers, may yet do more for them both? While there's life there's hope."

"Young man," said Fardorougha, "you carry a blessin' wid you wherever you go, an' may G.o.d bless you for the news you have brought to us this day! I'll go to see him tomorrow, an' wid a light heart I'll go too, for my son is not to die."

O'Brien then took his leave and returned home, pondering, as he went, upon the singular contrast which existed between the character of the miser and that of his admirable wife. He was no sooner gone than Honor addressed her husband as follows:

"Fardorougha, what do you think we ought both to do now afther the happy news we've heard?"

"I'll be guided by you, Honor; I'll be guided by you."

"Then," said she, "go an' thank G.o.d that has taken the edge, the bitther, keen edge off of our sufferin'; an' the best way, in my opinion, for you to do it, is to go to the barn by yourself, an' strive to put your whole heart into your prayers. You'll pray betther by yourself than wid me. An' in the name of G.o.d I'll do the same as well as I can in the house here. To-morrow, too, is Friday, an', plaise our Saviour, we'll both fast in honor of His goodness to us an' to our son."

"We will, Honor," said he, "we will, indeed; for now I have spirits to fast, and spirits to pray, too. What will I say, now? Will I say the five Decades or the whole Rosary?"

"If you can keep your mind in the prayers, I think you ought to say the whole of it; but if you wandher don't say more than the five."

Fardorougha then went to the bam, rather because his wife desired him, than from a higher motive, whilst she withdrew to her own apartment, there humbly to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d in thanksgiving.

The next day had made the commutation of Connor's punishment a matter of notoriety through the whole parish, and very sincere indeed was the gratification it conveyed to all who heard it. Public fame, it is true, took her usual liberties with the facts. Some said he had got a free pardon, others that he was to be liberated after six months'

imprisonment; and a third report a.s.serted that the lord lieutenant sent him down a hundred pounds to fit him out for marriage with Una; and it further added that his excellency wrote a letter with his own hand, to Bodagh Buie, desiring him to give his daughter to Connor on receipt of it, or if not, that the Knight of the Black Rod would come down, strip him of his property, and bestow it upon Connor and his daughter.

The young man himself was almost one of the first who heard of this favorable change in his dreadful sentence.

He was seated on his bedside reading, when the sheriff and jailer entered his cell, anxious to lay before him the reply which had that morning arrived from government.

"I'm inclined to think, O'Donovan, that your case is likely to turn out more favorably than we expected," said the humane sheriff.

"I hope, with all my heart, it may," replied the other; "there is no denying, sir, that I'd wish it. Life is sweet, especially to a young man of my years."

"But if we should fail," observed the jailer, "I trust you will act the part of a man."