Fardorougha, The Miser Part 34

"Hut! no," replied Nogher, with a gravity whose irony was barely perceptible, "what would we murdher him for, now that you don't wish it?

I never had any particular wish to see my own funeral."

"And, Nogher, you will do all you can to prevent him from being murdhered?"

"To be sure, Connor--to be sure. By He that made me, we won't give pain to a single hair of his head. Are you satisfied now?"

"I am," replied the ingenuous young man, who was himself too candid to see through the sophistry of Nogher's oath.

"And now, Nogher," he replied, "many a day have we spent together--you are one of my oldest friends. I suppose this is the last time you will ever see Connor O.'Donovan; however, don't, man--don't be cast down; you will hear from me, I hope, and hear that I am well too."

He uttered this with a smile which cost him an effort; for, on looking into the face of his faithful old friend, he saw his muscles working under the influence of strong feeling--or, I should rather say, deep sorrow--which he felt anxious, by a show of cheerfulness, to remove. The fountains, however, of the old servant's heart were opened, and, after some ineffectual attempts to repress his grief, he fell upon Connor's neck, and wept aloud.

"Tut, Nogher," said Connor, "surely it's--glad you ought to be, instead of sorry. What would you have done if my first sentence had been acted upon?"

"I'm glad for your sake," replied the other, "but I'm now sorry for my own. You will live, Connor, and you may yet be happy; but he that often held you in his arms--that often played with you, and that, next to your father and mother, you loved betther than any other livin'--he, poor Nogher, will never see his boy more."

On uttering these words, he threw himself again upon Connor's neck, and we are not ashamed to say that their tears flowed together.

"I'll miss you, Connor, dear; I'll not see your face at fair or market, nor on the chapel--green of a Sunday. Your poor father will break his heart, and the mother's eye will never more have an opportunity of being proud out of her son. It's hard upon me to part wid you, Connor, but it can't be helped; I only ax you to remember Nogher, that, you know, loved you as if you wor his own; remimber me, Connor, of an odd time. I never thought--oh, Grod, I never thought to see this day! No wondher--oh, no wondher that the fair young crature should be pale and worn, an' sick at heart! I love her now, an' ever will, as well as I did yourself. I'll never see her, Connor, widout thinkin' heavily of him that her heart was set upon, an' that will then be far away from her an' from all that ever loved him."

"Nogher," replied Connor, "I'm not without hope that--but this--this is folly. You know I have a right to be thankful to G.o.d and the goodness of government for sparin' my life. Now, farewell--it is forever, Nogher, an' it is a tryin' word to-day; but you know that every one goin'

to America must say it; so, think that I'm goin' there, an' it won't signify."

"Ah, Connor, I wish I could," replied Nogher; "but, to tell the truth, what breaks my heart is, to think of the way you are goin' from us.

Farewell, then, Connor darlin; an' may the blessin' of G.o.d, an' His holy mother, an' of all the saints be upon you now an' foriver. Amin!"

His tears flowed fast, and he sobbed aloud, whilst uttering the last words; he then threw his arms about Connor's neck, and, having kissed him, he again wrung his hand, and pa.s.sed out of the cell in an agony of grief.

Such is the anomalous nature of that peculiar temperament, which, in Ireland, combines within it the extremes of generosity and crime. Here was a man who had been literally affectionate and harmless during his whole past life, yet, who was now actually plotting the murder of a person who had never,--except remotely, by his treachery to Connor, whom he loved--rendered him an injury, or given him any cause of offence.

And what can show us the degraded state of moral feeling among a people whose natural impulses are as quick to virtue as to vice, and the reckless estimate which the peasantry form of human life, more clearly than the fact, that Connor, the n.o.ble--minded, heroic, and pious peasant, could admire the honest attachment of hia old friend, without dwelling upon the dark point in his character, and mingle his tears with a man who was deliberately about to join in, or encompa.s.s, the a.s.sa.s.sination of a fellow-creature!

Even against persons of his own creed the Irishman thinks that revenge is a duty which he owes to himself;--but against those of a different faith it is not only a duty but a virtue--and any man who acts out of this feeling, either as a juror, a witness, or an elector--for the principle is the same--must expect to meet such retribution as was suggested by a heart like Nogher M'Cormick's, which was otherwise affectionate and honest. In the secret code of perverted honor by which Irishmen are guided, he is undoubtedly the most heroic and manly, and the most worthy also of imitation, who indulges in, and executes his vengeance for injuries whether real or supposed, with the most determined and unshrinking spirit; but the man who is capable of braving death, by quoting his own innocence as an argument against the justice of law, even when notoriously guilty, is looked upon by the people, not as an innocent man--for his accomplices and friends know he is not--but as one who is a hero in his rank of life; and it is unfortunately a kind of ambition among too many of our ill-thinking but generous countrymen, to propose such men as the best models for imitation, not only in their lives, but in that hardened hypocrisy which defies and triumphs over the ordeal of death itself.

Connor O'Donovan was a happy representation of all that is n.o.ble and pious in the Irish character, without one tinge of the crimes which darken or discolor it. But the heart that is full of generosity and fort.i.tude, is generally most susceptible of the kinder and more amiable affections. The n.o.ble boy, who could hear the sentence of death without the commotion of a nerve, was forced to weep on the neck of an old and faithful follower who loved him, when he remembered that, after that melancholy visit, he should see his familiar face no more. When Nogher left him, a train of painful reflections pa.s.sed through his mind. He thought of Una, of his father, of his mother, and for some time was more depressed than usual. But the gift of life to the young is ever a counterbalance to every evil that is less than death. In a short time he reflected that the same Providence which had interposed between him and his recorded sentence, had his future fate in its hands; and that he had health, and youth, and strength--and, above all, a good conscience--to bear him through the future vicissitudes of his appointed fate.

PART VI.

To those whose minds and bodies are of active habits, there can be scarcely anything more trying than a position in which the latter is deprived of its usual occupation, and the former forced to engage itself only on the contemplation of that which is painful. In such a situation, the mental and physical powers are rendered incapable of mutually sustaining each other; for we all know that mere corporal employment lessens affliction, or enables us in a shorter time to forget it, whilst the acuteness of bodily suffering, on the other hand, is blunted by those pursuits which fill the mind with agreeable impressions. During the few days, therefore, that intervened between the last interview which Connor held with Nogher M'Cormick, and the day of his final departure he felt himself rather relieved than depressed by the number of friends who came to visit him for the last time. He was left less to solitude and himself than he otherwise would have been, and, of course, the days of his imprisonment were neither so dreary nor oppressive as the uninterrupted contemplation of his gloomy destiny would have rendered them. Full of the irrepressible ardor of youth, he longed for that change which he knew must bring him onward in the path of life; and in this how little did he resemble the generality of other convicts, who feel as if time were bringing about the day of their departure with painful and more than ordinary celerity! At length the interviews between him and all those whom he wished to see were concluded, with the exception of three, viz.--John O'Brien and his own parents, whilst only two clear days intervened until the period, of his departure.

It was on the third morning previous to that unhappy event, that the brother of his Una--the most active and indefatigable of all those who had interested themselves for him--was announced as requiring an interview. Connor, although prepared for this, experienced on the occasion, as every high-minded person would do, a strong feeling of degradation and shame as the predominant sensation. That, indeed, was but natural, for it is undoubtedly true that we feel disgrace the more heavily upon us in the eyes of those we esteem, than we do under any other circ.u.mstances. This impression, however, though as we have said the strongest,--was far from being the only one he felt. A heart like his could not be insensible to the obligations under which the generous and indefatigable exertions of young O'Brien had placed him. But, independently of this, he was Una's brother, and the appearance of one so dear to her gave to all his love for her a character of melancholy tenderness, more deep and full than he had probably ever experienced before. Her brother would have been received with extraordinary warmth on his own account, but, in addition to that, Connor knew that he now came on behalf of Una herself. It was, therefore, under a tumult of mingled sensations, that he received him in his gloomy apartment--gloomy in despite of all that a humane jailer could do to lessen the rigors of his confinement.

"I cannot welcome you to sich a place, as this is," said Connor, grasping and wringing his hand, as the other entered, "although I may well say that I would be glad to see you anywhere, as I am, indeed, to see you even here. I know what I owe you, an' what you have done for me."

"Thank G.o.d," replied the other, returning his grasp with equal pressure, "thank G.o.d, that, at all events, the worst of what we expected will not----" He paused, for, on looking at O'Donovan, he observed upon his open brow a singular depth of melancholy, mingled less with an expression of shame, than with the calm but indignant sorrow of one who could feel no resentment against him with whom he spoke.

O'Brien saw, at a glance, that Connor, in consequence of something in his manner, joined to his inconsiderate congratulations, imagined that he believed him guilty. He lost not a moment, therefore, in correcting this mistake.

"It would have been dreadful," he proceeded, "to see innocent blood shed, through the perjury of a villain--for, of course, you cannot suppose for a moment that one of our family suppose you to be guilty."

"I was near doin' you injustice, then," replied the other; "but I ought to know that if you did think me so, you wouldn't now be here, nor act as you did. Not but that I thought it possible, on another account you----No," he added, after a pause, "that would be doin' the brother of Una injustice."

"You are right," returned O'Brien. "No circ.u.mstance of any kind"--and he laid a peculiar emphasis on the words--"no circ.u.mstance of any kind could bring me to visit a man capable of such a mean and cowardly act; for, as to the loss we sustained, I wouldn't think of it. You, Connor O'Donovan, are not the man to commit any act, either the one or the other. If I did not feel this, you would not see me before you."

He extended his hand to him while he spoke, and the brow of Connor brightened as he met his grasp.

"I believe you," he replied; "and now I hope we may spake out like men that undherstand one another. In case you hadn't come, I intended to lave a message for you with my mother. I believe you know all Una's secrets?"

"I do," replied O'Brien, "just as well as her confessor."

"Yes, I believe that," said Connor. "The sun in heaven is not purer than she is. The only fault she ever could be charged with was her love for me; and heavily, oh! far too heavily, has she suffered for it!"

"I, for one, never blamed her on that account," said her brother. "I knew that her good sense would have at any time prevented her from forming an attachment to an unworthy object; and upon the strength of her own judgment, I approved of that which she avowed for you. Indeed, I perceived it myself before she told me; but upon attempting to gain her secret, the candid creature at once made me her confidant."

"It is like her," said Connor; "she is all truth. Well would it be for her, if she had never seen me. Not even the parting from my father and mother sinks my heart with so much sorrow, as the thought that her love for me had made her so unhappy. It's a strange case, John O'Brien, an'

a trying one; but since it is the will of G.o.d, we must submit to it. How did you leave her? I heard she was getting better."

"She is better," said John--"past danger, but still very delicate and feeble. Indeed, she is so much worn down, that you would scarcely know her. The brightness of her dark eye is dead--her complexion gone.

Sorrow, as she says herself, is in her and upon her. Never, indeed, was a young creature's love so pure and true."

O'Donovan made no reply for some time; but the other observed that he turned away his face from him, as if to conceal his emotion. At length his bosom heaved vehemently, three or four times, and his breath came and went with a quick and quivering motion, that betrayed the powerful struggle which he felt.

"I know it is but natural for you to feel deeply," continued her brother; "but as you have borne everything heretofore with so much firmness, you must not break down--"

"But you know it is a deadly thrial to be forever separated from sich a girl. Sufferin' so much as you say--so worn! Her dark eye dim with--oh, it is, it is a deadly thrial--a heart--breaking thrial! John O'Brien,"

he proceeded, with uncommon earnestness, "you are her only brother, an'

she is your only sister. Oh, will you, for the sake of G.o.d, and for my sake, if I may take the liberty of sayin' so--but, above all things, will you, for her own sake, when I am gone, comfort and support her, and raise her heart, if possible, out of this heavy throuble?"

Her brother gazed on him with a melancholy smile, in which might be read both admiration and sympathy.

"Do you think it possible that I would, or could omit to cherish and sustain poor Una, under such thrying circ.u.mstances! Everything considered, however, your words are only natural--only natural."

"Don't let her think too much about it," continued O'Donovan. "Bring her out as much as you can--let her not be much by herself. But this is folly in me," he added; "you know yourself better than I can instruct you how to act."

"G.o.d knows," replied the brother, struck and softened by the mournful anxiety for her welfare which Connor expressed, "G.o.d knows that all you say, and all I can think of besides, shall be done for our dear girl--so make your mind easy."

"I thank you," replied the other; "from my soul an' from the bottom of my heart, I thank you. Endeavor to make her forget me, if you can; an'

when this pa.s.ses away out of her mind, she may yet be happy--a happy wife and a happy mother--an' she can then think of her love for Connor O'Donovan, only as a troubled dream that she had in her early life."

"Connor," said the other, "this is not right--you must be firmer;" but as he uttered the words of reproof, the tears almost came to his eyes.

"As for my part," continued Connor, "what is the world to me now, that I've lost her? It is--it is a hard and a dark fate, but why it should fall upon us I do not know. It's as much as I can do to bear it as I ought."

"Well, well," replied John, "don't dwell too much on it. I have something else to speak to you about."

"Dwell on it!" returned the other; "as G.o.d is above me, she's not one minute out of my thoughts; an' I tell you, I'd rather be dead this minute, than forget her. Her memory now is the only happiness that is left to me--my only wealth in this world."