Fardorougha, The Miser Part 11

"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 cra.s.s 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 n.o.body 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 a.s.sist 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--G.o.d 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, compa.s.sion, and deep distress pa.s.sed 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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."