Fardorougha, The Miser Part 48

"John," replied the other fervently, "the wealth of the universe is below her price. I'm not worthy of her, except in this, that I could shed my heart's dearest blood to do her good."

"Little you know of it yet," said the other smiling significantly, "but you will soon."

It appeared that Fardorougha's wife had borne the hardships of both voyages better than her husband, who, as his son sensibly observed, had been too much worn down before by the struggle between his love for him and his attachment to his money.

"His cares are now nearly over," said Connor, with a sigh. "Indeed, he is so far gone that I don't know how to lave him while I'm providin' a home for him to die in."

"That is already done," replied O'Brien. "Una did not forget it. They have a house near ours, furnished with everything that can contribute to their comfort."

Connor, on hearing this, paused, and his cheek became pale and red alternately with emotion--his nerves thrilled, and a charm of love and pleasure diffused itself over his whole being.

"There is no use in my speaking," he exclaimed; "love her more than I do I cannot."

In consequence of Fardorougha's illness, they were forced to travel by slower and shorter stages than they intended. O'Brien, however, never left them; for he knew that should the miser die on the way, they would require the presence and services of a friend. In due time, however, they reached the place appointed by John for the car to meet them; and ere many hours had pa.s.sed, they found themselves once more in what they could call their home. From the miser's mind the power of observing external nature seemed to have been altogether withdrawn; he made no observation whatever upon the appearance or novelty of the scene to which he was conveyed, nor of the country through which he pa.s.sed; but when put to bed he covered himself with the bed-clothes, and soon fell into a slumber.

"Connor," said his mother, "your father's now asleep, an' won't miss you; lose no time, thin, in goin' to see her; and may G.o.d strinthen you both for sich a meetin'!" They accordingly went. The Bodagh was out, but Una and her mother were sitting in the parlor when the noise of a jaunting-car was heard driving up to the door; Una involuntarily looked out of the window, and seeing two she started up, and putting her hands together, hysterically exclaimed thrice, "Mother, mother, mother, a.s.sist me, a.s.sist me--he's here!" Her mother caught her in her arms; and at the same moment Connor rushed in. Una could only extend her arms to receive him; he clasped her to his heart, and she sobbed aloud several times rapidly, and then her head sank upon his bosom.

Her mother and brother were both weeping.

Her lover looked down upon her, and, as he hung over the beautiful and insensible girl, the tears which he shed copiously bedewed her face.

After a few minutes she recovered, and her brother, with his usual delicacy, beckoned to his mother to follow him out of the room, knowing that the presence of a third person is always a restraint upon the interchange of even the tenderest and purest affection. Both, therefore, left them to themselves; and we, in like manner, must allow that delicious interview to be sacred only to themselves, and unprofaned by the gaze or presence of a spectator. The Bodagh and his wife were highly gratified at the steps their children had taken to provide for the comfort of Fardorougha and his wife. The next day the whole family paid them a visit, but on seeing the miser, it was clear that his days were numbered. During the most vigorous and healthy period of his life, he had always been thin and emaciated; but now, when age, illness, the severity of a sis months' voyage, and, last of all, the hand of death, left their wasting traces upon his person, it would indeed be difficult to witness an image of penury more significant of its spirit. We must, however, do the old man justice. Since the loss of his money or rather since the trial and conviction of his son, or probably since the operation of both events upon his heart, he had seldom, if ever, by a single act or expression, afforded any proof that his avarice survived, or was able to maintain its hold upon him, against the shock which awakened the full power of a father's love.

About ten o'clock, a. m., on the fourth day after their arrival, Connor, who had run over to the Bodagh's, was hurriedly sent for by his mother, who desired Nelly M'Cormick to say that his father incessantly called for him, and that he must not lose a moment in coming. He returned immediately with her, and found the old man reclining in bed, supported by his wife, who sat behind him.

"Is my boy comin'?" he said, in a thin, wiry, worn voice, but in words which, to any person near him, were as distinct almost as ever--"is my boy Connor comin'?"

"I am here, father," replied Connor, who had just entered the sick room; "sure I am always with you."

"You are, you are," said he, "you were ever an' always good. Give me your hand, Connor."

Connor did so.

"Connor, darlin'," he proceeded, "don't be like me. I loved money too much; I set my heart on it, an' you know how it was taken away from me.

The priest yesterday laid it upon me, out of regard to my reignin' sin, as he called it, to advise you afore I die against lovin' the wealth o'

this world too much."

"I hope I never will, father, your own misfortune ought to be a warnin'

to me."

"Ay, you may say that; it's I indeed that was misfortunate; but it was all through P----an' that nest o' robbers, the Isle o' Man."

"Don't think of him or it now, my dear father--don't be discomposin'

your mind about them."

Connor and his mother exchanged a melancholy glance; and the latter, who, on witnessing his frame of mind, could not help shedding bitter tears, said to him--

"Fardorougha dear, Fardorougha asth.o.r.e machree, won't you be guided by me? You're now on your death--bed, an' think of G.o.d's marcy--it's that you stand most in need of. Sure, ayourneen, if you had all the money you ever had, you couldn't bring a penny of it where you're goin'."

"Well, but I'm givin' Connor advice that'll sarve him. Sure I'm not biddin' him to set his heart on it, for I tould the priest I wouldn't; but is that any raison why he'd not save it? I didn't tell the priest that I wouldn't bid him do that."

"Father," said Connor, "for the love o' G.o.d will you put these thoughts out o' your heart and mind?"

"So Connor dear," proceeded the old man, not attending to him, "in makin' any bargain, Connor, be sure to make as hard a one as you can; but for all that be honest, an' never lind a penny o' money widout interest."

"I think he's wandherin'," whispered his mother. "Oh grant it may be so, marciful Jasus this day!"

"Honor ahagur."

"Well, darlin', what is it?"

"There's another thing that throubles me--I never knew what it was to feel myself far from my own till now."

"How is that, dear?"

"My bones won't rest in my own counthry; I won't sleep wid them that belong to me. How will I lie in a strange grave, and in a far land? Oh, will no one bring me back to my own?"

The untutored sympathies of neither wife nor son could resist this beautiful and affecting trait of nature, and the undying love of one's own land, emanating, as it did, so unexpectedly, from a heart otherwise insensible to the ordinary tendernesses of life.

"Sure you are at home, avourneen," said Honor; "an' will rest wid your friends and relations that have gone before you."

"No," said he, "I'm not, I'm far away from them, but now I feel more comforted; I have one wid me that's dearer to me than them all. Connor and I will sleep together, won't we, Connor?"

This affectionate transition from every other earthly object to himself, so powerfully smote the son's heart that he could not reply.

"What ails him, Connor?" said his wife. "Help me to keep up his head--Saver above!"

Connor raised his head, but saw at a glance that the last struggle in the old man's heart was over. The miser was no more.

Little now remains to be said. The grief for old age, though natural, is never abiding.

The miser did sleep with his own; and after a decent period allotted to his memory, need we say that our hero and heroine, if we may be permitted so to dignify them, were crowned in the enjoyment of those affections which were so severely tested, and at the same time so worthy of their sweet reward.

Ned M'Cormick and Biddy Nulty followed their example, and occupied the house formerly allotted to Fardorougha and his wife. John O'Brien afterwards married, and the Bodagh, reserving a small but competent farm for himself, equally divided his large holdings between his son and son-in-law. On John's mojority he built a suitable house; but Una and her husband, and Honor, all live with themselves, and we need scarcely say, for it is not long since we spent a week with them, that the affection of the old people for their grandchildren is quite enthusiastic, and that the grandchildren, both boys and girls, are worthy of it.