Fardorougha, The Miser Part 9

The next morning, after having left the barn where he slept, he contrived to throw himself in the way of Biddy Duggan, a girl, who, though vain and simple, was at the same time conscientious and honest.

On pa.s.sing from the barn to the kitchen, he noticed her returning from the well with a pitcher of water in each hand, and as it is considered an act of civil attention for the male servant, if not otherwise employed, to a.s.sist the female in small, matters of the kind, so did Flanagan, in his best manner and kindest voice, bid her good-morning and offer to carry home the pitcher.

"It's the least I may do," said he, "now that I'm your fellow-servant; but before you go farther, lay down your burden, an' let us chat awhile."

"Indeed," replied Biddy, "it's little we expected ever to see your father's son goin' to earn his bread undher another man's roof."

"Pooh! Biddy! there's greater wondhers in the world than that, woman alive! But tell me--pooh--ay, is there a thousand quarer things--but I say, Biddy, how do you like to--live wid this family?"

"Why, troth indeed, only for the withered ould leprechaun himself, divil a dacenter people ever broke bread."

"Yet, isn't it a wondher that the ould fellow is what he is, an' he so full o' money?"

"Troth, there's one thing myself wondhers at more than that."

"What, Biddy? let us hear it."

"Why, that you could be mane an' shabby! enough to come as a sarvint to ate the bread of the man that ruined yees!"

"Biddy," replied Flanagan, "I'm glad! you've said it; but do you think that I have so bad a heart as too keep revinge in against an inimy? How could I go to my knees at night, if I--no, Biddy, we must be Christians.

Well! let us drop that; so you tell me this mother an' son are kind to you."

"As good-hearted a pair as ever lived."

"Connor, of course, can't but be very kind to so good-looking a girl as you are, Biddy," said Bartle, with a knowing smile.

"Very kind! good-looking! ay, indeed, I'm sure o' that, Bartle; behave!

an' don't be gettin' an wid any o' your palavers. What 'ud make Connor be kind to the likes of me, that way?"

"I don't see why you oughtn't an' mightn't--you're as good as him, if it goes to that."

"Oh, yis, indeed!"

"Why, you know you'r handsome."

"Handsome," replied the vain girl, tightening her ap.r.o.n-strings, and a.s.suming a sly, coquettish look; "Bartle, go 'an mind your business, and let me bring home my pitchers; it's time the breakwist was down. Sich nonsense!"

"Very well, you're not, thin; you've a bad leg, a bad figure, an' a bad face, an' it would be a terrible thing all out for Connor O'Donovan to fall in consate wid you."

"Well, about Connor I could tell you something;--me! tut! go to the sarra;--faix, you don't know them that Connor's afther, nor the collogin' they all had about it no longer ago than last night itself.

I suppose they thought I was asleep, but it was like the hares, wid my eyes open."

"An' it's a pity, Biddy, ever the same two eyes should be shut. Begad, myself is beginning to feel quare somehow, when I look at them."

A glance of pretended incredulity was given in return, after which she proceeded--

"Bartle, don't be bringin' yourself to the fair wid sich folly. My eyes is jist as G.o.d made them; but I can tell you that before a month o'

Sundays pa.s.ses, I wouldn't be surprised if you seen Connor married to--you wouldn't guess!"

"Not I; divil a hap'orth I know about who he's courtin'."

"No less than our great beauty, Bodagh Buie's daughter, Una O'Brien.

Now, Bartle, for goodness sake, don't let this cross your lips to a livin' mortal. Sure I heard him tellin' all to the father and mother last night--they're promised to one another. Eh! blessed saints, Bartle, what ails you? you're as white as a sheet. What's wrong? and what did you start for?"

"Nothin'," replied Flanagan, coolly, "but a st.i.tch in my side. I'm subject to that--it pains me very much while it lasts, and laves me face, as you say, the color of dimity; but about Connor, upon my throth, I'm main proud to hear it; she's a purty girl, an' besides he'll have a fortune that'll make a man of him. I am, in throth, heart proud to hear it. It's a pity Connor's father isn't as dacent as himself. Arrah, Biddy, where does the ould codger keep his money?"

"Little of it in the house any way--sure, whenever he sc.r.a.pes a guinea together he's away wid it to the county ---- county ---- och, that countryman that keeps the money for the people."

"The treasurer; well, much good may his thrash do him, Biddy, that's the worst I wish him. Come now and I'll lave your pitchers at home, and remember you owe me something for this."

"Good will, I hope."

"That for one thing," he replied, as they went along; "but we'll talk more about it when we have time; and I'll thin tell you the truth about what brought me to hire wid Fardorougha Donovan."

Having thus excited that most active principle called female curiosity, both entered the kitchen, where they found Connor and his mother in close and apparently confidential conversation--Fardorougha himself having as usual been abroad upon his farm for upwards of an hour before any of them had risen.

The feelings with which they met that morning at breakfast may be easily understood by our readers without much a.s.sistance of ours. On the part of Fardorougha there was a narrow, selfish sense of exultation, if not triumph, at the chance that lay before his son of being able to settle himself independently in life, without the necessity of making any demand upon the hundreds which lay so safely in the keeping of the County Treasurer. His sordid soul was too deeply imbued with the love of money to perceive that what he had hitherto looked upon as a proof of parental affection and foresight, was nothing more than a fallacy by which he was led day after day farther into his prevailing vice.

In other words, now that love for his son, and the hope of seeing him occupy a respectable station in society, ought to have justified the reasoning by which he had suffered himself to be guided, it was apparent that the prudence which he had still considered to be his duty as a kind parent, was nothing else than a mask for his own avarice. The idea, therefore, of seeing Connor settled without any aid from himself, filled his whole soul with a wild, hard satisfaction, which gave him as much delight as perhaps he was capable of enjoying. The advice offered to his son on the preceding night appeared to him a matter so reasonable in itself, and the opportunity offered by Una's attachment so well adapted for making it an instrument to work upon the affections of her parents, that he could not for the life of him perceive why they should entertain any rational objection against it.

The warm-hearted mother partic.i.p.ated so largely in all that affected the happiness of her son, that, if we allow for the difference of s.e.x and position, we might describe their feelings as bearing, in the character of their simple and vivid enjoyment, a very remarkable resemblance.

This amiable woman's affection for Connor was reflected upon Una O'Brien, whom she now most tenderly loved, not because the fair girl was beautiful, but because she had plighted her troth to that Son who had been during his whole life her own solace and delight.

No sooner was the morning meal concluded, and the servants engaged at their respective employments, than Honor, acting probably under Connor's suggestion, resolved at once to ascertain whether her husband could so far overcome his parsimony as to establish their son and Una in life; that is, in the event of Una's parents opposing their marriage, and declining to render them any a.s.sistance. With this object in view, she told him, as he was throwing his great-coat over his shoulders, in order to proceed to the fields, that she wished to speak to him upon a matter of deep importance.

"What is it?" said Fardorougha, with a hesitating shrug, "what is it?

This is ever an' always the way when you want _money_; but I tell you I have no money. You wor born to waste and extravagance, Honor, an'

there's no curin' you. What is it you want? an' let me go about my business."

"Throw that ould threadbare Cothamore off o' you," replied Honor, "and beg of G.o.d to give you grace to sit down, an' have common feeling and common sense."

"If it's money to get cloes either for yourself or Connor, there's no use in it. I needn't sit; you don't want a st.i.tch, either of you."

Honor, without more ado, seized the coat, and, flinging it aside, pushed him over to a seat on which she forced him to sit down.

"As heaven's above me," she exclaimed, "I dunna what come over you at all, at all. Your money, your thrash, your dirt an' filth, ever, ever, an' for evermore in your thought, heart and sowl. Oh, Chierna! to think of it, an' you know there is a G.o.d above you, an' that you must meet Him, an' that widout your money too!"

"Ay, ay, the money's what you want to come at; but I'll not sit here to be hecthor'd. What is it, I say again, you want?"

"Fardorougha ahagur," continued the wife, checking herself, and addressing him in a kind and affectionate voice, "maybe I was spakin'

too harsh to you, but sure it was an' is for your own good. How an'

ever, I'll thry kindness, and if you have a heart at all, you can't but show it when you hear what I'm goin' to say."

"Well, well, go an," replied the pertinacious husband; "but--money--ay, ay, is there. I feel, by the way you're comin' about me, that there is money at the bottom of it."

The wife raised her hands and eyes to heaven, shook her head, and after a slight pause, in which she appeared to consider her appeal a hopeless one, she at length went on in an earnest but subdued and desponding spirit--

"Fardorougha, the time's now come that will show the world whether you love Connor or not."

"I don't care a pin about the world; you an' Connor know well enough that I love him."