Fardorougha, The Miser. William Carleton
not our readers of rank, then, if any such may honor our pages with a perusal, be at all surprised at the expression of Connor O'Donovan when, under the ecstatic power of a love so pure and artless as that which bound his heart and Una's together, he exclaimed, as he did, “Oh! I could pray to God this moment with a purer heart than I ever had before!” Such a state of feeling among the people is neither rare nor anomalous; for, however, the great ones and the wise ones of the world may be startled at our assertion, we beg to assure them that love and religion are more nearly related to each other than those, who have never felt either in its truth and purity, can imagine.
As Connor performed his journey home, the thunder tempest passed fearfully through the sky; and, though the darkness was deep and unbroken by anything but the red flashes of lightning, yet, so strongly absorbed was his heart by the scene we have just related, that he arrived at his father's house scarcely conscious of the roar of elements which surrounded him.
The family had retired to bed when he entered, with the exception of his parents, who, having felt uneasy at his disappearance, were anxiously awaiting his return, and entering into fruitless conjectures concerning the cause of an absence so unusual.
“What,” said the alarmed mother, “what in the wide world could keep him so long out, and on sich a tempest as is in it? God protect my boy from all harm an' danger, this fearful night! Oh, Fardorougha, what 'ud become of us if anything happened him? As for me—my heart's wrapped up in him; wid—out our darlin' it 'ud break, break, Fardorougha.”
“Hut; he's gone to some neighbor's an' can't come out till the storm is over; he'll soon be here now that the thunder an' lightnin's past.”
“But did you never think, Fardorougha, what 'ud become of you, or what you'd do or how you'd live, if anything happened him? which the Almighty forbid this night and forever! Could you live widout him?”
The old man gazed upon her like one who felt displeasure at having a contingency so painful forced upon his consideration. Without making any reply, however, he looked thoughtfully into the fire for some time, after which he rose up, and, with a querulous and impatient voice, said,
“What's the use of thinkin' about sich things? Lose him! why would I lose him? I couldn't lose him—I'd as soon lose my own life—I'd rather be dead at wanst than lose him.”
“God knows your love for him is a quare love, Fardorougha,” rejoined the wife; “you wouldn't give him a guinea if it 'ud save his life, or allow him even a few shillings now an' then, for pocket-money, that he might be aquil to other young boys like him.”
“No use, no use in that, except to bring him into drink an' other bad habits; a bad way, Honora, of showin' one's love for him. If you had your will you'd spoil him; I'm keepin' whatsomever little shillin's we've scraped together to settle him dacently in life; but, indeed, that's time enough yet; he's too young to marry for some years to come, barrin' he got a fortune.”
“Well, one thing, Fardorougha, if ever two people were blessed in a good son, praise be God we are that!”
“We are, Honor, we are; there's not his aquil in the parish—achora machree that he is. When I'm gone he'll know what I've done for him.”
“Whin you're gone; why, Saver of arth, sure you wouldn't keep him out of his—— husth!——here he is, God be thanked! poor boy he's safe. Oh, thin, vich no Hoiah, Connor jewel, were you out undher this terrible night?”
“Connor, avich machree,” added the father, “you're lost! My hand to you, if he's worth three hapuns; sthrip an' throw my Cothamore about you, an' draw in to the fire; you're fairly lost.”
“I'm worth two lost people yet,” said Connor, smiling; “mother, did you ever see a pleasanter night?”
“Pleasant, Connor, darlin'! Oh thin it's you may say so, I'm sure!”
“Father, you're a worthy—only your Cothamore's too scimpt for me. Faith, mother, although you think I'm jokin', the devil a one o' me is; a pleasanter night—a happier night I never spent. Father, you ought to be proud o' me, an' stretch out a bit with the cash; faith, I'm nothin' else than a fine handsome young fellow.”
“Be me soul an' he ought to be proud out of you, Connor, whether you're in arnest or not,” observed the mother, “an' to stretch out wid the arrighad too if you want it.”
“Folly on, Connor, folly on! your mother'll back you, I'll go bail, say what you will; but sure you know all I have must be yours yet, acushla.”
Connor now sat down, and his mother stirred up the fire, on which she placed additional fuel. After a little time his manner changed, and a shade of deep gloom fell upon his manly and handsome features. “I don't know,” he at length proceeded, “that, as we three are here together, I could do betther than ask your advice upon what has happened to me to-night.”
“Why, what has happened you, Connor?” said the mother alarmed; “plase God, no harm, I hope.”
“Who else,” added the father, “would you be guided by, if not by your mother an' myself?”
“No harm, mother, dear,” said Connor in reply to her; “harm! Oh! mother, mother, if you knew it; an' as for what you say, father, it's right; what advice but my mother's an' yours ought I to ask?”
“An' God's too,” added the mother.
“An' my heart was nevir more ris to God than it was', an' is this night,” replied their ingenuous boy.
“Well, but what has happened, Connor?” said his father; “if it's anything where our advice can serve you, of coorse we'll advise you for the best.”
Connor then, with a glowing heart, made them acquainted with the affection which subsisted between himself and Una O'Brien, and ended by informing them of the vow of marriage which they had that night solemnly pledged to each other.
“You both know her by sight,” he added, “an' afther what I've sed, can you blame me for sayin' that I found this a pleasant and a happy night?”
The affectionate mother's eyes filled with tears of pride and delight, on hearing that her handsome son was loved by the beautiful daughter of Bodagh Buie, and she could not help exclaiming, in the enthusiasm of the moment,
“She's a purty girl—the purtiest indeed I ever laid my two livin' eyes upon, and by all accounts as good as she's purty; but I say that, face to face, you're as good, ay, an' as handsome, Fardorougha, as she is. God bless her, any way, an' mark her to grace and happiness, ma colleen dhas dhun.”
“He's no match for her,” said the father, who had listened with an earnest face, and compressed lips, to his son's narrative; “he's no match for her—by four hundred guineas.”
Honora, when he uttered the previous part of his observation, looked upon him with a flash of indignant astonishment; but when he had concluded, her countenance fell back into its original expression. It was evident that, while she, with the feelings of a woman and a mother, instituted a parallel between their personal merits alone, the husband viewed their attachment through that calculating spirit which had regulated his whole life.
“You're thinkin' of her money now,” she added; “but remimber, Fardorougha, that it wasn't born wid her. An' I hope, Connor, it's not for her money that you have any grah for her?”
“You may swear that, mother; I love her little finger betther than all the money in the king's bank.”
“Connor, avich, your mother has made a fool of you, or you wouldn't spake the nonsense you spoke this minute.”
“My word to you, father, I'll take all the money I'll get; but what am I to do? Bodagh Buie an' his wife will never consent to allow her to marry me, I can tell you; an' if she marries me without their consent, you both know I have no way of supportin' her, except you, father, assist me.”
“That won't be needful, Connor;