Fardorougha, The Miser. William Carleton
the servants to drink “an aisy bout to the misthress, sir, an' a speedy recovery, not forgettin' a safe landin' to the youngsther, and, like a Christmas compliment, many of them to you both. Whoo! death alive, but that's fine stuff. Oh, begorra, the misthress can't but thrive wid that in the house. Thank you, sir, an' wishin' her once more safe over her troubles!—divil a betther misthress ever,” etc., etc., etc.
Here, however, there was nothing of the kind. Fardorougha's heart, in the first instance, was against the expense, and besides, its present broodings resembled the throes of pain which break out from the stupor that presses so heavily upon the exhausted functions of life in the crisis of a severe fever. He could not, in fact, rest nor remain for any length of time in the same spot. With a slow but troubled step he walked backward and forward, sometimes uttering indistinct ejaculations and broken sentences, such as no one could understand. At length he approached his own servants, and addressed the messenger whose name was Nogher M'Cormick.
“Nogher,” said he, “I'm throubled.”
“Throubled! dad, Fardorougha, you ought to be a happy and a thankful man this night, that is, if God sinds the misthress safe over it, as I hope He will, plase goodness.”
“I'm poor, Nogher, I'm poor, an' here's a family comin'.”
“Faith, take care it's not sin you're com-mittin' by spakin' as you're doin'.”
“But you know I'm poor, Nogher.”
“But I know you're not, Fardorougha; but I'm afraid, if God hasn't said it, your heart's too much fix'd upon the world. Be my faix, it's on your knees you ought to be this same night, thankin' the Almighty for His goodness, and not grumblin' an' sthreelin' about the place, flyin' in the face of God for sendin' you an' your wife ablessin'—for sure I hear the Scripthur says that all childhres a blessin' if they're resaved as sich; an' wo be to the man, says Scripthur, dat's born wid a millstone about his neck, especially if he's cast into the say. I know you pray enough, but, be my sowl, it hasn't improved your morals, or it's the misthress' health we'd be drinkin' in a good bottle o' whiskey at the present time. Faix, myself wouldn't be much surprised if she had a hard twist in consequence, an' if she does, the fault's your own an' not ours, for we're willin' as the flowers o' May to drink all sorts o' good luck to her.”
“Nogher,” said the other, “it's truth a great dale of what you've sed—maybe all of it.”
“Faith, I know,” returned Nogher, “that about the whiskey it's parfit gospel.”
“In one thing I'll be advised by you, an' that is, I'll go to my knees and pray to God to set my heart right if it's wrong. I feel strange—strange, Nogher—happy, an' not happy.”
“You needn't go to your knees at all,” replied Nogher, “if you give us the whiskey; or if you do pray, be in earnest, that your heart may be inclined to do it.”
“You desarve none for them words,” said Fardorougha, who felt that Nogher's buffoonery jarred upon the better feelings that were rising within him—“you desarve none, an' you'll get none—for the present at laste, an' I'm only a fool for spaking to you.”
He then retired to the upper part of the kiln, where, in a dark corner, he knelt with a troubled heart, and prayed to God.
We doubt not but such readers as possess feeling will perceive that Fardorougha was not only an object at this particular period of much interest, but also entitled to sincere sympathy. Few men in his circumstances could or probably would so earnestly struggle with a predominant passion as he did, though without education, or such a knowledge of the world as might enable him, by any observation of the human heart in others, to understand the workings in his own. He had not been ten minutes at prayer when the voice of his female servant was heard in loud and exulting tones, calling out, ere she approached the kiln itself—
“Fardorougha, ca woul thu?—Where's my footin', masther? Where's my arles?—Come in—come in, you're a waitin' to kiss your son—the misthress is dyin' till you kiss our son.”
The last words were uttered as she entered the kiln.
“Dyin'!” he repeated—“the misthress dyin'—oh Susy, let a thousand childre go before her—dyin'! did you say dyin'?”
“Ay did I, an' it's truth too; but it's wid joy she's dyin' to see you kiss one of the purtiest young boys in all the barony of Lisnamona—myself's over head and ears in love wid him already.”
He gave a rapid glance upwards, so much so that it was scarcely perceptible, and immediately accompanied her into the house. The child, in the meantime, had been dressed, and lay on its mother's arm in the bed when its father entered. He approached the bedside and glanced at it—then at the mother who lay smiling beside it—she extended her hand to him, whilst the soft, sweet tears of delight ran quietly down her cheeks. When he seized her hand he stooped to kiss her, but she put up her other hand and said—
“No, no, you must kiss him first.”
He instantly stooped over the babe, took it in his arms, looked long and earnestly upon it, put it up near him, again gave it a long, intense gaze, after which he raised its little mouth to his own, and then imprinted the father's first kiss upon the fragrant lips of his beloved first-born. Having gently deposited the precious babe upon its mother's arm, he caught her hand and imprinted upon her lips a kiss;—but to those who understand it, we need not describe it—to those who cannot, we could give no adequate notion of that which we are able in no other way to describe than by saying that it would seem as if the condensed enjoyment of a whole life were concentrated into that embrace of the child and mother.
When this tender scene was over, the midwife commenced—
“Well, if ever a man had raison to be thank—”
“Silence, woman!” he exclaimed in a voice which hushed her almost into terror.
“Let him alone,” said the wife, addressing her, “let him alone, I know what he feels.”
“No,” he replied, “even you, Honora, don't know it—my heart, my heart went astray, and there, undher God and my Saviour, is the being that will be the salvation of his father.”
His wife understood him and was touched; the tears fell fast from her eyes, and, extending her hand to him, she said, as he clasped it:
“Sure, Fardorougha, the world won't be as much in your heart now, nor your temper so dark as it was.”
He made no reply; but, placing his other hand over his eyes, he sat in that posture for some minutes. On raising his head the tears were running as if involuntarily down his cheeks.
“Honora,” said he, “I'll go out for a little—you can tell Mary Moan where anything's to be had—let them all be trated so as that they don't take too much—and, Mary Moan, you won't be forgotten.”
He then passed out, and did not appear for upwards of an hour, nor could any one of them tell where he had been.
“Well,” said Honora, after he had left the room, “we're now married near fourteen years; and until this night I never see him shed a tear.”
“But sure, acushla, if anything can touch a father's heart, the sight of his first child will. Now keep yourself aisy, avourneen, and tell me where the whiskey an' anything else that may be a wantin' is, till I give these crathurs of sarvints a dhrop of something to comfort thim.”
At this time, however, Mrs. Donovan's mother and two sisters, who had some hours previously been sent for, just arrived, a circumstance which once more touched the newly awakened chord of the mother's heart, and gave her that confidence which the presence of “one's own blood,” as the people expressed it, always communicates upon such occasions. After having kissed and admired the babe, and bedewed its face with the warm tears of affection, they piously