Fardorougha, The Miser. William Carleton
only as an act of justice to himself, for his conscience having long ago outgrown the perception of his own inhumanity, now only felt compunction when death or the occasional insolvency of a security defeated his rapacity.
When Bartle entered, Fardorougha and he surveyed each other with perfect coolness for nearly half a minute, during which time neither uttered a word. The silence was first broken by Honora, who put forward a chair, and asked Flanagan to sit down.
“Sit down, Bartle,” said she, “sit down, boy; an' how is all the family?”
“'Deed, can't complain,” replied Bartle, “as time goes; an' how are you, Fardorougha? although I needn't ax—you re takin' care of number one, any how.”
“I'm middlin', Bartle, middlin'; as well as a man can be that has his heart broke every day in the year strivin' to come by his own, an' can't do it; but I'm a fool, an' ever was—sarvin' others an' ruinin' myself.”
“Bartle,” said Mrs. Donovan, “are you unwell, dear? you look as pale as death. Let me get you a drink of fresh milk.”
“If he's weak,” said Fardorougha, “an' he looks weak, a drink of fresh wather 'ud be betther for him; ever an' always a drink of wather for a weak man, or a weak woman aither; it recovers them sooner.”
“Thank you, kindly, Mrs. Donovan, an' I'm obliged to you, Fardorougha, for the wather; but I'm not a bit weak; it's only the heat o' the day ails me—for sure enough it's broilin' weather.”
“'Deed it is,” replied Honora, “kill in' weather to them that has to be out undher it.”
“If it's good for nothin' else, it's good for, the hay—makin',” observed Fardorougha.
“I'm tould, Misther Donovan,” said Bartle, “that' you want a sarvint man: now, if you do, I want a place, an' you see I'm comin' to you to look for one.”
“Heaven above, Bartle!” exclaimed Honora, “what do you mean? Is it one of Dan Flanagan's sons goin' to sarvice?”
“Not one, but all of them,” replied the other, coolly, “an' his daughters, too, Mrs. Donovan; but it's all the way o! the world. If Mr. Donovan 'll hire me I'll thank him.”
“Don't be Mistherin' me, Bartle; Misther them that has means an' substance,” returned Donovan.
“Oh, God forgive you, Fardorougha!” exclaimed his honest and humane wife. “God forgive you! Bartle, from my heart, from the core o' my heart, I pity you, my poor boy. An' is it to this, Fardorougha, you've brought them—Oh, Saviour o' the world!”
She fixed her eyes upon the victim of her husband's extortion, and in an instant they were filled with tears.
“What did I do,” said the latter, “but strive to recover my own? How could I afford to lose forty pounds? An' I was tould for sartin that your father knew Grehan was goin' to Ameriky when he got him to go security. Whisht, Honora, you're as foolish a woman as riz this day; haven't you your sins to cry for?”
“God knows I have, Fardorougha, an' more than my own to cry for.”
“I dare say you did hear as much,” said Bartle, quietly replying to the observation of Fardorougha respecting his father; “but you know it's a folly to talk about spilt milk. If you want a sarvint I'll hire; for, as I said a while ago, I want a place, an' except wid you I don't know where to get one.”
“If you come to me,” observed the other, “you must go to your duty, an' observe the fast days, but not the holydays.”
“Sarvints isn't obliged to obsarve them,” replied Bartle.
“But I always put it in the bargain,” returned the other.
“As to that,” said Bartle, “I don't much mind it. Sure it'll be for the good o' my sowl, any way. But what wages will you be givin'?”
“Thirty shillings every half year;—that's three pounds—sixty shillings a year. A great deal o' money. I'm sure I dunna where it's to come from.”
“It's very little for a year's hard labor,” replied Bartle, “but little as it is, Fardorougha, owin' to what has happened betwixt us, believe me, I'm right glad to take it.”
“Well, but Bartle, you know there's fifteen shillins of the ould account still due, and you must allow it out o' your wages; if you don't, it's no bargain.”
Bartle's face became livid; but he was perfectly cool;—indeed, so much so that he smiled at this last condition of Fardorougha. It was a smile, however, at once so ghastly, dark, and frightful, that, by any person capable of tracing the secret workings of some deadly passion on the countenance, its purport could not have been mistaken.
“God knows, Fardorougha, you might let that pass—considher that you've been hard enough upon us.”
“God knows I say the same,” observed Honora. “Is it the last drop o' the heart's blood you want to squeeze out, Fardorougha?”
“The last drop! What is it but my right? Am I robbin' him? Isn't it due? Will he, or can he deny that? An' if it's due isn't it but honest in him to pay it? They're not livin' can say I ever defrauded them of a penny. I never broke a bargain; an' yet you open on me, Honora, as if I was a rogue! If I hadn't that boy below to provide for, an' settle in the world, what 'ud I care about money? It's for his sake I look afther my right.”
“I'll allow the money,” said Bartle. “Fardorougha's right; it's due, an' I'll pay him—ay will I, Fardorougha, settle wid you to the last farden, or beyant it if you like.”
“I wouldn't take a farden beyant it, in the shape of debt. Them that's decent enough to make a present, may—for that's a horse of another color.”
“When will I come home?” inquired Bartle.
“You may stay at home now that you're here,” said the other. “An' in the mane time, go an' help Connor put that hay in lap-cocks. Anything you want to bring here you can bring afther your day's work tonight.”
“Did you ate your dinner, Bartle?” said Honora; “bekase if you didn't I'll get you something.”
“It's not to this time o' day he'd be without his dinner, I suppose,” observed his new master.
“You're very right, Fardorougha,” rejoined Bartle; “I'm thankful to you, ma'am, I did ate my dinner.”
“Well, you'll get a rake in the barn, Bartle,” said his master; “an' now tramp down to Connor, an' I'll see how you'll handle yourselves, both o' you, from this till night.”
Bartle accordingly—proceeded towards the meadow, and Fardorougha, as was his custom, throwing his great coat loosely about his shoulders, the arms dangling on each side of him, proceeded to another part of his farm.
Flanagan's step, on his way to join Connor, was slow and meditative. The kindness of the son and mother touched him; for the line between their disposition and Fardorougha's was too strong and clear to allow the slightest suspicion of their participation in the spirit which regulated his life. The father, however, had just declared that his anxiety to accumulate money arose from a wish to settle his son independently in life; and Flanagan was too slightly acquainted with human character to see through this flimsy apology for extortion. He took it for granted that Fardorougha spoke truth, and his resolution received a bias from the impression, which, however, his better nature determined to subdue. In this uncertain state of mind he turned about almost instinctively, to look in the direction which Fardorougha had taken, and as he observed his diminutive figure creeping along with his great coat about him, he felt that the very sight of the man who had broken up their hearth and scattered them on the world, filled his heart with a deep and deadly animosity that occasioned him to pause as a person would do who finds himself unexpectedly upon the brink of a precipice.
Connor, on seeing him enter the meadow with the rake, knew at once that the terms had been concluded between them;