Fardorougha, The Miser. William Carleton
“We have,” replied Bartle. “But if there had been any other place to be got in the parish—(an' indeed only for the state I'm in)—I wouldn't have hired myself to him for nothing, or next to nothing, as I have done.”
“Why, what did he promise?”
“Three pounds a year, an' out o' that I'm to pay him fifteen shillings that my father owes him still.”
“Close enough, Bartle, but don't be cast down; I'll undertake that my mother an' I will double it—an' as for the fifteen shillings I'll pay them out o' my own pocket—when I get money. I needn't tell you that we're all kept upon the tight crib, and that little cash goes far with us; for all that, we'll do what I promise, go as it may.”
“It's more than I ought to expect, Connor; but yourself and your mother, all the counthry would put their hands undher both your feets.”
“I would give a great dale, Bartle, that my poor father had a little of the feelin' that's in my mother's heart; but it's his way, Bartle, an' you know he's my father, an' has been kinder to me than to any livin' creature on this earth. I never got a harsh word from him yet. An' if he kept me stinted in many things that I was entitled to as well as other persons like me, still, Bartle, he loves me, an' I can't but feel great affection for him, love the money as he may.”
This was spoken with much seriousness of manner not unmingled with somewhat of regret, if not sorrow. Bartle fixed his eye upon the fine face of his companion, with a look in which there was a character of compassion. His countenance, however, while he gazed on him, maintained his natural color—it was not pale.
“I am sorry, Connor,” said he slowly, “I am sorry that I hired with your father.”
“An' I'm glad of it,” replied the other; “why should you be sorry?”
Bartle made no answer for some time, but looked into the ground, as if he had not heard him.
“Why should you be sorry, Bartle?”
Nearly a minute elapsed before his abstraction was broken. “What's that?” said he at length. “What were you asking me?”
“You said you were sorry.”
“Oh, ay!” returned the other, interrupting him; “but I didn' mind what I was sayin': 'twas thinkin' o' somethin' else I was—of home, Bartle, an' what we're brought to; but the best way's to dhrop all discoorse about that forever.”
“You'll be my friend if you do,” said Connor.
“I will, then,” replied Bartle; “we'll change it. Connor, were you ever in love?”
O'Donovan turned quickly about, and, with a keen glance at Bartle, replied,
“Why, I don't know; I believe I might, once or so.”
“I am,” said Flanagan, bitterly; “I am Connor.”
“An' who's the happy crature, will you tell us?”
“No,” returned the other; “but if there's a wish that I'd make against my worst enemy, 'twould be, that he might love a girl above his means; or if he was her aquil, or even near her aquil, that he might be brought”——he paused, but immediately proceeded, “Well, no matter, I am, indeed, Connor.”
“An' is the girl fond o' you?”
“I don't know; my mind was made up to tell her but it's past that now; I know she's wealthy and proud both, and so is all her family.”
“How do you know she's proud when you never put the subject to her?”
“I'm not sayin' she's proud, in one sinse; wid respect to herself, I believe; she's humble enough; I mane, she doesn't give herself many airs, but her people's as proud as the very sarra, an' never match below them; still, if I'd opportunities of bain' often in her company, I'd not fear to trust to a sweet tongue for comin' round her.”
“Never despair, Bartle,” said Connor; “you know the ould proverb, 'a faintheart;' however, settin' the purty crature aside, whoever she is, I think if we divided ourselves—you to that side, an' me to this—we'd get this hay lapped in half the time; or do you take which side you plase.”
“It's a bargain,” said Bartle; “I don't care a trawneen; I'll stay where I am, thin, an' do you go beyant; let us hurry, too, for, if I'm not mistaken, it's too sultry to be long without rain, the sky, too, is gettin' dark.”
“I observed as much myself,” said Connor; “an' that was what made me spake.”
Both then continued their labor with redoubled energy, nor ceased for a moment until the task was executed, and the business of the day concluded.
Flanagan's observation was indeed correct, as to the change in the day and the appearance of the sky. From the hour of five o'clock the darkness gradually deepened, until a dead black shadow, fearfully still and solemn, wrapped the whole horizon. The sun had altogether disappeared, and nothing was visible in the sky but one unbroken mass of darkness, unrelieved even by a single pile of clouds. The animals, where they could, had betaken themselves to shelter; the fowls of the air sought the covert of the hedges, and ceased their songs; the larks fled from the mid-heaven; and occasionally might be seen a straggling bee hurrying homewards, careless of the flowers which tempted him in his path, and only anxious to reach his hive before the deluge should overtake him. The stillness indeed was awful, as was the gloomy veil which darkened the face of nature, and filled the mind with that ominous terror which presses upon the heart like a consciousness of guilt. In such a time, and under the aspect of a sky so much resembling the pall of death, there is neither mirth nor laughter, but that individuality of apprehension, which, whilst it throws the conscience in upon its own records, and suspends conversation, yet draws man to his fellows, as if mere contiguity were a safeguard against danger.
The conversation between the two young men as they returned from their labor, was short but expressive.
“Bartle,” said Connor, “are you afeard of thundher? The rason I ask,” he added, “is, bekase your face is as white as a sheet.”
“I have it from my mother,” replied Flanagan, “but at all evints such an evenin' as this is enough to make the heart of any man quake.”
I'll feel my spirits low, by rason of the darkness, but I'm not afraid. It's well for them that have a clear conscience; they say that a stormy sky is the face of an angry God—”
“An' the thundher His voice,” added Bartle; “but why are the brute bastes an' the birds afraid, that commit no sin?”
“That's true,” said his companion; “it must be natural to be afraid, or why would they indeed?—but some people are naturally more timersome than others.”
“I intinded to go home for my other clo'es an' linen this evenin',” observed Bartle, “but I won't go out to-night.”
“I must thin,” said Connor; “an, with the blessin' o' God, will too; come what may.”
“Why, what is there to bring you out, if it's a fair question to ax?” inquired the other.
“A promise, for one thing; an' my own inclination—my own heart—that's nearer the thruth—for another. It's the first meetin' that I an' her I'm goin' to ever had.”
“Thigham, Thighum, I undherstand,” said Flanagan; “well, I'll stay at home; but, sure it's no harm to wish you success—an' that, Connor, is more than I'll ever have where I wish for it most.”
This closed their dialogue, and both entered Fardorougha's house in silence.
Up until twilight, the darkness of the dull and heavy sky was unbroken; but towards the west there was seen a streak whose color could not be determined as that of blood or fire. By its angry look, it seemed as if the sky in that quarter were about to burst forth in one awful sweep of conflagration.