The tryste between Connor and Una was held at the same place and hour as
before, and so rapid a progress had love made in each of their hearts,
that we question if the warmth of their interview, though tender and
innocent, would be apt to escape the censure of our stricter readers.
Both were depressed by the prospect that lay before them, for Connor
frankly assured her that he feared no earthly circumstances could ever
soften his father's heart so far as to be prevailed upon to establish
him in life.
“What then can I do, my darling Una? If your father and mother won't
consent--as I fear they won't--am I to bring you into the miserable
cabin of a day laborer? for to this the son of a man so wealthy as my
father is, must sink. No, Una dear, I have sworn never to bring you to
poverty, and I will not.”
“Connor,” she replied somewhat gravely, “I thought you had formed a
different opinion of me. You know but little of your own Una's heart,
if you think she wouldn't live with you in a cabin a thousand and a
thousand times sooner than she would live with any other in a palace. I
love you for your own sake, Connor; but it appears you don't think so.”
Woman can never bear to have her love undervalued, nor the moral dignity
of a passion which can sacrifice all worldly and selfish considerations
to its own purity and attachment, unappreciated. When she uttered the
last words, therefore, tears of bitter sorrow, mingled with offended
pride, came to her aid. She sobbed for some moments, and again went on
to reproach him with forming so unfair an estimate of her affection.
“I repeat that I loved you for yourself only, Connor, and think of what
I would feel, if you refused to spend your life in a cottage with me. If
I thought you wished to marry me, not because I am Una O'Brien, but the
daughter of a wealthy man, my heart would break, and if I thought you
were not true--minded, and pure--hearted, and honorable, I would rather
be dead than united to you at all.”
“I love you so well, and so much, Una, that I doubt I'm not worthy of
you--and it's fear of seeing you brought down to daily labor that's
crushing and breaking my heart.”
“But, dear Connor--what is there done by any cottager's wife that I
don't do every day of my life? Do you think my mother lets me pass my
time in idleness, or that I myself could bear to be unemployed even if
she did; I can milk, make butter, spin, sew, wash, knit, and clean a
kitchen; why, you have no notion,” she added, with a smile, “what a
clever cottager's wife I'd make!”
“Oh, Una,” said Connor, now melting into tenderness greater than he had
ever before felt; “Una dear, it's useless--it's useless--I can't, no,
I couldn't--and I will not live without you, even if we were to beg
together--but what is to be done?”
“Now, while my brother John is at home, is the time to propose it to
my father and mother who look upon him with eyes of such affection and
delight that I am half inclined to think their consent may be gained.”
“Maybe, darling, his consent will be as hard to gain as their own.”
“Now,” she replied, fondly, “only you're a hard--hearted thing that's
afraid to live in a cottage with me, I could tell you some good news--or
rather you doubt me--and fear that I wouldn't live in one with you.”
A kiss was the reply, after which he said--
“With you, my dear Una, now that you're satisfied, I would live and die
in a prison--with you, with you--in whatever state of life we may be
placed, with you, but without you--never, I could not--I could not----”
“Well, we are young, you know, and neither of us proud--and I am not a
lazy girl--indeed, I am not; but you forget the good news.”
“I forget that, and everything else but yourself, darling, while I'm in
your company. O heavens! if you were once my own, and that we were never
to be separated!”
“Well, but the good news!”
“What is it, dear?”
“I haye mentioned our affection to my brother, and he has promised to
assist us. He has heard of your character, and of your mother's, and
says that it's unjust to visit upon you----”
She paused--“You know, my dear Connor, that you must not be offended
with anything I say.”
“I know, my sweet treasure, what you're going to say,” replied Connor,
with a smile; “nobody need be delicate in saying that my father loves
the money, and knows how to put guinea to guinea; that's no secret. I
wish he loved it less, to be sure, but it cannot be helped; in the mean
time, _ma colleen dhas dhun_--O, how I love them words! God bless your
brother! he must have a kind heart, Una dear, and he must love you very
much when he promises to assist us.”
“He has, and will; but, Connor, why did you send such a disagreeable,
forward, and prying person, as your father's servant to bring me your
message? I do not like him--he almost stared me out of countenance.”
“Poor fellow,” said Connor, “I feel a good dale for him, and I think
he's an honest, good--hearted boy, and besides, he's in love himself.”
“I know he, was always a starer, and I say again _I don't_ like him.”
“But, as the case stands, dear Una, I have no one else to trust to--at
all events, he's in our secret, and the best way, if he's not honest,
is to keep him in it; at laste, if we put him out of it now, he might be
talking to our disadvantage.”
“There's truth in that, and we must only trust him with as little of our
real secrets as possible; I cannot account for the strong prejudice
I feel against him, and have felt for the past two years. He always
dressed above his means, and once or twice attempted to speak to me.”
“Well, but I know he's in love with some one, for he told me so; poor
fellow, I'm bound, my dear Una, to show him any kindness in my power.”
After some further conversation, it was once more decided that
Fardorougha should, on the next day, see the Bodagh and his wife, in
order to ascertain whether their consent could be obtained to the union
of our young and anxious lovers. This step, as the reader knows, was
every way in accordance with Fardorougha's inclination. Connor
himself would have preferred his mother's advocacy to that of a person
possessing such a slender hold on their good-will as his other parent.
But upon consulting with her, she told him that the fact of the proposal
coming from Fardorougha might imply a disposition on his part to provide
for his son. At all events, she hoped that contradiction, the boast
of superior wealth, or some fortunate collision of mind and principle,
might strike a spark of generous feeling out of her husband's heart,
which nothing, she knew, under strong excitement, such as might arise
from the bitter pride of the O'Brien's, could possibly do. Besides, as
she had no favorable expectations from the interview, she thought it an
unnecessary and painful task to subject herself to the insults which she
apprehended from the Bodagh's wife, whose pride and importance towered
far and high over those of her consequential husband.
This just and sensible view of the matter, on the part of the mother,
satisfied Connor, and reconciled him to the father's disinclination
to be accompanied by her to the scene of conflict; for, in truth,
Fardorougha protested against her assistance with a bitterness which
could not easily be accounted for. “If your mother goes, let her go by
herself,” said he; “for I'll not interfere in't if she does. I'll take
the dirty Bodagh and his fat wife my own way, which I can't do if Honor
comes to be enibbin' and makin' little o' me afore them. Maybe I'll pull
down their pride for them better than you think, and in a way they're
not prepared for; them an' their janting car!”
Neither Connor nor his mother could help being highly amused at the
singularity of the miserable pomp and parsimonious display resorted to
by Fardorougha, in preparing for this extraordinary mission. Out of an
old strongly locked chest he brought forth a gala coat, which had
been duly aired, but not thrice worn within the last twenty years. The
progress of time and fashion had left it so odd, outre, and ridiculous,
that Connor, though he laughed, could not help feeling depressed on
considering the appearance his father must make when dressed, or rather
disfigured, in it. Next came a pair of knee--breeches by the same hand,
and which, in compliance with the taste of the age that produced them,
were made to button so far down as the calf of the leg. Then appeared a
waistcoat, whose long pointed flaps reached nearly to the knees. Last of
all was produced a hat not more than three inches deep in the crown, and
brimmed so narrowly, that a spectator would almost imagine the leaf had
been cut off. Having pranked himself out in these habiliments, contrary
to the strongest expostulations of both wife and son, he took his
staff and set forth. But lest the reader should expect a more accurate
description of his person when dressed, we shall endeavor at all events
to present him with a loose outline. In the first place, his head was
surmounted with a hat that resembled a flat skillet, wanting the handle;
his coat, from which avarice and penury had caused him to shrink away,
would have fitted a man twice his size, and, as he had become much
stooped, its tail, which, at the best, had been preposterously long, now
nearly swept the ground. To look at him behind, in fact, he appeared all
body. The flaps of his waistcoat he had pinned up with his own hands,
by which piece of exquisite taste, he displayed a pair of thighs so thin
and disproportioned to his small--clothes, that he resembled a boy who
happens to wear the breeches of a full-grown man, so that to look at
him in front he appeared all legs. A pair of shoes, polished with burned
straw and buttermilk, and surmounted by two buckles, scoured away
to skeletons, completed his costume. In this garb he set out with a
crook-headed staff, into which long use, and the habit of griping
fast whatever he got in his hand, had actually worn the marks of his
forefinger and thumb.
Bodagh Buie, his wife, and their two children, were very luckily
assembled in the parlor, when the nondescript figure of the deputy-wooer
made his appearance on that part of the neat road which terminated at
the gate of the little lawn that fronted the hall-door. Here there was
another gate to the right that opened into the farm or kitchen yard,
and as Fardorougha hesitated which to enter, the family within had an
opportunity of getting a clearer view of his features and person.
“Who is that quare figure standing there?” inquired the Bodagh; “did you
ever see sich a----ah, thin, who can he be?”
“Somebody comin', to see some of the sarvints, I suppose,” replied his
wife; “why, thin, it's not unlike little Dick _Croaitha_, the fairyman.”
In sober truth, Fardorougha was so completely disguised by his dress,
especially by his hat, whose shallowness and want of brim, gave his face
and head so wild and eccentric an appearance, that we question if his
own family, had they not seen him dress, could I have recognized him! At
length he turned into the kitchen-yard, and, addressing a laborer whom
he met, asked--
“I say, nabor, which is the right way into Bodagh Buie's house?”
“There's two right ways into it, an' you may take aither o' them--but if
you want any favor from him, you had better call him _Mr_. O'Brien. The
Bodagh's a name was first given to his father, an' he bein' a dacenter
man, doesn't like it, although it sticks to him; so there's a lift for
you, my hip striddled little codger.”
“But which is the right door o' the house?”
“There it is, the kitchen--peg in--that's your intrance, barrin' you're
a gintleman in disguise, an' if be, why turn out again to that other
gate, strip off your shoes, and pass up ginteely on your tipytoes, and
give a thunderin' whack to the green ring that's hangin' from the door.
But see, friend,” added the man, “maybe you'd do one a sarvice?”
“How,” said Fardorougha, looking earnestly at him; “what is it?”
“Why, to lave us a lock o' your hair before you go,” replied the wag,
with a grin.
The miser took no notice whatsoever of this, but was turning quietly
out of the yard, to enter by the lawn, when the man called out in a
commanding voice--
“Back here, you codger!--tundher an' thump!--back I say! You won't be
let in that way--thramp back, you leprechaun, into the kitchen--eh! you
won't--well, well, take what you'll get--an' that'll be the way back
agin.”
'Twas at this moment that the keen eye of Una recognized the features of
her lover's father, and a smile, which she felt it impossible to subdue,
settled upon her face, which became immediately mantled with blushes. On
hurrying out of the room she plucked her brother's sleeve, who followed
her to the hall.
“I can scarcely tell you, dear John,” she said, speaking rapidly, “it's
Fardorougha O'Donovan, Connor's father; as you know his business, John,
stay in the parlor;” she squeezed his hand, and added with a smile on
her face, and a tear in her eye, “I fear it's all over with me--I
don't know whether to laugh or cry--but stay, John dear, an' fight my
battle--Una's battle.”
She ran upstairs, and immediately one of the most beggarly, sordid, and
pusillanimous knocks that ever spoke of starvation and misery was heard
at the door.
“I will answer it myself,” thought the amiable brother; “for if my
father or mother does, he surely will not be allowed in.”
John could scarcely preserve a grave face, when Fardorougha presented
himself.
“Is Misther O'Brien widin?” inquired the usurer, shrewdly availing
himself of the hint he received from the servant.
“My father is,” replied John; “have the goodness to step in.”
Fardorougha entered immediately, followed by young O'Brien, who said,
“Father, this is Mr. O'Donovan, who, it appears, has some important
business with the family.”
“Don't be mistherin' me,” replied Fardorougha, helping himself to a
seat; “I'm too poor to be misthered.”
“With this family!” exclaimed the father in amazement; “what business
can Fardorougha Donovan have with this family, John?”'
“About our children,” replied the miser; “about my son and your
daughter.”
“An' what about them?” inquired Mrs. O'Brien; “do you dar to mintion
them in the same day together?”
“Why not,” said the miser; “ay, an' on the same night, too?”
“Upon my reputaytion, Mr. O'Donovan, you're extramely kind--now be a
little more so, and let us undherstand you,” said the Bodagh.
“Poor Una!” thought John, “all's lost; he will get himself kicked out to
a certainty.”
“I think it's time we got them married,” replied Fardorougha; “the
sooner it's done the better, and the safer for both o' them; especially
for the colleen.”
“_Dar a Lorha_, he's cracked,” said Mrs. O'Brien; “sorra one o' the poor
soul but's cracked about his money.”
“Poor sowl, woman alive! wor you never poor yourself?”
“Yis I wor; an' I'm not ashamed to own it; but, Chierna, Frank,” she
added, addressing her husband, “there's no use in spakin' to him.”
“Fardorougha,” said O'Brien, seriously, “what brought you here?”
“Why, to tell you an' your wife the state that my son, Connor, and your
daughter's in about one another; an' to advise you both, if you have
sinse, to get them married afore worse happen. It's your business more
nor mine.”
“You're right,” said the Bodagh, aside to his wife; “he's sartinly
deranged. Fardorougha,” he added, “have you lost any money lately?”
“I'm losin' every day,” said the other; “I'm broke assistin' them that
won't thank me, let alone paying me as they ought.”
“Then you have lost nothing more than usual?”
“If I didn't, I tell you there's a good chance of losin' it before
me;--can a man call any money of his safe that's in another man's
pocket?”
“An' so you've come to propose a marriage between your son and my
daughter, yet you lost no money, an' you're not mad!”
“Divil a morsel o' me is mad--but you'll be so if you refuse to let this
match go an.”
“Out wid him--_a shan roghara_,” shouted Mrs. O'Brien, in a state of
most dignified offence; “_Damho orth_, you ould knave! is it the son of
a miser that has fleeced an' robbed the whole counthry side that we 'ud
let our daughther, that resaved the finish to her edication in a Dubling
boardin' school, marry wid?--_Vic na hoiah_ this day!”
“You had no sich scruple yourself, ma'am,” replied the bitter usurer,
“when you bounced at the son of the ould Bodagh Buie, an' every one
knows what he was.”
“He!” said the good woman; “an' is it runnin' up comparishments betuxt
yourself an' him you are afther? Why, Saint Peter wouldn't thrive on
your money, you nager.”
“Maybe Saint Pethur thruv on worse--but havn't you thruv as well on the
Bodagh's, as if it had been honestly come by? I defy you an' the world
both--to say that ever I tuck a penny from any one, more than my right.
Lay that to the mimory of the ould Bodagh, an' see if it'll fit. It's no
light guinea, any how.”
Had Fardorougha been a man of ordinary standing and character in the
country, from whom an insult could be taken, he would no doubt have
been by a very summary process expelled the parlor. The history of his
querulous and irascible temper, however, was so well known, and his
offensive eccentricity of manner a matter of such established fact, that
the father and son, on glancing at each other, were seized with the same
spirit, and both gave way to an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Is it a laughin' stock you're makin' of' it?” said Mrs. O'Brien, highly
indignant.
“Faith, achora, it may be no laughin' stock afther all,” replied the
Bodagh.
“I think, mother,” observed John, “that you and my father had better
treat the matter with more seriousness. Connor O'Donovan is a young man
not to be despised by any person at all near his own class of life who
regards the peace and welfare of a daughter. His character stands very
high; indeed, in every way unimpeachable.”
The bitter scowl which had sat upon the small dark features of
Fardorougha, when replying to the last attack of Mrs. O'Brien, passed
away as John spoke. The old man turned hastily around, and, surveying
the eulogist of his son, said,
“God bless you, asthore, for thim words! and they're thrue--thrue as the
gospel, arrah what are you both so proud of? I defy you to get the aquil
of my son in the barony of Lisnamona, either for face, figure or temper!
I say he's fit to be a husband for as good a gill as ever stood in your
daughter's shoes; an' from what I hear of her, she's as good a girl
as ever the Almighty put breath in. God bless you, young man, you're a
credit yourself to any parents.”
“An' we have nothin' to say aginst your son, nor aginst your wife
aither,” replied the Bodagh; “an' if your own name was as clear----if
you wor looked upon as they are--tut, I'm spakin' nonsense! How do I
know whether ever your son and my daughter spoke a word to one another
or not?”
“I'll go bail Oona never opened her lips to him,” said her mother; “I'll
go bail she had more spirit.”
“An' I'll go bail she can't live widout him, an' will have him whether
you like it or not,” said Fardorougha.
“Mother,” observed John, “will you and my father come into the next room
for a minute--I wish to say a word or two to each of you; and will you,
Fardorougha, have the goodness to sit here till we return?”
“Divil a notion,” replied O'Donovan, “I have of stirrin' my foot till
the thing's settled one way or other.”
“Now,” said young O'Brien, when they got into the back parlor, “it's
right that you both should know to what length the courtship between Una
and Connor O'Donovan has gone.”
“Coortship! _Vich no hoiah!_ sure she wouldn't go to coort wid the son
o' that ould schamer.”
“I'm beginning to fear that it's too thrue,” observed the Bodagh; “and
if she has--but let us hear John.”
“It's perfectly true, indeed, mother, that she has,” said the son. “Yes,
and they are both this moment pledged, betrothed, promised, solemnly
promised to each other; and in my opinion the old man within is acting a
more honorable part than either of you give him credit for.”
“Well, well, well,” exclaimed the mother; “who afther that would ever
thrust a daughter? The girl that we rared up as tindher as a chicking,
to go to throw herself away upon the son of ould Fardorougha Donovan,
the misert! Confusion to the ring ever he'll put an her! I'd see her
stretched (dead) first.”
“I agree with you in that, Bridget,” said the husband; “if it was only
to punish her thrachery and desate, I'll take good care a ring will
never go on them; but how do you know all this, John?”
“From Una's own lips, father.”
The Bodagh paced to and fro in much agitation; one hand in his
small--clothes pocket, and the other twirling his watch-key as rapidly
as he could. The mother, in the meantime, had thrown herself into a
chair, and gave way to a violent fit of grief.
“And you have this from Una's own lips?”
“Indeed, father, I have; and it is much to her credit that she was
candid enough to place such confidence in her brother.”
“Pledged and promised to one another. Bridget, who could believe this?”
“Believe it! I don't believe it--it's only a schame of the hussy to get
him. Oh, thin, Queen of Heaven this day, but it's black news to us!”
“John,” said the father, “tell Una to come down to us.”
“Father, I doubt that's rather a trying task for her. I wish, you
wouldn't insist.”
“Go off, sir; she must come down immediately, I'll have it from her own
lips, too.”
Without another word of remonstrance the son went to bring her down.
When the brother and sister entered the room, O'Brien still paced the
floor. He stood, and, turning his eyes upon his daughter with severe
displeasure, was about to speak, but he appeared to have lost the power
of utterance; and, after one or two ineffectual attempts, the big tears
fairly rolled down his cheeks.
“See, see,” said the mother, “see what you have brought us to. Is it
thrue that you're promised to Fardorougha's son?”
Una tottered over to a chair, and the blood left her cheeks; her lips
became dry, and she gasped for breath.
“Why, don't you think it worth your while to answer me?” continued the
mother.
The daughter gave a look of deep distress and supplication at her
brother; but when she perceived her father in tears, her head sank down
upon her bosom.
“What! what! Una,” exclaimed the Bodagh, “Una--” But ere he could
complete the question, the timid creature fell senseless upon the floor.
For a long time she lay in that friendly trance, for such, in truth, it
was to a delicate being, subjected to an ordeal so painful as that she
was called upon to pass through. We have, indeed, remarked that there
is in the young, especially in those of the softer sex, a feeling of
terror, and shame, and confusion, when called upon by their parents to
disclose a forbidden passion, that renders its avowal perhaps the most
formidable task which the young heart can undergo. It is a fearful trial
for the youthful, and one which parents ought to conduct with surpassing
delicacy and tenderness, unless they wish to drive the ingenuous spirit
into the first steps of falsehood and deceit.
“Father,” said John, “I think you may rest satisfied with what you
witness; and I am sure it cannot make you or mother happy to see poor
Una miserable.”
Una, who had been during the greater part of her swoon supported in
her weeping and alarmed mother's arms, now opened her eyes, and, after
casting an affrighted look about the room, she hid her face in her
mother's bosom, and exclaimed, as distinctly as the violence of sobbing
grief would permit her:
“Oh, mother dear, have pity on me! bring me up stairs and I will tell
you.”
“I do, I do pity you,” said the mother, kissing her; “I know you'll be a
good girl yet, Oona.”
“Una,” said her father, placing his hand gently on her shoulder, “was I
ever harsh to you, or did I--”
“Father dear,” she returned, interrupting him, “I would have told you
and my mother, but that I was afraid.”
There was something so utterly innocent and artless in this reply, that
each of the three persons present felt sensibly affected by its extreme
and childlike simplicity.
“Don't be afraid of me, Una,” continued the Bodagh, “but answer--me
truly, like a good girl, and I swear upon my reputation, that I won't be
angry. Do you love the son of this Fardorougha?”
“Not, father, because he's Fardorougha's son,” said Una, whose face was
still hid in her mother's bosom; “I would rather he wasn't.”
“But you do love him?”
“For three years he has scarcely been out of my mind.”
Something that might be termed a smile crossed the countenance of the
Bodagh at this intimation.
“God help you for a foolish child!” said he; “you're a poor counsellor
when left to defend your own cause.”
“She won't defend it by a falsehood, at all events,” observed her
trustworthy and affectionate brother.
“No, she wouldn't,” said the mother; “and I did her wrong a while ago,
to say that she'd schame anything about it.”
“And are you and Connor O'Donovan promised to aich other?” inquired the
father again.
“But it wasn't I that proposed the promise,” returned Una.
“Oh, the desperate villain,” exclaimed her father, “to be guilty of
such a thing! but you took the promise Una--you did--you did--I needn't
ask.”
“No,” replied Una.
“No!” reechoed the father; “then you did not give the promise?”
“I mean,” she rejoined, “that you needn't ask.”
“Oh, faith, that alters the case extremely. Now, Una, this--all this
promising that has passed between you and Connor O'Donovan is all folly.
If you prove to be the good obedient girl that I hope you are, you'll
put him out of your head, and then you can give back to one another
whatever promises you made.”
This was succeeded by a silence of more than a minute. Una at length
arose, and, with a composed energy of manner, that was evident by her
sparkling eye and bloodless cheek, she approached her father, and calmly
kneeling down, said slowly but firmly:
“Father, if nothing else can satisfy you, I will give back my promise;
but then, father, it will break my heart, for I know--I feel--how I love
him, and how I am loved by him.”
“I'll get you a better husband,” replied her father--“far more wealthy
and more respectable than he is.”
“I'll give back the promise,” said she; “but the man is not living,
except Connor O'Donovan, that will ever call me wife. More wealthy! more
respectable!--Oh, it was only himself I loved. Father, I'm on my knees
before you, and before my mother. I have only one request to make--Oh,
don't break your daughter's heart!”
“God direct us,” exclaimed her mother; “it's hard to know how to act. If
it would go so hard upon her, sure--”
“Amen,” said her husband; “may God direct us to the best! I'm sure God
knows,” he continued, now much affected, “that I would rather break
my own heart than yours, Una. Get up, dear--rise. John, how would you
advise us?”
“I don't see any serious objection, after all,” replied the son, “either
you or my mother can have to Connor O'Donovan. He is every way worthy
of her, if he is equal to his character; and as for wealth, I have often
heard it said that his father was a richer man than yourself.”
“Afther all,” said the mother, “she might be very well wid him.”
“I'll tell you what I'll do, then,” said the Bodagh--“let us see the
ould man himself, and if he settles his son dacently in life, as he
can do if he wishes, why, I won't see the poor, foolish, innocent girl
breaking her heart.”
Una, who had sat with her face still averted, now ran to her father,
and, throwing her arms about his neck, wept aloud, but said nothing.
“Ay, ay,” said the latter, “it's very fine now that you have everything
your own way, you girsha; but, sure, you're all the daughter we have,
achora, and it would be too bad not to let you have a little of your
own opinion in the choice of a husband. Now go up stairs, or where you
please, till we see what can be done with Fardorougha himself.”
With smiling face and glistening eyes Una passed out of the room,
scarcely sensible whether she walked, ran, or flew, while the others
went to renew the discussion with Pardorougha.
“Well,” said the miser, “you found out, I suppose, that she can't do
widout him?”
“Provided we consent to the marriage,” asked the Bodagh, “how will you
settle your son in life?”
“Who would I settle in life if I wouldn't settle my only son?” replied
the other; “who else is there to get all I have?”
“That's very true,” observed the Bodagh; “but state plainly what you'll
do for him on his marriage.”
“Do you consint to the marriage all of yees?”
“That's not the question,” said the other. “Divil a word I'll answer
till I know whither yees do or not,” said Fardorougha. “Say at once that
you consint, and then I'll spake--I'll say what I'll do.”
The Bodagh looked inquiringly at his wife and son. The latter nodded
affirmatively. “We do consent,” he added.
“That shows your own sinse,” said the old man. “Now what fortune will
you portion your colleen wid?”
“That depinds upon what you'll do for your son,” returned the Bodagh.
“And that depinds upon what you'll do for your daughter,” replied the
sagacious old miser.
“At this rate we're not likely to agree.”
“Nothin's asier; you have only to spake out; besides it's your business,
bein' the colleen's father.”
“Try him, and name something fair,” whispered John.
“If I give her a farm of thirty acres of good land, stocked and all,
what will you do for Connor?”
“More than that, five times over; I'll give him all I have. An' now when
will we marry them? Throth it was best to make things clear,” added the
knave, “and undherstand one another at wanst. When will we marry them?”
“Not till you say out openly and fairly the exact amount of money you'll
lay down on the nail--an' that before even a ring goes upon them.”
“Give it up, acushla,” said the wife, “you see there's no screwin' a
promise out of him, let alone a penny.”
“What 'ud yees have me do?” said the old man, raising his voice. “Won't
he have all I'm worth? Who else is to have it? Am I to make a beggar of
myself to please you? Can't they live on your farm till I die, an' thin
it'll all come to them?”
“An' no thanks to you for that, Fardorougha,” said the Bodagh. “No, no;
I'll never buy a pig in a poke. If you won't act generously by your son,
go home, in the name of goodness, and let us hear no more about it.”
“Why, why?” asked the miser, “are yees mad to miss what I can leave him?
If you knew how much it is, you'd snap--; but God help me! what am I
sayin'? I'm poorer than anybody thinks. I am--I am; an' will starve
among you all, if God hasn't sed it. Do you think I don't love my son as
well, an' a thousand times better, than you do your daughter? God alone
sees how my heart's in him--in my own Connor, that never gave me a sore
heart--my brave, my beautiful boy!”
He paused, and the scalding tears here ran down his shrunk and furrowed
cheeks, whilst he wrung his hands, started to his feet, and looked
about him like a man encompassed by dangers that threatened instant
destruction.
“If you love your son so well,” said John, mildly, “why do you grudge to
share your wealth with him? It is but natural and it is your duty.”
“Natural! what's natural?--to give away--is it to love him you mane? It
is, it's unnatural to give it away. He's the best son--the best--what do
you mane, I say?--let me alone--let me alone--I could give him my blood,
my blood--to sich a boy; but, you want to kill me--you want to kill me,
an' thin you'll get all; but he'll cross you, never fear--my boy will
save me--he's not tired of me--he'd give up fifty girls sooner than
see a hair of his father's head injured--so do your best, while I have
Connor, I'm not afraid of yees. Thanks be to God that sent him!” he
exclaimed, dropping suddenly on his knees--“oh, thanks be to God that
sent him to comfort an' protect his father from the schames and villainy
of them that 'ud bring him to starvation for their own ends!”
“Father,” said John, in a low tone, “this struggle between avarice and
natural affection is awful. See how his small gray eyes glare, and the
froth rises white to his thin shrivelled lips. What is to be done?”
“Fardorougha,” said the Bodagh, “it's over; don't distress
yourself--keep your money--there will be no match between our childhre.”
“Why? why won't there?” he screamed--“why won't there, I say? Havn't
you enough for them until I die? Would you see your child breakin' her
heart? Bodagh, you have no nather in you--no bowels for your _colleen
dahs_. But I'll spake for her--I'll argue wid you till this time
to-morrow, or I'll make you show feelin' to her--an' if you don't--if
you don't--”
“Wid the help o' God, the man's as mad as a March hare,” observed Mrs.
O'Brien, “and there's no use in losin' breath wid him.”
“If it's not insanity,” said John, “I know not what it is.”
“Young man,” proceeded Fardorougha, who evidently paid no attention to
what the mother and son said, being merely struck by the voice of the
latter, “young man, you're kind, you have sinse and feelin'--spake to
your father--don't let him destroy his child--don't ax him to starve
me, that never did him harm. He loves you--he loves you, for he can't
but love you--sure, I know how I love my own darlin' boy. Oh, spake to
him--here I go down on my knees to you, to beg, as you hope to see God
in heaven, that't you'll make him not break his daughter's heart! She's
your own sister--there's but the two of yees, an' oh, don't desart her
in this throuble--this heavy, heavy throuble!”
“I won't interfere farther in it,” replied the young man, who, however,
felt disturbed and anxious in the extreme.
“Mrs. O'Brien,” said he, turning imploringly, and with a wild, haggard
look to the Bodngh's wifs, “I'm turnin' to you--you're her mother--Oh
think, think”--
“I'll think no more about it,” she replied. “You're mad, an' thank God,
we know it. Of coorse it'll run in the family, for which reasing my
daughter 'ill never be joined to the son of a madman.”
He then turned as a last resource to O'Brien himself. “Bodagh, Bodagh, I
say,” here his voice rose to a frightful pitch, “I enthrate, I order, I
command you to listen to me! Marry them--don't kill your daughter, an'
don't, don't, dare to kill my son. If you do I'll curse you till
the marks of your feet will scorch the ground you tread on. Oh,” he
exclaimed, his voice now sinking, and his reason awaking apparently from
exhaustion, “what is come over me? what am I sayin'?--but it's all for
my son, my son.” He then rose, sat down, and for more than tweny minutes
wept like an infant, and sobbed and sighed as if his heart would break.
A feeling very difficult to be described hushed his amazed auditory into
silence; they felt something like pity towards the unfortunate old man,
as well as respect for that affection which struggled with such moral
heroism against the frightful vice that attempted to subdue this last
surviving virtue in the breast of the miser.
On his getting calm, they spoke to him kindly, but in firm and friendly
terms communicated their ultimate determination, that, in consequence
of his declining to make an adequate provision for the son, the marriage
could by no means take place. He then got his hat, and attempted to
reach the road which led down to the little lawn, but so complete was
his abstraction, and so exhausted his faculties, that it was not without
John's assistance he could reach the gate which lay before his eyes.
He first turned out of the walk to the right, then crossed over to the
left, and felt surprised that a wall opposed him in each direction.
“You are too much disturbed,” said John, “to perceive the way, but I
will show you.”
“I suppose I thought it was at home I was,” he replied, “bekase at my
own house one must turn aither to the right or to the left, as, indeed,
I'm in the custom of doin'.”
Whilst Fardorougha was engaged upon his ill-managed mission, his wife,
who felt that all human efforts at turning the heart of her husband from
his wealth must fail, resolved to have recourse to a higher power. With
this purpose in view, she put on her Sunday dress, and informed Connor
that she was about to go for a short time from home.
“I'll be back if I can,” she added, “before your father; and, indeed,
it's as good not to let him know anything about it.”
“About what, mother? for I know as little about it as he does.”
“Why, my dear boy, I'm goin' to get a couple o' masses sed, for God
to turn his heart from that cursed _airaghid_ it's fixed upon. Sure it
houlds sich a hard grip of his poor sowl, that it'll be the destruction
of him here an' hereafther. It'll kill him afore his time, an' then I
thrimble to think of his chance above.”
“The object is a good one, sure enough, an' it bein' for a spiritual
purpose the priest won't object to it.”
“Why would he, dear, an' it for the good of his sowl? Sure, when Pat
Lanigan was jealous, his wife got three masses sed for him; and, wid the
help o' God, he was cured sound and clane.”
Connor could not help smiling at this extraordinary cure for jealousy,
nor at the simple piety of a heart, the strength of whose affection he
knew so well. After her return she informed the son, that, in addition
to the masses to be said against his father's avarice, she had some
notion of getting another said towards his marriage with Una.
“God help you, mother,” said Connor, laughing; “for I think you're one
of the innocentest women that ever lived; but whisht!” he added, “here's
my father--God grant that he may bring good news!”
When Fardorougha entered he was paler or rather sallower than usual;
and, on his thin, puckered face, the lines that marked it were exhibited
with a distinctness greater than ordinary. His eyes appeared to have
sunk back more deeply into his head; his cheeks had fallen farther into
his jaws; his eyes were gleamy and disturbed; and his Whole appearance
bespoke trouble and care and the traces of a strong and recent struggle
within him.
“Father,” said Connor, with a beating heart, “for Heaven's sake, what
news--what tidings? I trust in God it's good.”
“They have no bowels, Connor--they have no bowels, thim O'Briens.”
“Then you didn't succeed.”
“The father's as great a bodagh as him he was called after--they're a
bad pack--an' you mustn't think of any one belongin'to them.”
“But tell us, man dear,” said the wife, “what passed--let us know it
all.”
“Why, they would do nothin'--they wouldn't hear of it. I went on my
knees to them--ay, to every one of them, barrin' the colleen herself;
but it was all no use--it's to be no match.”
“And why, father, did you go on your knees to any of them,” said Connor;
“I'm sorry you did that.”
“I did it on your account, Connor, an' I'd do it again on your account,
poor boy.”
“Well, well, it can't be helped.”
“But tell me, Fardorougha,” inquired Honor, “was any of the fault your
own--what did you offer to do for Connor?”
“Let me alone,” said he, peevishly; “I won't be cross-questioned about
it. My heart's broke among you all--what did I offer to do for Connor?
The match is knocked up, I tell you--and it must be knocked up. Connor's
young, an' it'll be time enough for him to marry this seven years to
come.”
As he said this, the fire of avarice blazed in his eyes, and he looked
angrily at Honor, then at the son; but, while contemplating the latter,
his countenance changed from anger to sorrow, and from sorrow to a mild
and serene expression of affection.
“Connor, avick,” said he, “Connor, sure you'll not blame me in this
business? sure you won't blame your poor, heart--broken father, let thim
say what they will, sure you won't, avilish?”
“Don't fret on my account, father,” said the sonj “why should I blame
you? God knows you're strivin' to do what you would wish for me.”
“No, Honor, I know he wouldn't; no,” he shouted, leaping up, “he
wouldn't make a saicrefize o' me! Connor, save me, save me,” he
shrieked, throwing his arms about his neck; “save me; my heart's
breakin'--somethin's tearin' me different ways inside; I can cry, you
see; I can cry, but I'm still as hard as a stone; it's terrible this
I'm sufferin'--terrible all out for a weak ould man like me. Oh, Connor,
avick, what will I do? Honor, achora, what 'ill become o' me--ainn't I
strugglin', strugglin' against it, whatever it is; don't yees pity me?
Don't ye, avick machree, don't ye, Honor? Oh, don't yees pity me?”
“God pity you!” said the wife, bursting into tears; “what will become of
you? Pray to God, Fardorougha, pray to Him. No one alive can change your
heart but God. I wint to the priest to-day, to get two masses said to
turn your heart from that cursed money. I didn't intind to tell you, but
I do, bekase it's your duty to pray now above all times, an' to back the
priest as well as you can.”
“It's the best advice, father, you could get,” said the son, as he
helped the trembling old man to his seat.
“An' who bid you thin to go to lavish money that way?” said he, turning
snappishly to Honor, and relapsing again into the peevish spirit of
avarice; “Saver o' Heaven, but you'll kill me, woman, afore you have
done wid me! How can I stand it, to have my hard--earned----an' for
what? to turn my heart from money? I don't want to be turned from it--I
don't wish it! Money!--I have no money--nothin'--nothin'--an' if there's
not better decreed for me, I'll be starved yet--an' is it any wondh'er?
to be robbin' me the way you're doin'!”
His wife clasped her hands and looked up towards heaven in silence, and
Connor, shaking his head despairingly, passed out to join Flanagan at
his labor, with whom he had not spoken that day. Briefly, and with
a heavy heart, he communicated to him the unsuccessful issue of his
father's interference, and asked his opinion as to how he should
conduct himself under circumstances so disastrous to his happiness and
prospects. Bartle advised him to seek another interview with Una, and,
for that purpose, offered, as before, to ascertain, in the course of
that evening, at what time and place she would see him. This suggestion,
in itself so natural, was adopted, and as Connor felt, with a peculiar
acuteness, the pain of the situation in which he was! placed, he
manifested little tendency to conversation, and the evening consequently
passed heavily and in silence.
Dusk, however, arrived, and Bartle prepared himself to execute the
somewhat difficult commission he had so obligingly undertaken. He
appeared, however, to have caught a portion of Connor's despondency,
for, when about to set out, he said “that he felt his spirits sunk and
melancholy; just,” he added, “as if some misfortune, Connor, was afore
aither or both of us; for my part I'd stake my life that things will go
ashanghran one way or other, an' that you'll never call Una O'Brien your
wife.”
“Bartle,” replied the other, “I only want you to do my message, an' not
be prophesyin' ill--bad news comes to soon, without your tellin' us of
it aforehand. God knows, Bartle dear, I'm distressed enough as it is,
and want my spirits to be kept up rather than put down.”
“No, Connor, but you want somethin' to divart your mind off this
business altogether, for a while; an' upon my saunies it 'ud be a
charity for some friend to give you a fresh piece of fun to think of--so
keep up your heart, how do you know but I may do that much for you
myself? But I want you to lend me the loan of a pair of shoes; divil
a tatther of these will be together soon, barrin' I get them mended in
time; you can't begrudge that, any how, an' me wearin' them on your own
business.”
“Nonsense, man--to be sure I will; stop an' I'll bring them out to you
in half a shake.”
He accordingly produced a pair of shoes, nearly new, and told Bartle
that if he had no objection to accept of them as a present, he might
consider them as his own.
This conversation took place in Fardorougha's barn, where Flanagan
always slept, and kept his small deal trunk.
He paused a moment when this good--natured offer was made to him; but
as it was dark no particular expression could be discovered on his
countenance,
“No!” said he vehemently; “may I go to perdition if I
ought!--Connor--Connor O' Donovan--you'd turn the div--”
“Halt, Bartle, don't be angry--whin I offered them, I didn't mane to
give you the slightest offence; it's enough for you to tell me you won't
have them without gettin' into a passion.”
“Have what? what are you spakin' about?”
“Why--about the shoes; what else?”
“Yes, faith, sure enough--well, ay, the shoes!--don't think of it,
Connor--I'm hasty; too much so, indeed, an' that's my fault. I'm like
all good-natured people in that respect; however, I'll borry them for a
day or two, till I get my own patched up some way. But, death alive, why
did you get at this season o' the year three rows of sparables in the
soles o' them?”
“Bekase they last longer, of coorse; and now, Bartle, be off, and don't
let the grass grow under your feet till I see you again.”
Connor's patience, or rather his impatience, that night, was severely
taxed. Hour after hour elapsed, and yet Bartle did not return. At length
he went to his father's sleeping-room, and informed him of the message
he had sent through Flanagan to Una.
“I will sleep in the barn to-night, father,” he added; “an' never fear,
let us talk as we may, but we'll be up early enough in the morning,
plase God. I couldn't sleep, or go to sleep, till I hear what news he
brings back to us; so do you rise and secure the door, an' I'll make my
shakedown wid Bartle this night.”
The father who never refused him anything unpecuniary (if we may be
allowed the word), did as the son requested him, and again went to bed,
unconscious of the thundercloud which was so soon to burst upon them
both.
Bartle, however, at length returned, and Connor had the satisfaction
of hearing that his faithful Una would meet him the next night, if
possible, at the hour of twelve o'clock, in her father's haggard. Her
parents, it appeared, had laid an injunction upon her never to see him
again; she was watched, too, and, unless when the household were
asleep, she found it altogether impracticable to effect any appointment
whatsoever with her lover. She could not even promise with certainty to
meet him on that night, but she desired him to come, and if she failed
to be punctual, not to leave the place of appointment for an hour. After
that, if she appeared not, then he was to wait no longer. Such was the
purport of the message which Flanagan delivered him.
Flanagan was the first up the next morning, for the purpose of keeping
an appointment which he had with Biddy Neil, whom we have already
introduced to the reader. On being taxed with meanness by this weak but
honest creature, for having sought service with the man who had ruined
his family, he promised to acquaint her with the true motive which had
induced him to enter into Fardorougha's employment. Their conversation
on this point, however, was merely a love scene, in which Bartle
satisfied the credulous girl, that to an attachment for herself of
some months' standing, might be ascribed his humiliation in becoming a
servant to the oppressor and destroyer of his house. He then passed from
themselves and their prospects to Connor and Una O'Brien, with whose
attachment for each other, as the reader knows, he was first made
acquainted by his fellow-servant.
“It's terrible, Biddy,” said he, “to think of the black and revengeful
heart that Connor bears to Bodagh Buie and his family merely bekase they
rufuse to let him marry Una. I'm afeard, Biddy darlin', that there'll
be dark work about it on Connor's side; an' if you hear of anything bad
happenin' to the Bodagh, you'll know where it comes from.”
“I don't b'lieve it, Bartle, nor I won't b'lieve it--not, any way, till
I hear that it happens. But what is it he intends to do to them?”
“That's more than I know myself,” replied Bartle; “I axed as much, an'
he said till it was done nobody would be the wiser.”
“That's quare,” said the girl, “for a better heart than Connor has, the
Saver o' the world never made.”
“You think so, agra, but wait; do you watch, and you'll find that he
don't come in to-night. I know nothin' myself of what he's about, for
he's as close as his father's purse, an' as deep as a draw--well; but
this I know, that he has black business on his hands, whatever it is. I
trimble to think of it!”
Flanagan then got tender, and, after pressing his suit with all the
eloquence he was master of, they separated, he to his labor in the
fields, and she to her domestic employment, and the unusual task of
watching the motions of her master's son.
Flanagan, in the course of the day, suggested to Connor the convenience
of sleeping that night also in the barn. The time of meeting, he said
was too late, and his father's family, who were early in their hours,
both night and morning, would be asleep even before they set out. He
also added, that lest any of the O'Briens or their retainers should
surprise him and Una, he had made up his mind to accompany him, and act
as a vidette during their interview.
Connor felt this devotion of Bartle to his dearest interests, as every
grateful and generous heart would.
“Bartle,” said he, “when we are married, if it's ever in my power to
make you aisy in life, may I never prosper if I don't do it! At all
events, in some way I'll reward you.”
“If you're ever able, Connor, I'll have no objection to be behoulden to
you; that is, if you're ever able, as you say.”
“And if there's a just God in heaven, Bartle, who sees my heart, however
things may go against me for a time, I say I will be able to sarve
you, or any other friend that desarves it. But about sleepin' in
to-night--coorse I wouldn't be knockin' up my father, and disturbin' my
poor mother for no rason; so, of coorse, as I said, I'll sleep in the
barn; it makes no difference one way or other.”
“Connor,” said Flanagan, with much solemnity, “if Bodagh Buie's wise,
he'll marry you and his daughter as fast as he can.”
“An' why, Bartle?”
“Why, for rasons you know nothin' about. Of late he's got very much out
o' favor, in regard of not comin' in to what people wish.”
“Speak plainer, Bartle; I'm in the dark now.”
“There's work goin' on in the counthry, that you and every one like you
ought to be up to; but you know nothin', as I said, about it. Now Bodagh
Buie, as far as I hear--for I'm in the dark myself nearly as much as
you--Bodagh Buie houlds out against them; an' not only that, I'm tould,
but gives them hard words, an' sets them at defiance.”
“But what has all this to do with me marrying his daughter?”
“Why, he wants some one badly to stand his friend wid them; an' if
you were married to her, you should on his account become one o' thim;
begad, as it is, you ought, for to tell the truth there's talk--strong
talk too--about payin' him a nightly visit that mayn't sarve him.”
“Then, Bartle, you're consarned in this business.”
“No, faith, not yet; but I suppose I must, if I wish to be safe in the
counthry; an' so must you too, for the same rason.”
“And, if not up, how do you know so much about it?”
“From one o' themselves, that wishes the! Bodagh well; ay, an' let me
tell you, he's a marked man, an' the night was appointed to visit him;
still it was put back to thry if he could be managed, but he couldn't;
an' all I know about it is that the time to remimber him is settled, an'
he's to get it, an', along wid other things, he'll be ped for turnin'
off--however, I can't say any more about that.”
“How long is it since you knew this?”
“Not long--only since last night, or you'd a got it before this. The
best way, I think, to put him on his guard 'ud be to send him a scrape
of a line wid no name to it.”
“Bartle,” replied Connor, “I'm as much behoulden to you for this, as if
it had been myself or my father that was marked. God knows you have
a good heart, an' if you don't sleep sound, I'm at a loss to know who
ought.”
“But it's hard to tell who has a good heart, Connor; I'd never say any
one has till I'd seen them well thried.”
At length the hour for setting out arrived, and both, armed with good
oaken cudgels proceeded to Bodagh Buie's haggard, whither they arrived
a little before the appointed hour. An utter stillness prevailed around
the place--not a dog barked--not a breeze blew, nor did a leaf move on
its stem, so calm and warm was the night. Neither moon nor stars shone
in the firmament, and the darkness seemed kindly to throw its dusky
mantle over this sweet and stolen interview of our young lovers. As
yet, however, Una had not come, nor could Connor, on surveying the large
massy farm--house of the Bodagh, perceive any appearance of light, or
hear a single sound, however faint, to break the stillness in which it
slept. Bartle, immediately after their arrival in the haggard, separated
from his companion, in order, he said, to give notice of interruption,
should Una be either watched or followed.
“Besides, you know,” he added, “sweethearts like nobody to be present
but themselves, when they do be spakin' soft to one another. So I'll
just keep dodgin' about, from place to place wid my eye an' ear both
open, an' if any intherloper comes I'll give yees the hard word.”
Heavily and lazily creep those moments during which an impatient
lover awaits the approach of his mistress; and woe betide the wooer of
impetuous temperament who is doomed, like our hero, to watch a whole
hour and a half in vain. Many a theory did his fancy body forth, and
many a conjecture did he form, as to the probable cause of her absence.
Was it possible that they watched her even in the dead hour of night?
Perhaps the grief she felt at her father's refusal to sanction the match
had brought on indisposition; and--oh, harrowing thought!--perhaps
they had succeeded in prevailing upon her to renounce him and his hopes
forever. But no; their affection was too pure and steadfast to admit of
a supposition so utterly unreasonable. What, then, could have prevented
her from keeping an appointment so essential to their future prospects,
and to the operations necessary for them to pursue? Some plan of
intercourse--some settled mode of communication must be concerted
between them; a fact as well known to herself as to him.
“Well, well,” thought he, “whatever's the reason of her not coming, I'm
sure the fault is not hers; as it is, there's no use in waitin' this
night any longer.”
Flanagan, it appeared, was of the same opinion, for in a minute or two
he made his appearance, and urged their return home. It was clear, he
said, that no interview could take place that night, and the sooner they
reached the barn and got to bed the better.
“Folly me,” he added; “we can pass through the yard, cross the road
before the hall-door, and get over the stile, by the near way through
the fields that's behind the orchard.”
Connor, who was by no means so well acquainted with the path as his
companion, followed him in the way pointed out, and in a few minutes
they found themselves walking at a brisk pace in a direction that led
homewards by a shorter cut. Connor's mind was too much depressed for
conversation, and both were proceeding in silence, when Flanagan started
in alarm, and pointed out the figure of some one walking directly
towards them. In less than a minute the person, whoever he might be,
had come within speaking distance, and, as he shouted “Who comes there?”
Flanagan bolted across the ditch, along which they had been going, and
disappeared. “A friend,” returned Connor, in reply to the question.
The other man advanced, and, with a look of deep scrutiny, peered into
his face. “A friend,” he exclaimed; “faith, it's, a quare hour for a
friend to be out. Who are you, eh? Is this Connor O'Donovan?”
“It is; but you have the advantage of me.”
“If your father was here he would know Phil Curtis, any way.''
“I ought to 'a known the voice myself,” said Connor; “Phil, how are you?
an' what's bringin' yourself out at this hour?”
“Why, I want to buy a couple o' milk cows in the fair o' Kilturbit,
an' I'm goin' to catch my horse, an' make ready. It's a stiff ride from
this, an' by the time I'm there it I'll be late enough for business, I'm
thinkin'. There was some one wid you; who was it?”
“Come, come,” said Connor, good--humoredly, “he was out coortin', and
doesn't wish to be known; and Phil, as you had the luck to meet me, I
beg you, for Heaven's sake, not to breathe that you seen me near Bodagh
Buie's to-night; I have various reasons for it.”
“It's no secret to me as it is,” replied Curtis; “half the parish knows
it; so make your mind asy on that head. Good night, Connor! I wish you
success, anyhow; you'll be a happy man if you get her; although, from
what I hear has happened, you have a bad chance, except herself stands
to you.”
The truth was, that Fardorougha's visit to the Bodagh, thanks to the
high tones of his own shrill voice, had drawn female curiosity, already
suspicious of the circumstances, to the keyhole of the parlor-door,
where the issue and object of the conference soon became known. In
a short time it had gone among the servants, and from them was
transmitted, in the course of that and the following day, to the tenants
and day-laborers! who contrived to multiply it with such effect, that,
as Curtis said, it was indeed no secret to the greater part of the
parish.
Flanagan soon rejoined Connor, who, on taxing him with his flight, was
informed, with an appearance of much regret, that a debt of old standing
due to Curtis had occasioned it.
“And upon my saunies, Connor, I'd rather any time go up to my neck in
wather than meet a man that I owe money to, whin I can't pay him. I knew
Phil very well, even before he spoke, and that was what made me cut an'
run.”
“What!” said Connor, looking towards the east, “can it be day-light so
soon?”
“Begad, it surely cannot,” replied his companion.
“Holy mother above us, what is this?”
Both involuntarily stood to contemplate the strange phenomenon which
presented itself to their observation; and, as it was certainly both
novel and startling in its appearance, we shall pause a little to
describe it more minutely.
The night, as we have already said, was remarkably dark, and warm to an
unusual degree. To the astonishment, however, of our two travellers,
a gleam of light, extremely faint, and somewhat resembling that which
precedes the rising of a summer sun, broke upon their path, and passed
on in undulating sweeps for a considerable space before them. Connor had
scarcely time to utter the exclamation just alluded to, and Flanagan to
reply to him, when the light around them shot farther into the distance
and deepened from its first pale hue into a rich and gorgeous purple.
Its effect, however, was limited within a circle of about a mile, for
they could observe that it got faint gradually, from the centre to the
extreme verge, where it melted into utter darkness.
“They must mean something extraordinary,” said Connor; “whatever it is,
it appears to be behind the hill that divides us from Bodagh's Buie's
house. Blessed earth! it looks as if the sky was on fire!”
The sky, indeed, presented a fearful but sublime spectacle. One spot
appeared to glow with the red-white heat of a furnace, and to form the
centre of a fiery cupola, from which the flame was flung in redder and
grosser masses, that darkened away into wild and dusky indistinctness,
in a manner that corresponded with the same light, as it danced in red
and frightful mirth upon the earth. As they looked, the cause of this
awful phenomenon soon became visible. From behind the hill was seen
a thick shower of burning particles rushing up into the mid air,
and presently the broad point of a huge pyramid of fire, wavering in
terrible and capricious power, seemed to disport itself far up in the
very depths of the glowing sky. On looking again upon the earth they
perceived that this terrible circle was extending itself over a wider
circumference of country, marking every prominent object around them
with a dark blood--red tinge, and throwing those that were more remote
into a visionary but appalling relief.
“_Dhar Chriestha_,” exclaimed Flanagan, “I have it; thim I spoke about
has paid Bodagh Buie the visit they promised him.”
“Come round the hip o' the hill,” said Connor, “till we see where it
really is; but I'll tell you what, Bartle, if you be right, woe betide
you! all the water in Europe wouldn't wash you free in my mind, of being
connected in this same Ribbon business that's spreading through the
country. As sure as that sky--that fearful sky's above us, you must
prove to me and other's how you came to know that this hellish business
was to take place. God of heaven! let us run--surely it couldn't be the
dwelling-house!”
His speed was so great that Bartle could find neither breath nor leisure
to make any reply.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed; “oh, thank God it's not the house, and there
lives are safe! but blessed Father, there's the man's whole haggard in
flames!”
“Oh, the netarnal villains!” was the simple exclamation of Flanagan.
“Bartle,” said his companion, “you heard what I said this minute?”
Their eyes met as he spoke, and for the first time O'Donovan was struck
by the pallid malignity of his features. The servant gazed steadily upon
him, his lips slightly but firmly drawn back, and his eye, in which
was neither sympathy nor alarm, charged with the spirit of a cool and
devilish triumph.
Connor's blazed at the bare idea of his villainy, and, in a fit of manly
and indignant rage, he seized Flanagan and hurled him headlong to
the earth at his feet. “You have hell in your face, you villain!” he
exclaimed; “and if I thought that--if I did--I'd drag you down like a
dog, an' pitch you head--foremost into the flames!”
Bartle rose, and, in a voice wonderfully calm, simply observed, “God
knows, Connor, if I know either your heart or mine, you'll be sorry for
this treatment you've given me for no rason. You know yourself that, as
soon as I heard anything of the ill-will against the Bodagh, I tould it
to you, in ordher--mark that--in ordher that you might let him know it
the best way you thought proper; an' for that you've knocked me down!”
“Why, I believe you may be right, Bartle--there's truth in that--but I
can't forgive you the look you gave me.”
“That red light was in my face, maybe; I'm sure if that wasn't it, I
can't tell--I was myself wonderin' at your own looks, the same way; but
then it was that quare light that was in your face.”
“Well, well, maybe I'm wrong--I hope I am. Do you think we could be of
any use there?”
“Of use! an' how would we account for being there at all, Connor?
how would you do it, at any rate, widout maybe bringin' the girl into
blame?”
“You're right agin, Bartle; I'm not half so cool as you are; our best
plan is to go home--”
“And go to bed; it is; an' the sooner we're there the better; sowl,
Connor, you gev me a murdherin' crash.”
“Think no more of it--think no more of it--I'm not often hasty, so you
must overlook it.”
It was, however, with an anxious and distressed heart that Connor
O'Donovan reached his father's barn, where, in the same bed with
Flanagan, he enjoyed, towards morning, a brief and broken slumber that
brought back to his fancy images of blood and fire, all so confusedly
mingled with Una, himself, and their parents, that the voice of his
father calling upon them to rise, came to him as a welcome and manifest
relief.
At the time laid in this story, neither burnings nor murders were
so familiar nor patriotic, as the fancied necessity of working out
political progress has recently made them. Such atrocities, in these bad
and unreformed days, were certainly looked upon as criminal, rather than
meritorious, however unpatriotic it may have been to form so erroneous
an estimate of human villainy. The consequence of all this was, that
the destruction of Bodagh Buie's property created a sensation in
the country, of which, familiarized as we are to such crimes, we can
entertain but a very faint notion. In three days a reward of five
hundred pounds, exclusive of two hundred from government, was offered
for such information as might bring the incendiary, or incendiaries, to
justice. The Bodagh and his family were stunned as much with amazement
at the occurrence of a calamity so incomprehensible to them, as with
the loss they had sustained, for that indeed was heavy. The man was
extremely popular, and by many acts of kindness had won the attachment
and goodwill of all who knew him, either personally or by character.
How, then, account for an act so wanton and vindictive? They could not
understand it; it was not only a--crime, but a crime connected with some
mysterious motive, beyond their power to detect.
But of all who became acquainted with the outrage, not one sympathized
more sincerely and deeply with O'Brien's family than did Connor
O'Donovan; although, of course, that sympathy was unknown to those for
whom it was felt. The fact was, that his own happiness became, in some
degree, involved in their calamity; and, as he came in to breakfast on
the fourth morning of its occurrence, he could not help observing as
much to his mother. His suspicions of Flanagan, as to possessing some
clue to the melancholy business, were by no means removed. On the
contrary, he felt that he ought to have him brought before the bench of
magistrates who were conducting the investigation from day to day, and,
with this determination, he himself resolved to state fully and
candidly to the bench, all the hints which had transpired from Flanagan
respecting the denunciations said to be held out against O'Brien and
the causes assigned for them. Breakfast was now ready, and Fardorougha
himself entered, uttering petulant charges of neglect and idleness
against his servant.
“He desarves no breakfast,” said he; “not a morsel; it's robbin' me by
his idleness and schaming he is. What is he doin', Connor? or what has
become of him? He's not in the field nor about the place.”
Connor paused.
“Why, now that I think of it, I didn't see him to-day,” he replied; “I
thought that he was mendin' the slap at the Three-Acres. I'll thry if
he's in the barn.”
And he went accordingly to find him. “I'm afraid, father,” said he, on
his return, “that Bartle's a bad boy, an' a dangerous one; he's not in
the barn, an' it appears, from the bed, that he didn't sleep there last
night. The truth is, he's gone; at laste he has brought all his clothes,
his box, an' everything with him; an' what's more, I suspect the reason
of it; he thinks he has let out too much to me; an' it 'ill go hard but
I'll make him let out more.”
The servant-maid, Biddy, now entered and informed them that four men,
evidently strangers, were approaching the house from the rear, and ere
she could add anything further on the subject, two of them walked in,
and, seizing Connor, informed him that he was their prisoner.
“Your prisoner!” exclaimed his mother, getting pale; “why, what could
our poor boy do to make him your prisoner? He never did hurt or harm to
the child unborn.”
Fardorougha's keen gray eye rested sharply upon them for a moment; it
then turned to Honor, afterwards to Connor, and again gleamed bitterly
at the intruders--“What is this?” said he, starting up; “what is this?
you don't mane to rob us?”
“I think,” said the son, “you must be undher a mistake; you surely can
have no business with me. It's very likely you want some one else.”
“What is your name?” inquired he who appeared to be the principal of
them.
“My name is Connor O'Donovan; an' I know no reason why I should deny
it.”
“Then you are the very man we come for,” said the querist, “so you had
better prepare to accompany us; in the mean time you must excuse us
if we search your room. This is unpleasant, I grant, but we have no
discretion, and must perform our duty.”
“What do you want in this room?” said Fardorougha; “it's robbery you're
on for--it's robbery you're on for--in open daylight, too; but you're
late; I lodged the last penny yesterday; that's one comfort; you're
late--you're late.”
“What did my boy do?” exclaimed the affrighted mother; “what did he do
that you come to drag him away from us?”
This question she put to the other constable, the first having entered
her son's bedroom.
“I am afraid, ma'am, you'll know it too soon,” replied the man; “it's a
heavy charge if it proves to be true.”
As he spoke his companion re-entered the apartment, with Connor's
Sunday coat in his hand, from the pocket of which he drew a steel and
tinder-box.
“I'm sorry for this,” he observed; “it corroborates what has been sworn
against you by your accomplice, and here, I fear, comes additional
proof.”
At the same moment the other two made their appearance, one of them
holding in his hand the shoes which Connor had lent to Flanagan, and
which he wore on the night of the conflagration.
On seeing this, and comparing the two circumstances together, a fearful
light broke on the unfortunate young man, who had already felt conscious
of the snare into which he had fallen. With an air of sorrow and manly
resignation he thus addressed his parents:--
“Don't be alarmed; I see that there is an attempt made to swear away my
life; but, whatever happens, you both know that I am innocent of doin'
an injury to any one. If I die, I would rather die innocent than live as
guilty as he will that must have my blood to answer for.”
His mother, on hearing this, ran to him, and with her arms about his
neck, exclaimed,
“Die! die! Connor darlin'--my brave boy--my only son--why do you talk
about death? What is it for? what is it about? Oh, for the love of God,
tell us what did our boy do?”
“He is charged by Bartle Flanagan,” replied one of the constables,
“with burning Bodagh Buie O'Brien's haggard, because he refused him his
daughter. He must now come with us to jail.”
“I see the whole plot,” said Connor, “and a deep one it is; the villain
will do his worst; still I can't but have dependence upon justice and
my own innocence. I can't but have dependence upon God, who knows my
heart.”