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Fardorougha, The Miser

by William Carleton · English · Gutenberg #16002 · 663,927 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Fardorougha, The Miser

Author: William Carleton

Illustrator: M. L. Flanery


        
Release date: June 7, 2005 [eBook #16002]
                Most recently updated: March 1, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16002

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER ***




Produced by David Widger





FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER.

By William Carleton




CONTENTS

     Part I.
     Part II.
     Part III.
     Part IV.
     Part V.
     Part VI.
     Part VII.
     Part VIII.




PART I.

Fardorougha, the Miser.

It was on one of those nights in August, when the moon and stars shine
through an atmosphere clear and cloudless, with a mildness of lustre
almost continental, that a horseman, advancing at a rapid pace, turned
off a remote branch of road up a narrow lane, and, dismounting before a
neat whitewashed cottage, gave a quick and impatient knock at the door.
Almost instantly, out of a small window that opened on hinges, was
protruded a broad female face, surrounded, by way of nightcap, with
several folds of flannel, that had originally been white.

“Is Mary Moan at home?” said the horseman.

“For a miricle-ay!” replied the female; “who's _down_, in the name o'
goodness?”

“Why, thin, I'm thinkin' you'll be smilin' whin you hear it,” replied
the messenger. “The sorra one else than Honor Donovan, that's now marrid
upon Fardorougha Donovan to the tune of thirteen years. Bedad, time for
her, anyhow,--but, sure it'll be good whin it comes, we're thinkin'.”

“Well, betther late than never--the Lord be praised for all His gifts,
anyhow. Put your horse down to the mountin'-stone, and I'll be wid you
in half a jiffy, acushla.”

She immediately drew in her head, and ere the messenger had well placed
his horse at the aforesaid stirrup, or mounting-stone, which is an
indispensable adjunct to the midwife's cottage, she issued out, cloaked
and bonneted; for, in point of fact, her practice was so extensive, and
the demands upon her attendance so incessant, that she seldom, if ever,
slept or went to bed, unless partially dressed. And such was her habit
of vigilance, that she ultimately became an illustration of the old
Roman proverb, _Non dormio omnibus_; that is to say, she could sleep as
sound as a top to every possible noise except a knock at the door, to
which she might be said, during the greater part of her professional
life, to have been instinctively awake.

Having ascended the mounting-stone, and placed herself on the crupper,
the guide and she, while passing down the narrow and difficult lane,
along which they could proceed but slowly and with caution, entered into
the following dialogue, she having first turned up the hood of her cloak
over her bonnet, and tied a spotted cotton kerchief round her neck.

“This,” said the guide, who was Fardorougha Donovan's servant-man, “is
a quare enough business, as some o' the nabors do be sayin--marrid upon
one another beyant thirteen year, an' ne'er a sign of a haporth. Why
then begad it is quare.”

“Whisht, whisht,” replied Molly, with an expression of mysterious
and superior knowledge; “don't be spakin' about what you don't
understand--sure, nuttin's impossible to God, avick--don't you know
that?”

“Oh, bedad, sure enough--that we must allow, whether or not, still--”

“Very well; seein' that, what more have we to say, barrin' to hould our
tongues. Children sent late always come either for great good or great
sarra to their parents--an' God grant that this may be for good to the
honest people--for indeed honest people they are, by all accounts. But
what myself wonders at is, that Honor Donovan never once opened her lips
to me about it. However, God's will be done! The Lord send her safe over
all her throubles, poor woman! And, now that we're out o' this thief
of a lane, lay an for the bare life, and never heed me. I'm as good a
horseman as yourself; and, indeed, I've a good right, for I'm an ould
hand at it.”

“I'm thinkin',” she added, after a short silence, “it's odd I never was
much acquainted with the Donovans. I'm tould they're a hard pack, that
loves the money.”

“Faix,” replied her companion, “Let Fardorougha alone for knowin' the
value of a shillin'!--they're not in Europe can hould a harder grip o'
one.”

His master, in fact, was a hard, frugal man, and his mistress a woman
of somewhat similar character; both were strictly honest, but, like
many persons to whom God has denied offspring, their hearts had for a
considerable time before been placed upon money as their idol; for, in
truth, the affections must be fixed upon something, and we generally
find that where children are denied, the world comes in and hardens by
its influence the best and tenderest sympathies of humanity.

After a journey of two miles they came out on a hay-track, that skirted
an extensive and level sweep of meadow, along which they proceeded
with as much speed as a pillionless midwife was capable of bearing.
At length, on a gentle declivity facing the south, they espied in the
distance the low, long, whitewashed farm-house of Fardorougha Donovan.
There was little of artificial ornament about the place, but much of the
rough, heart-stirring wildness of nature, as it appeared in a strong,
vigorous district, well cultivated, but without being tamed down by
those finer and more graceful touches, which nowadays mark the skilful
hand of the scientific agriculturist.

To the left waved a beautiful hazel glen, which gradually softened away
into the meadows above mentioned. Up behind the house stood an ancient
plantation of whitethorn, which, during the month of May, diffused its
fragrance, its beauty, and its melody, over the whole farm. The plain
garden was hedged round by the graceful poplar, whilst here and there
were studded over the fields either single trees or small groups of
mountain ash, a tree still more beautiful than the former. The small
dells about the farm were closely covered with blackthorn and holly,
with an occasional oak shooting up from some little cliff, and towering
sturdily over its lowly companions. Here grew a thick interwoven mass of
dog-tree, and upon a wild hedgerow, leaning like a beautiful wife upon
a rugged husband, might be seen, supported by clumps of blackthorn, that
most fragrant and exquisite of creepers, the delicious honeysuckle. Add
to this the neat appearance of the farm itself, with its meadows and
cornfields waving to the soft sunny breeze of summer, and the reader
may admit, that without possessing any striking features of pictorial
effect, it would, nevertheless, be difficult to find an uplying farm
upon which the eye could rest with greater satisfaction.

Ere arriving at the house they were met by Fardorougha himself, a small
man, with dark, but well-set features, which being at no time very
placid, appeared now to be absolutely gloomy, yet marked by strong and
profound, anxiety.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed on meeting them; “is this Mary Moan?”

“It is--it is!” she exclaimed; “how are all within?--am I in time?”

“Only poorly,” he returned; “you are, I hope.”

The midwife, when they reached the door, got herself dismounted in all
haste, and was about entering the house, when Fardorougha, laying his
hand upon her shoulder, said in a tone of voice full of deep feeling--

“I need say nothing to you; what you can do, you will do--but one thing
I expect--if you see danger, call in assistance.”

“It's all in the hands o' God, Fardorougha, acushla; be as aisy in your
mind as you can; if there's need for more help you'll hear it; so keep
the man an' horse both ready.”

She then blessed herself and entered the house, repeating a short
prayer, or charm, which was supposed to possess uncommon efficacy in
relieving cases of the nature she was then called upon to attend.

Fardorougha Donovan was a man of great good sense, and of strong, but
not obvious or flexible feeling; this is to say, on strong occasions he
felt accordingly, but exhibited no remarkable symptoms of emotion.
In matters of a less important character, he was either deficient in
sensibility altogether, or it affected him so slightly as not to be
perceptible. What his dispositions and feelings might have been, had
his parental affections and domestic sympathies been cultivated by the
tender intercourse which subsists between a parent and his children,
it is not easy to say. On such occasions many a new and delightful
sensation--many a sweet trait of affection previously unknown--and, oh!
many, many a fresh impulse of rapturous emotion never before felt gushes
out of the heart; all of which, were it not for the existence of ties
so delightful, might have there lain sealed up forever. Where is the man
who does not remember the strange impression of tumultuous delight which
he experienced on finding himself a husband? And who does not recollect
that nameless charm, amounting almost to a new sense, which pervaded his
whole being with tenderness and transport on kissing the rose-bud lips
of his first-born babe? It is, indeed, by the ties of domestic life that
the purity and affection and the general character of the human heart
are best tried. What is there more beautiful than to see that fountain
of tenderness multiplying its affections instead of diminishing them,
according as claim after claim arises to make fresh demands upon its
love? Love, and especially parental love, like jealousy, increases
by what it feeds on. But, oh! from what an unknown world of exquisite
enjoyment are they shut out, to whom Providence has not vouchsafed
those beloved beings on whom the heart lavishes the whole fulness of its
rapture! No wonder that their own affections should wither in the cold
gloom of disappointed hope, or their hearts harden into that moody
spirit of worldly-mindedness which adopts for its offspring the miser's
idol.

Whether Fardorougha felt the want of children acutely or otherwise,
could not be inferred from any visible indication of regret on his part
by those who knew him. His own wife, whose facilities of observation
were so great and so frequent, was only able to suspect in the
affirmative. For himself he neither murmured nor repined; but she could
perceive that, after a few years had passed, a slight degree of gloom
began to settle on him, and an anxiety about his crops, and his few
cattle, and the produce of his farm. He also began to calculate the
amount of what might be saved from the fruits of their united industry.
Sometimes, but indeed upon rare occasions, his temper appeared inclining
to be irascible or impatient; but in general it was grave, cold,
and inflexible, without any outbreaks of passion, or the slightest
disposition to mirth. His wife's mind, however, was by no means so firm
as his, nor so free from the traces of that secret regret which preyed
upon it. She both murmured and repined, and often in terms which drew
from Fardorougha a cool rebuke for her want of resignation to the will
of God. As years advanced, however, her disappointment became harassing
even to herself, and now that hope began to die away, her heart
gradually partook of the cool worldly spirit which had seized upon the
disposition of her husband, Though cultivating but a small farm, which
they held at a high rent, yet, by the dint of frugality and incessant
diligence, they were able to add a little each year to the small stock
of money which they had contrived to put together. Still would the
unhappy recollection that they were childless steal painfully and
heavily over them; the wife would sometimes murmur, and the husband
reprove her, but in a tone so cool and indifferent that she could not
avoid concluding that his own want of resignation, though not expressed,
was at heart equal to her own. Each also became somewhat religious,
and both remarkable for a punctual attendance upon the rites of their
church, and that in proportion as the love of temporal things overcame
them. In this manner they lived upwards of thirteen years, when Mrs.
Donovan declared herself to be in that situation which in due time
rendered the services of Mary Moan necessary.

From the moment this intimation was! given, and its truth confirmed, a
faint light, not greater than the dim and trembling lustre of a single
star, broke in upon the darkened affections and worldly spirit
of Fardorougha Donovan. Had the announcement taken place within a
reasonable period after his marriage, before he had become sick of
disappointment, or had surrendered his heart from absolute despair to an
incipient spirit of avarice, it would no doubt have been hailed with all
the eager delight of unblighted hope and vivid affection; but now a
new and subtle habit had been superinduced, after the last cherished
expectation of the heart had departed; a spirit of foresight and severe
calculation descended on him, and had so nearly saturated his whole
being, that he could not for some time actually determine whether the
knowledge of his wife's situation was more agreeable to his affection,
or repugnant to the parsimonious disposition which had quickened his
heart into an energy incompatible with natural benevolence, and the
perception of those tender ties which spring up from the relations of
domestic life. For a considerable time this struggle between the two
principles went on; sometimes a new hope would spring up, attended in
the background by a thousand affecting circumstances--on the other hand,
some gloomy and undefinable dread of exigency, distress, and ruin,
would wring his heart and sink his spirits down to positive misery.
Notwithstanding this conflict between growing avarice and affection,
the star of the father's love had risen, and though, as we have already
said, its light was dim and unsteady, yet the moment a single opening
occurred in the clouded mind, there it was to be seen serene and pure,
a beautiful emblem of undying and solitary affection struggling with
the cares and angry passions of life. By degrees, however, the
husband's heart became touched by the hopes of his younger years,
former associations revived, and remembrances of past tenderness, though
blunted in a heart so much changed, came over him like the breath
of fragrance that has nearly passed away. He began, therefore, to
contemplate the event without foreboding, and by the time the looked-for
period arrived, if the world and its debasing influences were not
utterly overcome, yet nature and the quickening tenderness of a father's
feeling had made a considerable progress in a heart from which they had
been long banished. Far different from all this was the history of
his wife since her perception of an event so delightful. In her was no
bitter and obstinate principle subversive of affection to be overcome.
For although she had in latter years sank into the painful apathy of a
hopeless spirit, and given herself somewhat to the world, yet no sooner
did the unexpected light dawn upon her, than her whole soul was filled
with exultation and delight. The world and its influence passed away
like a dream, and her heart melted into a habit of tenderness at once
so novel and exquisite, that she often assured her husband she had never
felt happiness before.

Such are the respective states of feeling in which our readers find
Fardorougha Donovan and his wife, upon an occasion whose consequences
run too far into futurity for us to determine at present whether they
are to end in happiness or misery. For a considerable time that evening,
before the arrival of Mary Moan, the males of the family had taken up
their residence in an inside kiln, where, after having kindled a fire
in the draught-hole, or what the Scotch call the “logie,” they sat and
chatted in that kind of festive spirit which such an event uniformly
produces among the servants of a family. Fardorougha himself remained
for the most part with them, that is to say except while ascertaining
from time to time the situation of his wife. His presence, however, was
only a restraint upon their good-humor, and his niggardly habits raised
some rather uncomplimentary epithets during his short visits of inquiry.
It is customary upon such occasions, as soon as the mistress of the
family is taken ill, to ask 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.”

[Illustration: PAGE 191-- Imprinted the father's first kiss]

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 knelt down, as is the custom among most
Irish families, and offered up a short but fervent prayer of gratitude
as well for an event so happy, as for her safe delivery, and the future
welfare of the mother and child. When this was performed, they set
themselves to the distribution of the blithe meat or groaning malt,
a duty which the midwife transferred to them with much pleasure, this
being a matter which, except in matters of necessity, she considered
beneath the dignity of her profession. The servants were accordingly
summoned in due time, and, headed by Nogher, soon made their appearance.
In events of this nature, servants in Ireland, and we believe everywhere
else, are always allowed a considerable stretch of good-humored license
in those observations which they are in the habit of making. Indeed,
this is not so much an extemporaneous indulgence of wit on their part,
as a mere repetition of the set phrases and traditionary apothegms
which have been long established among the peasantry, and as they are
generally expressive of present satisfaction and good wishes for the
future, so would it be looked upon as churlishness, and in some cases,
on the part of the servants, a sign of ill-luck, to neglect them.

“Now,” said Honora's mother to the servants of both sexes, “now,
childre, that you've aite a trifle, you must taste something in the way
of dhrink. It would be too bad on this night above all nights we've seen
yet, not to have a glass to the stranger's health at all events. Here,
Nogher, thry this, avick--you never got a glass wid a warmer heart.”

Nogher took the liquor, his grave face charged with suppressed humor,
and first looking upon his fellow-servants with a countenance so droll
yet dry, that none but themselves understood, it, he then directed a
very sober glance at the good woman.

“Thank you, ma'am,” he exclaimed; “be goxty, sure enough if our hearts
wouldn't get warm now, they'd never warm. A happy night it is for
Fardorougha and the misthress, at any rate. I'll engage the stranger
was worth waitin' for, too. I'll hould a thrifle, he's the beauty o'
the world this minnit--an' I'll engage it's breeches we'll have to be I
gettin for him some o' these days, the darlin'. Well, here's his health,
any way; an' may he----”

“Husth, arogorah!” exclaimed the mid-wife; “stop, I say--the tree afore
the fruit, all the world over; don't you know, an' bad win to you, that
if the sthranger was to go to-morrow, as good might come afther him,
while the paarent stocks are to the fore. The mother an' father first,
acushla, an' thin the sthranger.”

“Many thanks to you, Mrs. Moan,” replied Nogher, “for settin' me
right--sure we'll know something ourselves whin it comes our turn, plase
goodness. If the misthress isn't asleep, by goxty, I'd call in to her,
that I'm dhrinkin' her health.”

“She's not asleep,” said her mother; “an' proud she'll be, poor thing,
to hear you, Nogher.”

“Misthress!” he said in a loud voice, “are you asleep, ma'am?”

“No, indeed, Nogher,” she replied, in a good-humored tone of voice.

“Well, ma'am,” said Nogher, still in a loud voice, and scratching his
head, “here's your health; an' now that the ice is bruk--be goxty, an'
so it is sure,” said he in an undertone to the rest--“Peggy, behave
yourself,” he continued, to one of the servant-maids, “mockin's
catchin': faix, you dunna what's afore yourself yet--beg pardon--I'm
forgettin' myself--an' now that the ice is bruk, ma'am,” he resumed,
“you must be dacent for the futher. Many a bottle, plase goodness, we'll
have this way yet. Your health, ma'am, an' a speedy recovery to you--an'
a sudden uprise--not forgettin' the masther--long life to him!”

“What!” said the midwife, “are you forgettin' the sthranger?”

Nogher looked her full in the face, and opened his mouth, without saying
a word, literally pitched the glass of spirits to the very bottom of his
throat.

“Beggin' your pardon, ma'am,” he replied, “is it three healths you'd
have me dhrink wid the one glassful?--not myself, indeed; faix, I'd be
long sorry to make so little of him--if he was a bit of a _girsha_ I'd
not scruple to give him a corner o' the glass, but, bein' a young man
althers the case intirely--he must have a bumper for himself.”

“A girsha!” said Peggy, his fellow-servant, feeling the indignity just
offered to her sex--“Why thin, bad manners to your assurance for that
same: a girsha's as well intitled to a full glass as a gorsoon, any
day.”

“Husth a colleen,” said Nogher, good--humoredly, “sure, it's takin'
pattern by sich a fine example you ought to be. This, Mrs. Moan, is the
purty crature I was mintionin' as we came along, that intends to get
spanshelled wid myself some o' these days--that is, if she can bring me
into good-humor, the thief.”

“And if it does happen,” said Peggy, “you'll have to look sharper afther
him, Mrs. Moan. He's pleasant enough now, but I'll be bound no man 'ill
know betther how to hang his fiddle behind the door when he comes home
to us.”

“Well, acushla, sure he may, if he likes, but if he does, he knows
what's afore him--not sayin' that he ever will, I hope, for it's a woful
case whin it comes to that, ahagur.”

“Faix, it's a happy story for half the poor wives of the parish that
you're in it,” said Peggy, “sure, only fore----”

“_Be dhe huath Vread, agus glak sho_--hould your tongue, Peggy, and
taste this,” said the mother of her mistress, handing her a glass: “If
you intend to go together, in the name o' goodness fear God more than
the midwife, if you want to have luck an' grace.”

“Oh, is it all this?” exclaimed the sly girl; “faix, it 'ill make
me hearty if I dhrink so much--bedeed it will. Well, misthress, your
health, an' a speedy uprise to you--an' the same to the masther, not
forgettin' the sthranger--long life an' good health to him.”

She then put the glass to her lips, and after several small sips,
appearing to be so many unsuccessful attempts at overcoming her
reluctance to drink it, she at length took courage, and bolting it down,
immediately applied her apron to her mouth, making at the same time two
or three wry faces, gasping, as if to recover the breath which it did
not take from her.

The midwife, in the mean time, felt that the advice just given to Nogher
and Peggy contained a clause somewhat more detrimental to her importance
than was altogether agreeable to her; and to sit calmly under any
imputation that involved a diminution of her authority, was not within
the code of her practice.

“If they go together,” she observed, “it's right to fear God, no doubt;
but that's no raison why they shouldn't pay respect to thim that can
sarve thim or otherwise.”

“Nobody says aginst that, Mrs. Moan,” replied the other; “it's all fair,
an' nothin' else.”

“A midwife's nuttin' in your eyes, we suppose,” rejoined Mrs. Moan; “but
maybe's there's thim belongin' to you could tell to the contrary.”

“Oblaged to you, we suppose, for your sarvices--an' we're not denyin'
that, aither.”

“For me sarvices--maybe thim same sarvices wasn't very sweet or
treaclesome to some o' thim,” she rejoined, with a mysterious and
somewhat indignant toss of the head.

“Well, well,” said the other in a friendly tone, “that makes no maxims
one way or the other, only dhrink this--sure we're not goin' to quarrel
about it, any how.”

“God forbid, Honora More! but sure it ud ill become me to hear my own
corree--no, no, avourneen,” she exclaimed, putting hack the glass; “I
can't take it this--a--way; it doesn't agree wid me; you must put a
grain o' shugar an' a dhrop o' bilin' wather to it. It may do very well
hard for the sarvints, but I'm not used to it.”

“I hird that myself afore,” observed Nogher, “that she never dhrinks
hard whiskey. Well, myself never tasted punch but wanst, an' be goxty
its great dhrink. Death alive, Honora More,” he continued, in his most
insinuating manner, “make us all a sup. Sure, blood alive, this is not
a common night, afther what God has sint us: Fardorougha himself would
allow you, if he was here; deed, be dad, he as good as promised me he
would; an' you know we have the young customer's health to drink yet.”

“Throth, an' you ought,” said the mid-wife; “the boy says nuttin' but
the thruth--it's not a common night; an' if God has given Fardorougha
substance, he shouldn't begridge a little, if it was only to show a
grateful heart.”

“Well, well,” said Honora More--which means great Honora, in opposition
to her daughter, Fardorougha's wife; this being an epithet adopted for
the purpose of contradistinguishing the members of a family when called
by the same name--“Well,” said she, “I suppose it's as good. My own
heart, dear knows, is not in a thrifle, only I have my doubts about
Fardorougha. However, what's done can't be undone; so, once we mix it,
he'll be too late to spake if he comes in, any way.”

The punch was accordingly mixed, and they were in the act of sitting
down to enjoy themselves with more comfort when Fardorougha entered.
As before, he was silent and disturbed, neither calm nor stern, but
laboring, one would suppose, under strong feelings of a decidedly
opposite character. On seeing the punch made, his brow gathered into
something like severity; he looked quickly at his mother-in-law, and was
about to speak, but, pausing a moment, he sat down, and after a little
time said in a kind voice--

“It's right, it's right--for his sake, an' on his account, have it; but,
Honora, let there be no waste.”

“Sure we had to make it for Mrs. Moan whether or not,” said his
mother-in-law, “she can't drink it hard, poor woman.”

Mrs. Moan, who had gone to see her patient, having heard his voice
again, made her appearance with the child in her arms, and with all
the importance which such a burden usually bestows upon persons of her
calling.

“Here,” said she, presenting him the infant, “take a proper look at
this fellow. That I may never, if a finer swaddy ever crossed my hands.
Throth if you wor dead tomorrow he'd be mistaken for you--your born
image--the sorra thing else--eh alanna--the Lord loves my son--faix,
you've daddy's nose upon you anyhow--an' his chin to a turn. Oh, thin,
Fardorougha, but there's many a couple rowlin' in wealth that 'ud be
proud to have the likes of him; an' that must die an' let it all go
to strangers, or to them that doesn't care about them, 'ceptin' to get
grabbin' at what they have, that think every day a year that they're
above the sod. What! manim-an--kiss your child, man alive. That I may
never, but he looks at the darlin' as if it was a sod of turf. Throth
you're not worthy of havin' such a bully.”

Fardorougha, during this dialogue, held the child in his arms and
looked upon it earnestly as before, but without betraying any visible
indication of countenance that could enable a spectator to estimate the
nature of what passed within him. At length there appeared in his eye a
barely perceptible expression of benignity, which, however, soon passed
away, and was replaced by a shadow of gloom and anxiety. Nevertheless,
in compliance with the commands of the midwife, he kissed its lips,
after which the servants all gathered round it, each lavishing upon the
little urchin those hyperbolical expressions of flattery, which, after
all, most parents are willing to receive as something approximating to
gospel truth.

“Bedad,” said Nogher, “that fellow 'ill be the flower o' the Donovans,
if God spares him--be goxty, I'll engage he'll give the purty girls many
a sore heart yet--he'll play the dickens wid 'em, or I'm not here--a
wough! do you hear how the young rogue gives tongue at that? the sorra
one o' the shaver but knows what I'm savin'.”

Nogher always had an eye to his own comfort, no matter under what
circumstances he might be placed. Having received the full glass, he
grasped his master's hand, and in the usual set phrases, to which,
however, was added much extempore matter of his own, he drank the baby's
health, congratulating the parents, in his own blunt way, upon this
accession to their happiness. The other servants continued to pour
out their praises in terms of delight and astonishment at his
accomplishments and beauty, each, in imitation of Nogher, concluding
with a toast in nearly the same words.

How sweet from all other lips is the praise of those we love!
Fardorougha, who, a moment before, looked upon his infant's face with an
unmoved countenance, felt incapable of withstanding the flattery of
his own servants when uttered in favor of the child. His eye became
complacent, and while Nogher held his hand, a slight pressure in return
was proof sufficient that his heart beat in accordance with the hopes
they expressed of all that the undeveloped future might bestow upon him.

When their little treat was over, the servants withdrew for the
night, and Fardorougha himself, still laboring under an excitement so
complicated and novel, retired rather to shape his mind to some definite
tone of feeling than to seek repose.

How strange is life, and how mysteriously connected is the woe or the
weal of a single family with the great mass of human society! We beg the
reader to stand with us upon a low, sloping hill, a little to the left
of Fardorougha's house, and, after having solemnized his heart by a
glance at the starry gospel of the skies, to cast his eye upon the long,
white-washed dwelling, as it shines faintly in the visionary distance of
a moonlight night. How full of tranquil beauty is the hour, and how
deep the silence, except when it is broken by the loud baying of the
watch-dog, as he barks in sullen fierceness at his own echo! Or perhaps
there is nothing heard but the sugh of the mountain river, as with
booming sound it rises and falls in the distance, filling the ear of
midnight with its wild and continuous melody. Look around, and observe
the spirit of repose which sleeps on the face of nature; think upon the
dream of human life, and of all the inexplicable wonders which are read
from day to day in that miraculous page--the heart of man. Neither your
eye nor imagination need pass beyond that humble roof before you, in
which it is easy to perceive, by the lights passing at this unusual hour
across the windows, that there is something added either to their joy or
to their sorrow. There is the mother, in whose heart was accumulated
the unwasted tenderness of years, forgetting all the past in the first
intoxicating influence of an unknown ecstasy, and looking to the future
with the eager aspirations of affection. There is the husband, too, for
whose heart the lank devil of the avaricious--the famine-struck god
of the miser--is even now contending with the almost extinguished love
which springs up in a father's bosom on the sight of his first-born.

Reader, who can tell whether the entrancing visions of the happy mother,
or the gloomy anticipations of her apprehensive husband, are most
prophetic of the destiny which is before their child. Many indeed and
various are the hopes and fears felt under that roof, and deeply will
their lights and shadows be blended in the life of the being whose
claims are so strong upon their love. There, for some time past the
lights in the window have appeared less frequently--one by one we
presume the inmates have gone to repose--no other is now visible--the
last candle is extinguished, and this humble section of the great
family of man is now at rest with the veil of a dark and fearful future
unlifted before them.

There is not perhaps in the series of human passions any one so
difficult to be eradicated out of the bosom as avarice, no matter with
what seeming moderation it puts itself forth, or under what disguise it
may appear. And among all its cold-blooded characteristics there is none
so utterly unaccountable as that frightful dread of famine and ultimate
starvation, which is also strong in proportion to the impossibility of
its ever being realized. Indeed, when it arrives to this we should not
term it a passion, but a malady, and in our opinion the narrow-hearted
patient should be prudently separated from society, and treated as one
laboring under an incurable species of monomania.

During the few days that intervened between our hero's birth and his
christening, Fardorougha's mind was engaged in forming some fixed
principle by which to guide his heart in the conflict that still went on
between avarice and affection. In this task he imagined that the father
predominated over the miser almost without a struggle; whereas, the fact
was, that the subtle passion, ever more ingenious than the simple
one, changed its external character, and came out in the shape of
affectionate forecast and provident regard for the wants and prospects
of his child. This gross deception of his own heart he felt as a relief;
for, though smitten with the world, it did not escape him that the
birth of his little one, all its circumstances considered, ought to have
caused him to feel an enjoyment unalloyed by the care and regret which
checked his sympathies as a parent. Neither was conscience itself
altogether silent, nor the blunt remonstrances of his servants wholly
without effect. Nay, so completely was his judgment overreached that he
himself attributed this anomalous state of feeling to a virtuous effort
of Christian duty, and looked upon the encroachments which a desire of
saving wealth had made on his heart as a manifest proof of much parental
attachment. He consequently loved his wealth through the medium of his
son, and laid it down as a fixed principle that every act of parsimony
on his part was merely one of prudence, and had the love of a father and
an affectionate consideration for his child's future welfare to justify
it.

The first striking instance of this close and griping spirit appeared
upon an occasion which seldom fails to open, in Ireland at least, all
the warm and generous impulses of our mature. When his wife deemed
it necessary to make those hospitable preparations for their child's
christening, which are so usual in the country, he treated her intention
of complying with this old custom as a direct proof--of unjustifiable
folly and extravagance--nay, his remonstrance with her exhibited such
remarkable good sense and prudence, that it was a matter of extreme
difficulty to controvert it, or to perceive that it originated from any
other motive than a strong interest in the true welfare of their child.

“Will our wasting meat and money, an' for that matthur health and time,
on his christenin', aither give him more health or make us love him
betther? It's not the first time; Honora, that I've heard yourself make
little of some of our nabors for goin' beyant their ability in gettin'
up big christenins. Don't be foolish now thin when it comes to your own
turn.”

The wife took the babe up, and, after having gazed affectionately on
its innocent features, replied to him, in a voice of tenderness and
reproof--

“God knows, Fardorougha, an' if I do act wid folly, as you call it, in
gettin' ready his christenin', surely, surely you oughtn't to blame the
mother for that. Little I thought, acushla oge, that your own father
'ud begrudge you as good a christenin' as is put over any other nabor's
child. I'm afraid, Fardorougha, he's not as much in your heart as he
ought to be.”

“It's a bad proof of love for him, Honora, to put to the bad what
may an' would be serviceable to him hereafter. You only think for the
present; but I can't forget that he's to be settled in the world, an'
you know yourself what poor means we have o' doin' that, an' that if we
begin to be extravagant an' wasteful, bekase God has sent him, we may
beg wid him afore long.”

“There's no danger of us beggin' wid him. No,” she continued, the
pride of the mother having been touched, “my boy will never beg--no,
avourneen--you never will--nor shame or disgrace will never come upon
him aither. Have you no trust in God, Fardorougha?”

“God never helps them that neglect themselves, Honora.”

“But if it was plasing to His will to remove him from us, would you ever
forgive yourself not lettin' him have a christenin' like another child?”
 rejoined the persevering mother.

“The priest,” replied the good man, “will do as much for the poor child
as the rich; there's but one sacrament for both; anything else is waste,
as I said, an' I won't give in to it. You don't considher that your
way of it 'ud spend as much in one day as 'ud clothe him two or three
years.”

“May I never sin this day, Fardorougha, but one 'ud think you're tired
of him already. By not givin' in to what's dacent you know you'll
only fret me--a thing that no man wid half a heart 'ud do to any woman
supportin' a babby as I am. A fretted nurse makes a child sick, as Molly
Moan tould you before she went; so that it's not on my own account I'm
spakin', but on his--poor, weeny pet--the Lord love him! Look at his
innocent purty little face, an' how can you have the heart, Fardorougha?
Come, avourneen, give way to me this wanst; throth, if you do, you'll
see how I'll nurse him, an' what a darlin' lump o' sugar I'll have him
for you in no time!”

He paused a little at this delicate and affecting appeal of the mother;
but, except by a quick glance that passed from her to their child,
it was impossible to say whether or not it made any impression on his
heart, or in the slightest degree changed his resolution.

“Well, well,” said he, “let me alone now. I'll think of it. I'll turn it
over an' see what's best to be done; do you the same, Honora, an' may be
your own sinse will bring you to my side of the question at last.”

The next day, his wife renewed the subject with unabated anxiety; but,
instead of expressing any change in her favor, Fardorougha declined even
to enter into it at all. An evasive reply was all she could extract from
him, with an assurance that he would in a day or two communicate the
resolution to which he had finally come. She perceived, at once, that
the case was hopeless, and, after one last ineffectual attempt to bring
him round, she felt herself forced to abandon it. The child, therefore,
much to the mother's mortification, was baptized without a christening,
unless the mere presence of the godfather and godmother, in addition to
Fardorougha's own family, could be said to constitute one.

Our readers, perhaps, are not aware that a cause of deep anxiety,
hitherto unnoticed by us, operated with latent power upon Fardorougha's
heart. But so strong in Ireland is the beautiful superstition--if it can
with truth be termed so--that children are a blessing only when received
as such, that, even though supported by the hardest and most shameless
of all vices, avarice, Fardorougha had not nerve to avow this most
unnatural source for his distress. The fact, however, was, that, to a
mind so constituted, the apprehension of a large family was in itself
a consideration, which he thought might, at a future period of their
lives, reduce both him and his to starvation and death. Our readers may
remember Nogher M'Cormick's rebuke to him, when he heard Fardorougha
allude to this; and so accessible was he then to the feeling, that, on
finding his heart at variance with it, he absolutely admitted his error,
and prayed to God that he might be enabled to overcome it.

It was, therefore, on the day after the baptism of young Connor, for
so had the child been called after his paternal grandfather, that, as a
justification for his own conduct in the matter of the christening,
he disclosed to his wife, with much reluctance and embarrassment, this
undivulged source of his fears for the future, alleging it as a just
argument for his declining to be guided by her opinion.

The indignant sympathies of the mother abashed, on this occasion, the
miserable and calculating impiety of the husband; her reproaches were
open and unshrinking, and her moral sense of his conduct just and
beautiful.

“Fardorougha,” said she, “I thought, up to this time, to this day, that
there was nothing in your heart but too much of the world; but now I'm
afeard, if God hasn't sed it, that the devil himself's there. You're
frettin' for 'fraid of a family; but has God sent us any but this one
yet? No--an' I wouldn't be surprised, if the Almighty should punish your
guilty heart, by making the child he gave you, a curse, instead of a
blessin'. I think, as it is, he has brought little pleasure to you for
so far, and, if your heart hardens as he grows up, it's more unhappy
you'll get every day you live.”

“That's very fine talk, Honora; but to people in our condition, I can't
see any very great blessin' in a houseful of childre. If we're able to
provide for this one, we'll have raison to be thankful widout wishin'
for more.”

“It's my opinion, Fardorougha, you don't love the child.”

“Change that opinion, then, Honora; I do love the child; but there's no
needcessity for blowin it about to every one I meet. If I didn't love
him, I wouldn't feel as I do about all the hardships that may be before
him. Think of what a bad sason, or a failure of the craps, might bring
us all to. God grant that we mayn't come to the bag and staff before
he's settled in the world at all, poor thing.”

“Oh, very well, Fardorougha; you may make yourself as unhappy as you
like; for me, I'll put my trust in the Saviour of the world for my
child. If you can trust in any one better than God, do so.”

“Honora, there's no use in this talk--it'll do nothing aither for him or
us--besides, I have no more time to discoorse about it.”

He then left her; but, as she viewed his dark, inflexible features
ere he went, an oppressive sense of something not far removed from
affliction weighed her down. The child had been asleep in her arms
during the foregoing dialogue, and, after his father had departed, she
placed him in the cradle, and, throwing the corner of her blue apron
over her shoulder, she rocked him into a sounder sleep, swaying herself
at the same time to and fro, with that inward sorrow, of which, among
the lower classes of Irish females, this motion is uniformly expressive.
It is not to be supposed, however, that, as the early graces of
childhood gradually expanded (as they did) into more than ordinary
beauty, the avarice of the father was not occasionally encountered in
its progress by! sudden gushes of love for his son. It was impossible
for any parent, no matter how strongly strongly the hideous idol
of mammon might sway his heart, to look upon a creature so fair
and beautiful, without being frequently touched into something like
affection. The fact was, that, as the child advanced towards youth, the
two principles we are describing nearly kept pace one with the other.
That the bad and formidable passion made rapid strides, must be
admitted, but that it engrossed the whole spirit of the father, is
not true. The mind and gentle character of the boy--his affectionate
disposition, and the extraordinary advantages of his person--could not
fail sometimes to surprise his father into sudden bursts of affection.
But these, when they occurred, were looked upon by Fardorougha as so
many proofs that he still entertained for the boy love sufficient to
justify a more intense desire of accumulating wealth for his sake.
Indeed, ere the lad had numbered thirteen summers, Fardorougha's
character as a miser had not only gone far abroad throughout the
neighborhood, but was felt, by the members of his own family, with
almost merciless severity. From habits of honesty, and a decent sense
of independence, he was now degraded to rapacity and meanness; what had
been prudence, by degrees degenerated into cunning; and he who, when
commencing life, was looked upon only as a saving man, had now become
notorious for extortion and usury.

A character such as this, among a people of generous and lively feeling
like the Irish, is in every state of life the object of intense and
undisguised abhorrence. It was with difficulty he could succeed in
engaging servants, either for domestic or agricultural purposes, and,
perhaps, no consideration, except the general kindness which was felt
for his wife and son, would have induced any person whatsoever to enter
into his employment. Honora and Connor did what in them lay to make the
dependents of the family experience as little of Fardorougha's griping
tyranny as possible. Yet, with all their kind-hearted ingenuity and
secret bounty, they were scarcely able to render their situation barely
tolerable.

It would be difficult to find any language, no matter what pen might
wield it, capable of portraying the love which Honora Donovan bore to
her gentle, her beautiful, and her only son. Ah! there in that last
epithet, lay the charm which wrapped her soul in him, and in all that
related to his welfare. The moment she saw it was not the will of God
to bless them with other offspring, her heart gathered about him with a
jealous tenderness which trembled into agony at the idea of his loss.

Her love for him, then, multiplied itself into many hues, for he was in
truth the prism, on which, when it fell, all the varied beauty of its
colors became visible. Her heart gave not forth the music of a single
instrument, but breathed the concord of sweet sounds, as heard from the
blended melody of many. Fearfully different from this were the feelings
of Fardorougha, on finding that he was to be the first and the last
vouchsafed to their union. A single regret, however, scarcely felt,
touched even him, when he reflected that if Connor were to be removed
from them, their hearth must become desolate. But then came the
fictitious conscience, with its nefarious calculations, to prove that,
in their present circumstances, the dispensation which withheld others
was a blessing to him that was given. Even Connor himself, argued the
miser, will be the gainer by it, for what would my five loaves and three
fishes be among so many? The pleasure, however, that is derived from the
violation of natural affection is never either full or satisfactory.
The gratification felt by Fardorougha, upon reflecting that no further
addition was to be made to their family, resembled that which a hungry
man feels who dreams he is partaking of a luxurious banquet. Avarice,
it is true, like fancy, was gratified, but the enjoyment, though rich to
that particular passion, left behind it a sense of unconscious remorse,
which gnawed his heart with a slow and heavy pain, that operated like a
smothered fire, wasting what it preys upon, in secrecy and darkness.
In plainer terms, he was not happy, but so absorbed in the ruling
passion--the pursuit of wealth--that he felt afraid to analyze his
anxiety, or to trace to its true source the cause of his own misery.

In the mean time, his boy grew up the pride and ornament of the parish,
idolized by his mother, and beloved by all who knew him. Limited and
scanty was the education which his father could be prevailed upon to
bestow upon him; but there was nothing that could deprive him of his
natural good sense, nor of the affections which his mother's love had
drawn out and cultivated. One thing was remarkable in him, which we
mention with reluctance, as it places his father's character in a
frightful point of view; it is this, that his love for that father was
such as is rarely witnessed, even in the purest and most affectionate
circles of domestic life. But let not our readers infer, either from
what we have written, or from any thing we may write, that Fardorougha
hated this lovely and delightful boy; on the contrary, earth contained
not an object, except his money, which he loved so well. His affection
for him, however, was only such as could proceed from the dregs of a
defiled and perverted heart. This is not saying much, but it is saying
all. What in him was parental attachment, would in another man, to
such a son, be unfeeling and detestable indifference. His heart sank
on contemplating the pittance he allowed for Connor's education; and no
remonstrance could prevail on him to clothe the boy with common decency.
Pocket-money was out of the question, as were all those considerate
indulgences to youth, that blunt, when timely afforded, the edge of
early anxiety to know those amusements of life, which, if not innocently
gratified before passion gets strong, are apt to produce, at a later
period, that giddy intoxication, which has been the destruction of
thousands. When Connor, however, grew up, and began to think for
himself, he could not help feeling that, from a man so absolutely
devoted to wealth as his father was, to receive even the slenderest
proof of affection, was in this case no common manifestation of the
attachment he bore him. There was still a higher and nobler motive. He
could not close his ears to the character which had gone abroad of his
father, and from that principle of generosity, which induces a man, even
when ignorant of the quarrel, to take the weaker side, he fought his
battles, until, in the end, he began to believe them just. But the most
obvious cause of the son's attachment we have not mentioned, and it is
useless to travel into vain disquisitions, for that truth which may be
found in the instinctive impulses of nature. He was Connor's father,
and though penurious in everything that regarded even his son's common
comfort, he had never uttered a harsh word to him during his life, or
denied him any gratification which could be had without money. Nay,
a kind word, or a kind glance, from Fardorougha, fired the son's
resentment against the world which traduced him; for how could it be
otherwise, when the habitual defence made by him, when arraigned for
his penury, was an anxiety to provide for the future welfare and
independence of his son?

Many characters in life appear difficult to be understood, but if those
who wish to analyze them only consulted human nature, instead of rushing
into far-fetched theories, and traced with patience the effect which
interest, or habit, or inclination is apt to produce on men of a
peculiar temperament, when placed in certain situations, there would be
much less difficulty in avoiding those preposterous exhibitions which
run into caricature, or outrage the wildest combinations that can be
formed from the common elements of humanity.

Having said this much, we will beg our readers to suppose that young
Connor is now twenty-two years of age, and request them, besides, to
prepare for the gloom which is about to overshadow our story.

We have already stated that Fardorougha was not only an extortioner, but
a usurer. Now, as some of our readers may be surprised that a man in
his station of life could practise usury or even extortion to any
considerable extent, we feel it necessary to inform them that there
exists among Irish farmers a class of men who stand, with respect to the
surrounding poor and improvident, in a position precisely analogous to
that which is occupied by a Jew or moneylender among those in the higher
classes who borrow, and are extravagant upon a larger scale. If, for
instance, a struggling small farmer have to do with a needy landlord or
an unfeeling agent, who threatens to seize or eject, if the rent be not
paid to the day, perhaps this small farmer is forced to borrow from one
of those rustic Jews the full amount of the gale; for this he gives him,
at a valuation dictated by the lender's avarice and his own distress,
the oats, or potatoes, or hay, which he is not able to dispose of in
sufficient time to meet the demand that is upon him. This property, the
miser draws home, and stacks or houses it until the markets are high,
when he disposes of it at a price which often secures for him a profit
amounting to one-third, and occasionally one-half, above the sum lent,
upon which, in the meantime, interest is accumulating. For instance, if
the accommodation be twenty pounds, property to that amount at a ruinous
valuation is brought home by the accommodator. This perhaps sells for
thirty, thirty-five, or forty pounds, so that, deducting the labor of
preparing it for market, there is a gain of fifty, seventy-five, or a
hundred per cent. besides, probably, ten per cent, interest, which is
altogether distinct from the former. This class of persons will also
take a joint bond, or joint promissory note, or, in fact, any collateral
security they know to be valid, and if the contract be not fulfilled,
they immediately pounce upon the guarantee. They will, in fact, as a
mark of their anxiety to assist a neighbor in distress, receive a pig
from a widow, or a cow from a struggling small farmer, at thirty or
forty per cent, beneath its value, and claim the merit of being a friend
into the bargain. Such men are bitter enemies to paper money, especially
to notes issued by private bankers, which they never take in payment.
It is amusing, if a person could forget the distress which occasions the
scene, to observe one of these men producing an old stocking, or a long
black leathern purse--or a calf-skin pocket-book with the hair on, and
counting down, as if he gave out his heart's blood drop by drop, the
specific sum, uttering, at the same time, a most lugubrious history of
his own poverty, and assuring the poor wretch he is fleecing, that if he
(the miser) gives way to his good nature, he must ultimately become the
victim of his own benevolence. In no case, however, do they ever put
more in the purse or stocking than is just then wanted, and sometimes
they will be short a guinea or ten shillings, which they borrow from
a neighbor, or remit to the unfortunate dupe in the course of the day.
This they do in order to enhance the obligation, and give a distinct
proof of their poverty. Let not, therefore, the gentlemen of the
Minories, nor our P------s and our M------s nearer home, imagine for
a moment that they engross the spirit of rapacity and extortion to
themselves. To the credit of the class, however, to which they belong,
such persons are not so numerous as formerly, and to the still greater
honor of the peasantry be it said, the devil himself is not hated with
half the detestation which is borne them. In order that the reader may
understand our motive for introducing such a description as that we have
now given, it will be necessary for us to request him to accompany a
stout, well-set young man, named Bartle Flanagan, along a green ditch,
which, planted with osiers, leads to a small meadow belonging to
Fardorougha Donovan. In this meadow, his son Connor is now making hay,
and on seeing Flanagan approach, he rests upon the top of his rake, and
exclaims in a soliloquy:--

“God help you and yours, Bartle! If it was in my power, I take God
to witness, I'd make up wid a willin' heart for all the hardship and
misfortune my father brought upon you all.”

He then resumed his labor, in order that the meeting between him and
Bartle might take place with less embarrassment, for he saw at once that
the former was about to speak to him.

“Isn't the weather too hot, Connor, to work bareheaded? I think you
ought to keep on your hat.”

“Bartle, how are you?--off or on, it's the same thing; hat or no hat,
it's broilin' weather, the Lord be praised! What news, Bartle?”

“Not much, Connor, but what you know--a family that was strugglin', but
honest, brought to dissolation. We're broken up; my father and mother's
both livin' in a cabin they tuck from Billy Nuthy; Mary and Alick's gone
to sarvice, and myself's just on my way to hire wid the last man I ought
to go to--your father, that is, supposin' we can agree.”

“As heaven's above me, Bartle, there's not a man in the county this day
sorrier for what has happened than myself! But the truth is, that when
my father heard of Tom Grehan, that was your security, havin' gone to
America, he thought every day a month till the note was due. My mother
an' I did all we could, but you know his temper; 'twas no use. God
knows, as I said before, I'm heart sorry for it.”

“Every one knows, Connor, that if your mother an' you had your way an'
will, your father wouldn't be sich a screw as he is.”

“In the meantime, don't forget that he is my father, Bartle, an' above
all things, remimber that I'll allow no man to speak disparagingly of
him in my presence.”

“I believe you'll allow, Connor, that he was a scourge an' a curse to
us, an' that none of us ought to like a bone in his skin.”

“It couldn't be expected you would, Bartle; but you must grant, after
all, that he was only recoverin' his own. Still, when you know what
my feeling is upon the business, I don't think it's generous in you to
bring it up between us.”

“I could bear his harrishin' us out of house an' home,” proceeded the
other, “only for one thought that still crasses in an me.”

“What is that, Bartle?--God knows I can't help feelin' for you,” he
added, smote with the desolation which his father had brought upon the
family.

“He lent us forty pounds,” proceeded the young man; “and when he found
that Tom Grehan, our security, went to America, he came down upon us the
minute the note was due, canted all we had at half price, and turned
us to starve upon the world; now, I could bear that, but there's one
thing----”

“That's twice you spoke about that one thing,” said Connor, somewhat
sharply, for he felt hurt at the obstinacy of the other, in continuing
a subject so distressing to him; “but,” he continued, in a milder tone,
“tell me, Bartle, for goodness' sake, what it is, an' let us put an' end
to the discoorse. I'm sure it must be unpleasant to both of us.”

“It doesn't signify,” replied the young man, in a desponding
voice--“she's gone; it's all over wid me there; I'm a beggar--I'm a
beggar!”

“Bartle,” said Connor, taking his hand, “you're too much downhearted;
come to us, but first go to my father; I know you'll find it hard to
deal with him. Never mind that; whatever he offers you, close wid him,
an' take my word for it that my mother and I between us will make you
up dacent wages; an' sorry I am that it's come to this wid you, poor
fellow!”

Bartle's cheek grew pale as ashes; he wrung Connor's hand with all his
force, and fixed an unshrinking eye on him as he replied--

“Thank you Connor, now--but I hope I'll live to thank you better yet,
and if I do, you needn't thank me for any return I may make you or
yours. I will close wid your father, an' take whatsomever he'll order
me; for, Connor,” and he wrung his hand again--“Connor O'Donovan, I
haven't a house or home this day, nor a place under God's canopy where
to lay my head, except upon the damp floor of my father's naked cabin.
Think of that, Connor, an' think if I can forget it; still,” he added,
“you'll see, Connor--Connor, you'll see how I'll forgive it.”

“It's a credit to yourself to spake as you do,” replied Connor; “call
this way, an' let me know what's done, an' I hope, Bartle, you an' I
will have some pleasant days together.”

“Ay, an' pleasant nights, too, I hope,” replied the other: “to be sure
I'll call; but if you take my advice, you'd tie a handkerchy about your
head; it's mad hot, an' enough to give one a fever bareheaded.”

Having made this last observation, he loaped across a small drain that
bounded the meadow, and proceeded up the fields to Fardorougha's house.

Bartle Flanagan was a young man, about five feet six in height, but of
a remarkably compact and athletic form. His complexion was dark, but
his countenance open, and his features well set and regular. Indeed his
whole appearance might be termed bland and prepossessing. If he
ever appeared to disadvantage it was whilst under the influence of
resentment, during which his face became pale as death, nay, almost
livid; and, as his brows were strong and black, the contrast between
them and his complexion changed the whole expression of his countenance
into that of a person whose enmity a prudent man would avoid. He was not
quarrelsome, however, nor subject to any impetuous bursts of passion;
his resentments, if he retained any, were either dead or silent, or, at
all events, so well regulated that his acquaintances looked upon him as
a young fellow of a good-humored and friendly disposition. It is true, a
hint had gone abroad that on one or two occasions he was found
deficient in courage; but, as the circumstances referred to were rather
unimportant, his conduct by many was attributed rather to good sense
and a disinclination to quarrel on frivolous grounds, than to positive
cowardice. Such he was, and such he is, now that he has entered upon the
humble drama of our story.

On arriving at Fardorougha's house, he found that worthy man at dinner,
upon a cold bone of bacon and potatoes. He had only a few moments before
returned from the residence of the County Treasurer, with whom he went
to lodge, among other sums, that which was so iniquitously wrung from
the ruin of the Flanagans. It would be wrong to say that he felt in
any degree embarrassed on looking into the face of one whom he had so
oppressively injured. The recovery of his usurious debts, no matter
how merciless the process, he considered 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; and the excellent young man's
heart was deeply moved at the destitution which forced Flanagan to seek
for service with the very individual who had occasioned it.

“I see, Bartle,” said he, “you have agreed.”

“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. Connor observed it, and very correctly anticipated the
nature and consequences of its appearance; but what will not youthful
love dare and overcome? With an undismayed heart he set forward on his
journey, which we leave him to pursue, and beg permission, meanwhile, to
transport the reader to a scene distant about two miles farther towards
the--inland part of the country.




PART II.


The dwelling of Bodagh Buie O'Brien, to which Connor is now directing
his steps, was a favorable specimen of that better class of farm-houses
inhabited by our most extensive and wealthy agriculturists. It was a
large, whitewashed, ornamentally thatched building, that told by its
external aspect of the good living, extensive comforts, and substantial
opulence which prevailed within. Stretched before its hall-door was a
small lawn, bounded on the left by a wall that separated it from the
farm-yard into which the kitchen door opened. Here were stacks of hay,
oats, and wheat, all upon an immense scale, both as to size and number;
together with threshing and winnowing machines, improved ploughs, carts,
cars, and all the other modern implements of an extensive farm. Very
cheering, indeed, was the din of industry that arose from the clank of
machinery, the grunting of hogs, the cackling of geese, the quacking
of ducks, and all the various other sounds which proceeded from what at
first sight might have appeared to be rather a scene of confusion, but
which, on closer inspection, would be found a rough yet well--regulated
system, in which every person had an allotted duty to perform. Here
might Bodagh Buie be seen, dressed in a gray broad-cloth coat, broad
kerseymere breeches, and lambs' wool stockings, moving from place to
place with that calm, sedate, and contented air, which betokens an easy
mind and a consciousness of possessing a more than ordinary share
of property and influence. With hands thrust into his small-clothes
pockets, and a bunch of gold seals suspended from his fob, he issued his
orders in a grave and quiet tone, differing very little in dress from an
absolute _Squireen_, save in the fact of his Caroline hat being rather
scuffed, and his strong shoes begrimed with the soil of his fields or
farm-yard. Mrs. O'Brien was, out of the sphere of her own family, a
person of much greater pretension than the Bodagh her husband; and,
though in a different manner, not less so in the discharge of her duty
as a wife, a mother, or a mistress. In appearance, she was a large, fat,
good-looking woman, eternally in a state of motion and bustle, and, as
her education had been extremely scanty, her tone and manner, though
brimful of authority and consequence, were strongly marked with that
ludicrous vulgarity which is produced by the attempt of an ignorant
person to accomplish a high style of gentility. She was a kind-hearted,
charitable woman, however; but so inveterately conscious of her station
in life, that it became, in her opinion, a matter of duty to exhibit
a refinement and elevation of language suitable to a matron who could
drive every Sunday to Mass on her own jaunting car. When dressed on
these Occasions in her rich rustling silks, she had, what is called in
Ireland, a comfortable _flaghoola_ look, but at the same time a carriage
so stiff and rustic, as utterly overcame all her attempts, dictated
as they were by the simplest vanity, at enacting the arduous and awful
character of a Squireen's wife. Their family consisted of a son and
daughter; the former, a young man of a very amiable disposition, was, at
the present period of our story, a student in Maynooth College, and
the latter, now in her nineteenth year, a promising pupil in a certain
seminary for young ladies, conducted by that notorious Master of Arts,
Little Cupid. Oona, or Una, O'Brien, was in truth a most fascinating and
beautiful brunette; tall in stature, light and agile in all her motions,
cheerful and sweet in temper, but with just as much of that winning
caprice, as was necessary to give zest and piquancy to her whole
character. Though tall and slender, her person was by no means thin;
on the contrary, her limbs and figure were very gracefully rounded,
and gave promise of that agreeable fulness, beneath or beyond which no
perfect model of female proportion can exist. If our readers could get
one glance at the hue of her rich cheek, or fall for a moment under the
power of her black mellow eye, or witness the beauty of her white teeth,
while her face beamed with a profusion of dimples, or saw her while in
the act of shaking out her invincible locks, ere she bound them up with
her white and delicate hands--then, indeed, might they understand why no
war of the elements could prevent Connor O'Donovan from risking life and
limb sooner than disappoint her in the promise of their first meeting.

Oh that first meeting of pure and youthful love! With what a glory is it
ever encircled in the memory of the human heart! No matter how long or
how melancholy the lapse of time since its past existence may be, still,
still, is it remembered by our feelings when the recollection of every
tie but itself has departed. The charm, however, that murmured its
many-toned music through the soul of Una O'Brien was not, upon the
evening in question, wholly free from a shade of melancholy for which
she could not account; and this impression did not result from any
previous examination of her love for Connor O'Donovan, though many
such she had. She knew that in this the utmost opposition from both her
parents must be expected; nor was it the consequence of a consciousness
on her part, that in promising him a clandestine meeting, she had taken
a step which could not be justified. Of this, too, she had been aware
before; but, until the hour of appointment drew near, the heaviness
which pressed her down was such as caused her to admit that the
sensation, however painful and gloomy, was new to her, and bore a
character distinct from anything that could proceed from the various
lights in which she had previously considered her attachment. This was,
moreover, heightened by the boding aspect of the heavens and the dread
repose of the evening, so unlike anything she had ever witnessed before.
Notwithstanding all this, she was sustained by the eager and impatient
buoyancy of first affection; which, when imagination pictured the
handsome form of her young and manly lover, predominated for the time
over every reflection and feeling that was opposed to itself. Her mind,
indeed, resembled a fair autumn landscape, over which the cloud-shadows
may be seen sweeping for a moment, whilst again the sun comes out and
turns all into serenity and light.

The place appointed for their interview was a small paddock shaded by
alders, behind her father's garden, and thither, with trembling limbs
and palpitating heart, did the young and graceful daughter of Bodagh
Buie proceed.

For a considerable time, that is to say, for three long years before
this delicious appointment, had Connor O'Donovan and Una been wrapped
in the elysium of mutual love. At mass, at fair, and at market, had they
often and often met, and as frequently did their eyes search each other
out, and reveal in long blushing glances the state of their respective
hearts. Many a time did he seek an opportunity to disclose what he felt,
and as often, with confusion, and fear, and delight, did she afford him
what he sought. Thus did one opportunity after another pass away, and as
often did he form the towering resolution to reveal his affection if
he were ever favored with another. Still would some disheartening
reflection, arising from the uncommon gentleness and extreme modesty
of his character, throw a damp upon his spirit. He questioned his own
penetration; perhaps she was in the habit of glancing as much at others
as she glanced at him. Could it be possible that the beautiful daughter
of Bodagh Buie, the wealthiest man, and of his wife, the proudest woman,
within a large circle of the country, would love the son of Fardorougha
Donovan, whose name had, alas, become so odious and unpopular? But then
the blushing face, and dark lucid eyes, and the long earnest glance,
rose before his imagination, and told him that, let the difference in
the character and the station of their parents be what it might, the
fair dark daughter of O'Brien was not insensible to him, nor to the
anxieties he felt.

The circumstance which produced the first conversation they ever had
arose from an incident of a very striking and singular character. About
a week before the evening in question, one of Bodagh Buie's bee-skeps
hived, and the young colony, though closely watched and pursued,
directed their course to Fardorougha's house, and settled in the mouth
of the chimney. Connor, having got a clean sheet, secured them, and was
about to submit them to the care of the Bodagh's servants, when it
was suggested that the duty of bringing them home devolved on himself,
inasmuch as he was told they would not remain, unless placed in a new
skep by the hands of the person on whose property they had settled.
While on his way to the Bodagh's he was accosted in the following words
by one of O'Brien's servants:

“Connor, there's good luck before you, or the bees wouldn't pick you out
amongst all the rest o' the neighbors. You ought to hould up your head,
man. Who knows what mainin's in it?”

“Why, do you b'lieve that bees sittin' wid one is a sign o' good luck?”

“Surely I do. Doesn't every one know it to be thrue? Connor, you're a
good-lookin' fellow, an' I need scarcely tell you that we have a purty
girl at home; can you lay that an' that together? Arrah, be my sowl,
the richest honey ever the same bees'll make, is nothin' but alloways,
compared wid that purty mouth of her own! A honey-comb is a fool to it.”

“Why, did you ever thry, Mike?”

“Is it me? Och, och, if I was only high enough in this world, maybe I
wouldn't be spakin' sweet to her; no, no, be my word! thry, indeed, for
the likes o' me! Faith, but I know a sartin young man that she does be
often spakin' about.”

Connor's heart was in a state of instant commotion.

“An' who--who is he--who is that sartin young man, Mike?”

“Faith, the son o' one that can run a shillin' farther than e'er another
man in the country. Do you happen to be acquainted wid one Connor
O'Donovan, of Lisnamona?”

“Connor O'Donovan--that's good, Mike--in the mane time don't be goin' it
on us. No, no;--an' even if she did, it isn't to you she spake about any
one, Michael ahagur!”

“No, nor it wasn't to me--sure I didn't say it was--but don't you know
my sister's at sarvice in the Bodagh's family? Divil the word o' falsity
I'm tellin' you; so, if you haven't the heart to spake for yourself, I
wouldn't give knots o' straws for you; and now, there's no harm done I
hope--moreover, an' by the same token, you needn't go to the trouble o'
puttin' up an advertisement to let the parish know what I've tould you.”

“Hut, tut, Mike, it's all folly. Una Dhun O'Brien to think of
me!--nonsense, man; that cock would never fight.”

“Very well; divil a morsel of us is forcin' you to b'lieve it. I suppose
the mother o' you has your _wooden spoon_ to the fore still. I'd kiss
the Bravery you didn't come into the world wid a silver ladle in your
mouth, anyhow. In the mane time, we're at the Bodagh's--an' have an eye
about you afther what you've heard--_Nabocklish!_”

This, indeed, was important intelligence to Connor, and it is probable
that, had he not heard it, another opportunity of disclosing his passion
might have been lost.

Independently of this, however, he was not proof against the popular
superstition of the bees, particularly as it appeared to be an augury
to which his enamored heart could cling with all the hope of young and
passionate enthusiasm.

Nor was it long till he had an opportunity of perceiving that she whose
image had floated in light before his fancy, gave decided manifestations
of being struck by the same significant occurrence. On entering the
garden, the first person his eye rested upon was Una herself, who,
as some of the other hives were expected to swarm, had been engaged
watching them during the day. His appearance at any time would have
created a tumult in her bosom, but, in addition to this, when she heard
that the bees which had rested on Connor's house, had swarmed from _her
own hive_, to use the words of Burns--

     She looked--she reddened like the rose,
     Syne pale as ony lily,

and, with a shy but expressive glance at Connor, said, in a low hurried
voice, “These belong to me.”

Until the moment we are describing, Connor and she, notwithstanding that
they frequently met in public places, had never yet spoken; nor could
the words now uttered by Una be considered as addressed to him, although
from the glance that accompanied them it was sufficiently evident that
they were intended for him alone. It was in vain that he attempted to
accost her; his confusion, her pleasure, his timidity, seemed to unite
in rendering him incapable of speaking at all. His lips moved several
times, but the words, as they arose, died away unspoken.

At this moment, Mike, with waggish good-humor, and in a most laudable
fit of industry, reminded the other servants, who had been assisting
to secure the bees, that as they (the bees) were now safe, no further
necessity existed for their presence.

“Come, boys--death-alive, the day's passin'--only think. Miss Una, that
we have all the hay in the Long-shot meadow to get into cocks yet, an'
here we're idlin' an' ghosther--in' away our time like I dunna what.
They're schamin', Miss Una--divil a thing else, an' what'll the masther
say if the same meadow's not finished to--night?”

“Indeed, Mike,” replied Una--; “if the meadow is to be finished this
night, there's little time to be lost.”

“Come, boys,” exclaimed Mike, “you hear what Miss Una says--if it's
to be finished to-night there's but little time to be lost--turn
out--march. Miss Una can watch the bees widout our help. Good evenin',
Misther Donovan; be my word, but you're entitled to a taste o' honey any
way, for bringing back Miss Una's bees to her.”

Mike, after having uttered this significant opinion relative to his
sense of justice, drove his fellow-servants out of the garden, and left
the lovers together. There was now a dead silence, during the greater
part of which, neither dared to look at the other; at length each
hazarded a glance; their eyes met, and their embarrassment deepened in
a tenfold degree. Una, on withdrawing her gaze, looked with an air of
perplexity from one object to another, and at length, with downcast
lids, and glowing cheeks, her eyes became fixed on her own white and
delicate finger.

“Who would think,” said she, in a voice tremulous with agitation, “that
the sting of a bee could be so painful.”

Connor advanced towards her with a beating heart. “Where have you been
stung, Miss O'Brien?” said he, in a tone shaken out of it's fulness by
what he felt.

“In the finger,” she replied, and she looked closely into the spot as
she uttered the words.

“Will you let me see it?” asked Connor.

She held her hand towards him without knowing what she did, nor was it
till after a strong effort that Connor mastered himself so far as to ask
her in which finger she felt the pain. In fact, both saw at once that
their minds were engaged upon far different thoughts, and that their
anxiety to pour out the full confession of their love was equally deep
and mutual.

As Connor put the foregoing question to her, he took her hand in his.

“In what finger?” she replied, “I don't--indeed--I--I believe in
the--the--but what--what is this?--I am very--very weak.”

“Let me support you to the summer--house, where you can sit,” returned
Connor, still clasping her soft delicate hand in his; then, circling her
slender waist with the other, he helped her to a seat under the thick
shade of the osiers.

Una's countenance immediately became pale as death, and her whole frame
trembled excessively.

“You are too weak even to sit without support,” said Connor, “your
head is droopin'. For God's sake, lean it over on me! Oh! I'd give ten
thousand lives to have it on my breast only for one moment!”

Her paleness still continued; she gazed on him, and, as he gently
squeezed her hand, a slight pressure was given in return. He then drew
her head over upon his shoulder, where it rather fell than leaned; a
gush of tears came from her eyes, and the next moment, with sobbing
hearts, they were encircled in each other's arms.

From this first intoxicating draught of youthful love, they were
startled by the voice of Mrs. O'Brien calling upon her daughter, and,
at the same time, to their utter dismay, they observed the portly dame
sailing, in her usual state, down towards the arbor, with an immense
bunch of keys dangling from her side.

“Oonagh, Miss--Miss Oonagh--where are you, Miss, Ma Colleen?--Here's
a litther,” she proceeded, when Una appeared, “from Mrs. Fogarty, your
school-misthress, to your fadher--statin' that she wants you to
finish your Jiggraphy at the dancin', wid a new dancin'--teacher from
_Dubling_. Why--Eah! what ails you, Miss, Ma Colleen? What the dickens
wor you cryin' for?”

“These nasty bees that stung me,” returned the girl. “Oh, for goodness
sake, mother dear, don't come any farther, except you wish to have a
whole hive upon you!”

“Why, sure, they wouldn't sting any one that won't meddle wid them,”
 replied the mother in a kind of alarm.

“The sorra pin they care, mother--don't come near them; I'll be in, by
an' by. Where's my father?”

“He's in the house, an' wants you to answer Mrs. Fogarty, statin' feder
you'll take a month's larnin' on the _flure_ or not.”

“Well, I'll see her letter in a minute or two, but you may tell my
father he needn't wait--I won't answer it to-night at all event's.”

“You must answer it on the nail,” replied her mother, “becase the
messager's waitin' in the kitchen 'ithin.”

“That alters the case altogether,” returned Una, “and I'll follow you
immediately.”

The good woman then withdrew, having once more enjoined the daughter to
avoid delay, and not to detain the messenger.

“You must go instantly,” she said to Connor. “Oh, what would happen me
if they knew that I lov--that I--” a short pause ensued, and she blushed
deeply.

“Say, what you were goin' to say,” returned Connor; “Oh, say that one
word, and all the misfortunes that ever happened to man, can't make me
unhappy! Oh, God! an' is it possible? Say that word--Oh! say it--say
it!”

“Well, then,” she continued, “if they knew that I love the son of
Fardorougha Donovan, what would become of me? Now go, for fear my father
may come out.”

“But when will I see you again?”

“Go,” said she anxiously; “go, you can easily see me.”

“But when?--when? say on Thursday.”

“Not so soon--not so soon,” and she cast an anxious eye towards the
garden gate.

“When then--say this day week.”

“Very well--but go--maybe my father has heard from the servants that you
are here.”

“Dusk is the best time.”

“Yes--yes--about dusk; under the alders, in the little green field
behind the garden.”

“Show me the wounded finger,” said he with a smile, “before I go.”

“There,” said she, extending her hand; “but for Heaven's sake go.”

“I'll tell you how to cure it,” said he, tenderly; “honey is the
medicine; put that sweet finger to your own sweeter lip--and,
afterwards, I'll carry home the wound.”

“But not the medicine, _now_,” said she, and, snatching her hand from
his, with light, fearful steps, she fled up the garden and disappeared.

Such, gentle reader, were the circumstances which brought our young and
artless lovers together in the black twilight of the singularly awful
and ominous evening which we have already described.

Connor, on reaching the appointed spot, sat down; but his impatience
soon overcame him; and, while hurrying to and fro, under the alders,
he asked himself in what was this wild but rapturous attachment to
terminate? That the proud Bodagh, and his prouder wife, would never
suffer their beautiful daughter, the heiress of all their wealth, to
marry the son of Fardorougha, the miser, was an axiom, the truth of
which pressed upon his heart with a deadly weight. On the other hand,
would his father, or rather could he, change his nature so far as to
establish him in life, provided Una and he were united without the
consent of her parents? Alas! he knew his father's parsimony too well;
and, on either hand, he was met by difficulties that appeared to him
to be insurmountable. But again came the delightful and ecstatic
consciousness, that, let their parents act as they might, Una's heart
and his were bound to each other by ties which, only to think of, was
rapture. In the midst of these reflections, he heard her light foot
approach, but with a step more slow and melancholy than he could have
expected from the ardor of their love.

When she approached, the twilight was just sufficient to enable him to
perceive that her face was pale, and tinged apparently with melancholy,
if not with sorrow. After the first salutations were over, he was
proceeding to inquire into the cause of her depression, when, to his
utter surprise, she placed her hands upon her face, and burst into a fit
of grief.

Those who have loved need not be told that the most delightful office
of that delightful passion is to dry the tears of the beloved one who
is dear to us beyond all else that life contains. Connor literally
performed this office, and inquired, in a tone so soothing and full
of sympathy, why she wept, that her tears for a while only flowed the
faster. At length her grief abated, and she was able to reply to him.

“You ask me why I am raying,” said the fair young creature; “but,
indeed, I cannot tell you. There has been a sinking of the heart upon me
during the greater part of this day. When I thought of our meeting I
was delighted; but again some heaviness would come over me that I can't
account for.”

“I know what it is,” replied Connor, “a very simple thing; merely the
terrible calm an' blackness of the evenin'. I was sunk myself a little.”

“I ought to cry for a better reason,” she returned. “In meeting you I
have done--an' am doing--what I ought to be sorry for--that is, a wrong
action that my conscience condemns.”

“There is nobody perfect, my dear Una,” said Connor; “an' none without
their failins; they have little to answer for that have no more than
you.”

“Don't flatter me,” she replied; “if you love me as you say, never
flatter me while you live; I will always speak what I feel, and I hope
you'll do the same.”

“If I could spake what I feel,” said he, “you would still say I
flattered you--it's not in the power of any words that ever were spoken,
to tell how I love you--how much my heart an' soul's fixed upon you.
Little you know, my own dear Una, how unhappy I am this minute, to see
you in low spirits. What do you think is the occasion of it? Spake now,
as you say you will do, that is, as you feel.”

“Except it be that my heart brought me to meet you tonight contrary to
my conscience, I do not know. Connor, Connor, that heart is so strongly
in your favor, that if you were not to be happy neither could its poor
owner.”

Connor for a moment looked into the future, but, like the face of the
sky above him, all was either dark or stormy; his heart sank, but the
tenderness expressed in Una's last words filled his whole soul with a
vehement and burning passion, which he felt must regulate his destiny in
life, whether for good or evil. He pulled her to his breast, on which
he placed her head; she looked up fondly to him, and, perceiving that he
wrought under some deep and powerful struggle, said in a low, confiding
voice, whilst the tears once more ran quietly down her cheeks, “Connor,
what I said is true.”

“My heart's burnin'--my heart's burnin'!” he exclaimed. “It's not love I
feel for you, Una--it's more than love; oh, what is it--Una, Una, this I
know, that I cannot live long without you, or from you; if I did, I'd go
wild or mad through the world. For the last three years you have never
been out of my mind, I may say awake or asleep; for I believe a night
never passed during that time that I didn't drame of you--of the
beautiful young crature. Oh! God in heaven, can it be thrue that she
loves me at last? Say them blessed words again, Una; oh, say them again!
But I'm too happy--I can hardly bear this delight.”

“It is true that I love you, and if our parents could think as we do,
Connor, how easy it would be for them to make us happy, but--”

“It's too soon, Una; it's too soon to spake of that. Happy! don't we
love one another? Isn't that happiness? Who or what can deprive us of
that? We are happy without them; we can be happy in spite of them; oh,
my own fair girl! sweet, sweet life of my life, and heart of my heart!
Heaven--heaven itself would be no heaven to me, if you weren't with me!”

“Don't say that, Connor dear; it's wrong. Let us not forget what is
due to religion, if we expect our love to prosper. You may think this
strange from one that has acted contrary to religion in coming to meet
you against the will and knowledge of her parents; but beyond that, dear
Connor, I hope I never will go. But is it true that you've loved me so
long?”

“It is,” said he; “the second Sunday in May next was three years, I
knelt opposite you at mass. You were on the left hand side of the altar,
I was on the right; my eyes were never off you; indeed, you may remember
it.”

“I have a good right,” said she, blushing and hiding her face on his
shoulder. “I ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it, an' me so young at
the time; little more than sixteen. From that day to this, my story has
been just your own. Connor, can you tell me how I found it out but I
knew you loved me?”

“Many a thing was to tell you that, Una dear. Sure my eyes were never
off you, whenever you wor near me; an' wherever you were, there was
I certain to be too. I never missed any public place if I thought you
would be at it, an' that merely for the sake of seein' you. An', now
will you tell me why it was that I could 'a sworn you lov'd me?”

“You have answered for us both,” she replied. “As for me, if I only
chance to hear your name mentioned my heart would beat; if the talk was
about you I could listen to nothing else, and I often felt the color
come and go on my cheek.”

“Una, I never thought I could be born to such happiness. Now that I know
that you love me, I can hardly think that it was love I felt for you all
along; it's wonderful--it's wonderful!”

“What is so wonderful?” she inquired.

“Why, the change that I feel since knowin' that you love me; since I had
it from your own lips, it has overcome me--I'm a child--I'm anything,
anything you choose to make me; it was never love--it's only since I
found you loved me that my heart's burnin' as it is.”

“I'll make you happyr if I can,” she replied, “and keep you so, I hope.”

“There's one thing that will make me still happier than I am,” said
Connor.

“What is it? If it's proper and right I'll do it.”

“Promise me that if I live you'll never marry any one else than me.”

“You wish then to have the promise all on one side,” she replied with a
smile and a blush, each as sweet as ever captivated a human heart.

“No, no, no, my darling Una, _acushla gra gal machree_, no! I will
promise the same to you.”

She paused, and a silence of nearly a minute ensued.

“I don't know that it's right, Connor; I have taken one wrong step as it
is, but, well as I love you, I won't take another; whatever I do I must
feel that it's proper. I'm not sure that this is.”

“Don't you say you love me, Una?”

“I do; you know I do.”

“I have only another question to ask; could you, or would you, love me
as you do, and marry another?”

“I could not, Connor, and would not, and will not. I am ready to
promise; I may easily do it; for God knows the very thought of marrying
another, or being deprived of you, is more than I can bear.”

“Well, then,” returned her lover, seizing her hand, “I take God to
witness that, whilst you are alive an' faithful to me, I will never
marry any woman but yourself. Now,” he continued, “put your right hand
into mine, and say the same words.”

She did so, and was in the act of repeating the form, “I take God to
witness----” when a vivid flash of lightning shot from the darkness
above them, and a peal of thunder almost immediately followed, with an
explosion so loud as nearly to stun both. Una started with terror, and
instinctively withdrew her hand from Connor's.

“God preserve us!” she exclaimed; “that's awful. Connor, I feel as if the
act I am goin' to do is not right. Let us put it off at all events, till
another time.”

“Is it because there comes an accidental brattle of thunder?” he
returned. “Why, the thunder would come if we were never to change a
promise. You have mine, now, Una dear, an' I'm sure you wouldn't wish
me to be bound an' yourself free. Don't be afraid, darling; give me your
hand, an' don't tremble so; repeat the words at wanst, an' let it be
over.”

He again took her hand, when she repeated the form in a distinct, though
feeble voice, observing, when it was concluded,

“Now, Connor, I did this to satisfy you, but I still feel like one who
has done a wrong action. I am yours now, but I cannot help praying to
God that it may end happily for us both.”

“It must, darling Una--it must end happily for us both. How can it be
otherwise? For my part, except to see you my wife, I couldn't be happier
than I am this minute; exceptin' that, my heart has all it wished for.
Is it possible--Oh! is it possible that this is not a dream, my heart's
life? But if it is--if it is--I never more will wish to waken.”

Her young lover was deeply affected as he uttered these words, nor was
Una proof against the emotion they produced.

“I could pray to God, this moment, with a purer heart than I ever had
before,” he proceeded, “for makin' my lot in life so happy. I feel that
I am better and freer from sin than I ever was yet. If we're faithful
and true to one another, what can the world do to us?”

“I couldn't be otherwise than faithful to you,” she replied, “without
being unhappy myself; an' I trust it's no sin to love each other as
we do. Now let us----God bless me, what a flash! and here's the rain
beginning. That thunder's dreadful; Heaven preserve us! It's an awful
night! Connor, you must see me as far as the corner of the garden; as
for you, I wish you were safe at home.”

“Hasten, dear,” said he, “hasten; it's no night for you to be out in,
now that the rain's coming. As for me, if it was ten times as dreadful I
won't feel it. There's but one thought--one thought in my mind, and that
I wouldn't part with for the wealth of the universe.”

Both then proceeded at a quick puce until they reached the corner
of Bodagh's garden, where, with brief but earnest reassurances of
unalterable attachment, they took a tender and affectionate farewell.

It is not often that the higher ranks can appreciate the moral beauty of
love as it is experienced by those humbler classes to whom they deny
the power of feeling in its most refined and exalted character. For our
parts we differ so much from them in this, that, if we wanted to give an
illustration of that passion in its purest and most delicate state, we
would not seek for it in the saloon or the drawing--room, but among the
green fields and the smiling landscapes of rural life. The simplicity
of humble hearts is more accordant with the unity of affection than any
mind can be that is distracted by the competition of rival claims upon
its gratification. We do not say that the votaries of rank and fashion
are insensible to love; because, how much soever they may be conversant
with the artificial and unreal, still they are human, and must, to a
certain extent, be influenced by a principle that acts wherever it can
find a heart on which to operate. We say, however, that their love, when
contrasted with that which is felt by the humble peasantry, is languid
and sickly; neither so pure, nor so simple, nor so intense. Its
associations in high life are unfavorable to the growth of a healthy
passion; for what is the glare of a lamp, a twirl through the insipid
maze of the ball-room, or the unnatural distortions of the theatre,
when compared to the rising of the summer sun, the singing of birds,
the music of the streams, the joyous aspect of the varied landscape, the
mountain, the valley, the lake, and a thousand other objects, each of
which transmits to the peasant's heart silently and imperceptibly that
subtle power which at once strengthens and purifies the passion?
There is scarcely such a thing as solitude in the upper ranks, nor an
opportunity of keeping the feelings unwasted, and the energies of
the heart unspent by the many vanities and petty pleasures with which
fashion forces a compliance, until the mind falls from its natural
dignity, into a habit of coldness and aversion to everything but the
circle of empty trifles in which it moves so giddily. But the enamored
youth who can retire to the beautiful solitude of the still glen to
brood over the image of her he loves, and who, probably, sits under the
very tree where his love was avowed and returned; he, we say, exalted
with the fulness of his happiness, feels his heart go abroad in gladness
upon the delighted objects that surround him, for everything that
he looks upon is as a friend; his happy heart expands over the whole
landscape; his eye glances to the sky; he thinks of the Almighty
Being above him, and though without any capacity to analyze his own
feelings--love--the love of some humble, plain but modest girl--kindles
by degrees into the sanctity and rapture of religion.

Let not our readers of rank, then, if any such may honor our pages with
a perusal, be at all surprised at the expression of Connor O'Donovan
when, under the ecstatic power of a love so pure and artless as that
which bound his heart and Una's together, he exclaimed, as he did,
“Oh! I could pray to God this moment with a purer heart than I ever had
before!” Such a state of feeling among the people is neither rare nor
anomalous; for, however, the great ones and the wise ones of the world
may be startled at our assertion, we beg to assure them that love and
religion are more nearly related to each other than those, who have
never felt either in its truth and purity, can imagine.

As Connor performed his journey home, the thunder tempest passed
fearfully through the sky; and, though the darkness was deep and
unbroken by anything but the red flashes of lightning, yet, so strongly
absorbed was his heart by the scene we have just related, that he
arrived at his father's house scarcely conscious of the roar of elements
which surrounded him.

The family had retired to bed when he entered, with the exception of his
parents, who, having felt uneasy at his disappearance, were anxiously
awaiting his return, and entering into fruitless conjectures concerning
the cause of an absence so unusual.

“What,” said the alarmed mother, “what in the wide world could keep him
so long out, and on sich a tempest as is in it? God protect my boy
from all harm an' danger, this fearful night! Oh, Fardorougha, what 'ud
become of us if anything happened him? As for me--my heart's wrapped up
in him; wid--out our darlin' it 'ud break, break, Fardorougha.”

“Hut; he's gone to some neighbor's an' can't come out till the storm is
over; he'll soon be here now that the thunder an' lightnin's past.”

“But did you never think, Fardorougha, what 'ud become of you, or what
you'd do or how you'd live, if anything happened him? which the Almighty
forbid this night and forever! Could you live widout him?”

The old man gazed upon her like one who felt displeasure at having a
contingency so painful forced upon his consideration. Without making
any reply, however, he looked thoughtfully into the fire for some time,
after which he rose up, and, with a querulous and impatient voice, said,

“What's the use of thinkin' about sich things? Lose him! why would I
lose him? I couldn't lose him--I'd as soon lose my own life--I'd rather
be dead at wanst than lose him.”

“God knows your love for him is a quare love, Fardorougha,” rejoined the
wife; “you wouldn't give him a guinea if it 'ud save his life, or allow
him even a few shillings now an' then, for pocket-money, that he might
be aquil to other young boys like him.”

“No use, no use in that, except to bring him into drink an' other bad
habits; a bad way, Honora, of showin' one's love for him. If you had
your will you'd spoil him; I'm keepin' whatsomever little shillin's
we've scraped together to settle him dacently in life; but, indeed,
that's time enough yet; he's too young to marry for some years to come,
barrin' he got a fortune.”

“Well, one thing, Fardorougha, if ever two people were blessed in a good
son, praise be God we are that!”

“We are, Honor, we are; there's not his aquil in the parish--_achora
machree_ that he is. When I'm gone he'll know what I've done for him.”

“Whin you're gone; why, Saver of arth, sure you wouldn't keep him out
of his---- husth!----here he is, God be thanked! poor boy he's safe. Oh,
thin, _vich no Hoiah_, Connor jewel, were you out undher this terrible
night?”

“Connor, _avich machree_,” added the father, “you're lost! My hand to
you, if he's worth three hapuns; sthrip an' throw my Cothamore about
you, an' draw in to the fire; you're fairly lost.”

“I'm worth two lost people yet,” said Connor, smiling; “mother, did you
ever see a pleasanter night?”

“Pleasant, Connor, darlin'! Oh thin it's you may say so, I'm sure!”

“Father, you're a worthy--only your Cothamore's too scimpt for me.
Faith, mother, although you think I'm jokin', the devil a one o' me is;
a pleasanter night--a happier night I never spent. Father, you ought to
be proud o' me, an' stretch out a bit with the cash; faith, I'm nothin'
else than a fine handsome young fellow.”

“Be me soul an' he ought to be proud out of you, Connor, whether you're
in arnest or not,” observed the mother, “an' to stretch out wid the
_arrighad_ too if you want it.”

“Folly on, Connor, folly on! your mother'll back you, I'll go bail, say
what you will; but sure you know all I have must be yours yet, acushla.”

Connor now sat down, and his mother stirred up the fire, on which she
placed additional fuel. After a little time his manner changed, and a
shade of deep gloom fell upon his manly and handsome features. “I don't
know,” he at length proceeded, “that, as we three are here together,
I could do betther than ask your advice upon what has happened to me
to-night.”

“Why, what has happened you, Connor?” said the mother alarmed; “plase
God, no harm, I hope.”

“Who else,” added the father, “would you be guided by, if not by your
mother an' myself?”

“No harm, mother, dear,” said Connor in reply to her; “harm! Oh! mother,
mother, if you knew it; an' as for what you say, father, it's right;
what advice but my mother's an' yours ought I to ask?”

“An' God's too,” added the mother.

“An' my heart was nevir more _ris_ to God than it was', an' is this
night,” replied their ingenuous boy.

“Well, but what has happened, Connor?” said his father; “if it's
anything where our advice can serve you, of coorse we'll advise you for
the best.”

Connor then, with a glowing heart, made them acquainted with the
affection which subsisted between himself and Una O'Brien, and ended by
informing them of the vow of marriage which they had that night solemnly
pledged to each other.

“You both know her by sight,” he added, “an' afther what I've sed, can
you blame me for sayin' that I found this a pleasant and a happy night?”

The affectionate mother's eyes filled with tears of pride and delight,
on hearing that her handsome son was loved by the beautiful daughter of
Bodagh Buie, and she could not help exclaiming, in the enthusiasm of the
moment,

“She's a purty girl--the purtiest indeed I ever laid my two livin' eyes
upon, and by all accounts as good as she's purty; but I say that, face
to face, you're as good, ay, an' as handsome, Fardorougha, as she is.
God bless her, any way, an' mark her to grace and happiness, _ma colleen
dhas dhun_.”

“He's no match for her,” said the father, who had listened with an
earnest face, and compressed lips, to his son's narrative; “he's no
match for her--by four hundred guineas.”

Honora, when he uttered the previous part of his observation, looked
upon him with a flash of indignant astonishment; but when he had
concluded, her countenance fell back into its original expression. It
was evident that, while she, with the feelings of a woman and a mother,
instituted a parallel between their personal merits alone, the husband
viewed their attachment through that calculating spirit which had
regulated his whole life.

“You're thinkin' of her money now,” she added; “but remimber,
Fardorougha, that it wasn't born wid her. An' I hope, Connor, it's not
for her money that you have any grah for her?”

“You may swear that, mother; I love her little finger betther than all
the money in the king's bank.”

“Connor, avich, your mother has made a fool of you, or you wouldn't
spake the nonsense you spoke this minute.”

“My word to you, father, I'll take all the money I'll get; but what am I
to do? Bodagh Buie an' his wife will never consent to allow her to marry
me, I can tell you; an' if she marries me without their consent, you
both know I have no way of supportin' her, except you, father, assist
me.”

“That won't be needful, Connor; you may manage them; they won't see her
want; she's an only daughter; they couldn't see her want.”

“An' isn't he an only son, Fardorougha?” exclaimed the wife. “An' my
sowl to happiness but I believe you'd see him want.”

“Any way,” replied her husband, “I'm not for matches against the consint
of parents; they're not lucky; or can't you run away wid her, an' thin
refuse marryin' her except they come down wid the cash?”

“Oh, father!” exclaimed Connor, “father, father, to become a villain!”

“Connor,” said his mother, rising up in a spirit of calm and mournful
solemnity, “never heed; go to bed, achora, go to bed.”

“Of coorse I'll never heed, mother,” he replied; “but I can't help
sayin' that, happy as I was awhile agone, my father is sendin' me to bed
with a heavy heart. When I asked your advice, father, little I thought
it would be to do--but no matter; I'll never be guilty of an act that
'ud disgrace my name.”

“No, avillish,” said his mother, “you never will; God knows it's as much
an' more than you an' other people can do, to keep the name we have in
decency.”

“It's fine talk,” observed Fardorougha, “but what I advise has been done
by hundreds that wor married an' happy afterwards; how--an--iver you
needn't get into a passion, either of you; I'm not pressin' you,'
Connor, to it.”

“Connor, achree,” said his mother, “go to bed, an' instead of the advice
you got, ax God's; go, avillish!”

Connor, without making any further observation, sought his
sleeping-room, where, having recommended himself to God, in earnest
prayer, he lay revolving all that had occurred that night, until the
gentle influence of sleep at length drew him into oblivion.

“Now,” said his mother to Fardorougha, when Connor had gone, “you must
sleep by yourself; for, as for me, my side I'll not stretch on the same
bed wid you to-night.”

“Very well, I can't help that,” said her husband; “all I can say is
this, that I'm not able to put sinse or prudence into you or Connor;
so, since you won't be guided by me, take your own coorse. Bodagh Buie's
very well able to provide for them--; an' if he won't do so before they
marry, why let Connor have nothing to say to her.”

“I'll tell you what, Fardorougha, God wouldn't be in heaven, or you'll
get a cut heart yet, either through your son or your money; an' that it
may not be through my darlin' boy, O, grant, sweet Saver o' the earth,
this night! I'm goin' to sleep wid Biddy Casey, an' you'll find a clane
nightcap on the rail o' the bed; an', Fardorougha, afore you put it an,
kneel down an' pray to God to change your heart--for it wants it--it
wants it.”

In Ireland the first object of a servant man, after entering the
employment of his master, is to put himself upon an amicable footing
with his fellow-servants of the other sex. Such a step, besides being
natural in itself, is often taken in consequence of the _esprit du
corps_ which prevails among persons of that class. Bartle Flanagan,
although he could not be said to act from any habit previously acquired
in service, went to work with all the tact and adroitness of a veteran.
The next morning, after having left the barn where he slept, he
contrived to throw himself in the way of Biddy Duggan, a girl, who,
though vain and simple, was at the same time conscientious and honest.
On passing from the barn to the kitchen, he noticed her returning from
the well with a pitcher of water in each hand, and as it is considered
an act of civil attention for the male servant, if not otherwise
employed, to assist the female in small, matters of the kind, so did
Flanagan, in his best manner and kindest voice, bid her good-morning and
offer to carry home the pitcher.

“It's the least I may do,” said he, “now that I'm your fellow-servant;
but before you go farther, lay down your burden, an' let us chat
awhile.”

“Indeed,” replied Biddy, “it's little we expected ever to see your
father's son goin' to earn his bread undher another man's roof.”

“Pooh! Biddy! there's greater wondhers in the world than that, woman
alive! But tell me--pooh--ay, is there a thousand quarer things--but I
say, Biddy, how do you like to--live wid this family?”

“Why, troth indeed, only for the withered ould leprechaun himself, divil
a dacenter people ever broke bread.”

“Yet, isn't it a wondher that the ould fellow is what he is, an' he so
full o' money?”

“Troth, there's one thing myself wondhers at more than that.”

“What, Biddy? let us hear it.”

“Why, that you could be mane an' shabby! enough to come as a sarvint to
ate the bread of the man that ruined yees!”

“Biddy,” replied Flanagan, “I'm glad! you've said it; but do you think
that I have so bad a heart as too keep revinge in against an inimy? How
could I go to my knees at night, if I--no, Biddy, we must be Christians.
Well! let us drop that; so you tell me this mother an' son are kind to
you.”

“As good-hearted a pair as ever lived.”

“Connor, of course, can't but be very kind to so good-looking a girl as
you are, Biddy,” said Bartle, with a knowing smile.

“Very kind! good-looking! ay, indeed, I'm sure o' that, Bartle; behave!
an' don't be gettin' an wid any o' your palavers. What 'ud make Connor
be kind to the likes of me, that way?”

“I don't see why you oughtn't an' mightn't--you're as good as him, if it
goes to that.”

“Oh, yis, indeed!”

“Why, you know you'r handsome.”

“Handsome,” replied the vain girl, tightening her apron-strings, and
assuming a sly, coquettish look; “Bartle, go 'an mind your business, and
let me bring home my pitchers; it's time the breakwist was down. Sich
nonsense!”

“Very well, you're not, thin; you've a bad leg, a bad figure, an' a bad
face, an' it would be a terrible thing all out for Connor O'Donovan to
fall in consate wid you.”

“Well, about Connor I could tell you something;--me! tut! go to
the sarra;--faix, you don't know them that Connor's afther, nor the
collogin' they all had about it no longer ago than last night itself.
I suppose they thought I was asleep, but it was like the hares, wid my
eyes open.”

“An' it's a pity, Biddy, ever the same two eyes should be shut. Begad,
myself is beginning to feel quare somehow, when I look at them.”

A glance of pretended incredulity was given in return, after which she
proceeded--

“Bartle, don't be bringin' yourself to the fair wid sich folly. My eyes
is jist as God made them; but I can tell you that before a month o'
Sundays passes, I wouldn't be surprised if you seen Connor married
to--you wouldn't guess!”

“Not I; divil a hap'orth I know about who he's courtin'.”

“No less than our great beauty, Bodagh Buie's daughter, Una O'Brien.
Now, Bartle, for goodness sake, don't let this cross your lips to a
livin' mortal. Sure I heard him tellin' all to the father and mother
last night--they're promised to one another. Eh! blessed saints, Bartle,
what ails you? you're as white as a sheet. What's wrong? and what did
you start for?”

“Nothin',” replied Flanagan, coolly, “but a stitch in my side. I'm
subject to that--it pains me very much while it lasts, and laves me
face, as you say, the color of dimity; but about Connor, upon my throth,
I'm main proud to hear it; she's a purty girl, an' besides he'll have a
fortune that'll make a man of him. I am, in throth, heart proud to
hear it. It's a pity Connor's father isn't as dacent as himself. Arrah,
Biddy, where does the ould codger keep his money?”

“Little of it in the house any way--sure, whenever he scrapes a guinea
together he's away wid it to the county ---- county ---- och, that
countryman that keeps the money for the people.”

“The treasurer; well, much good may his thrash do him, Biddy, that's
the worst I wish him. Come now and I'll lave your pitchers at home, and
remember you owe me something for this.”

“Good will, I hope.”

“That for one thing,” he replied, as they went along; “but we'll talk
more about it when we have time; and I'll thin tell you the truth about
what brought me to hire wid Fardorougha Donovan.”

Having thus excited that most active principle called female curiosity,
both entered the kitchen, where they found Connor and his mother in
close and apparently confidential conversation--Fardorougha himself
having as usual been abroad upon his farm for upwards of an hour before
any of them had risen.

The feelings with which they met that morning at breakfast may be easily
understood by our readers without much assistance of ours. On the part
of Fardorougha there was a narrow, selfish sense of exultation, if not
triumph, at the chance that lay before his son of being able to settle
himself independently in life, without the necessity of making any
demand upon the hundreds which lay so safely in the keeping of the
County Treasurer. His sordid soul was too deeply imbued with the love
of money to perceive that what he had hitherto looked upon as a proof
of parental affection and foresight, was nothing more than a fallacy
by which he was led day after day farther into his prevailing vice.
In other words, now that love for his son, and the hope of seeing him
occupy a respectable station in society, ought to have justified the
reasoning by which he had suffered himself to be guided, it was apparent
that the prudence which he had still considered to be his duty as a
kind parent, was nothing else than a mask for his own avarice. The idea,
therefore, of seeing Connor settled without any aid from himself, filled
his whole soul with a wild, hard satisfaction, which gave him as much
delight as perhaps he was capable of enjoying. The advice offered to
his son on the preceding night appeared to him a matter so reasonable in
itself, and the opportunity offered by Una's attachment so well adapted
for making it an instrument to work upon the affections of her parents,
that he could not for the life of him perceive why they should entertain
any rational objection against it.

The warm-hearted mother participated so largely in all that affected the
happiness of her son, that, if we allow for the difference of sex and
position, we might describe their feelings as bearing, in the character
of their simple and vivid enjoyment, a very remarkable resemblance.
This amiable woman's affection for Connor was reflected upon Una
O'Brien, whom she now most tenderly loved, not because the fair girl was
beautiful, but because she had plighted her troth to that Son who had
been during his whole life her own solace and delight.

No sooner was the morning meal concluded, and the servants engaged at
their respective employments, than Honor, acting probably under Connor's
suggestion, resolved at once to ascertain whether her husband could so
far overcome his parsimony as to establish their son and Una in life;
that is, in the event of Una's parents opposing their marriage, and
declining to render them any assistance. With this object in view, she
told him, as he was throwing his great-coat over his shoulders, in order
to proceed to the fields, that she wished to speak to him upon a matter
of deep importance.

“What is it?” said Fardorougha, with a hesitating shrug, “what is it?
This is ever an' always the way when you want _money_; but I tell you
I have no money. You wor born to waste and extravagance, Honor, an'
there's no curin' you. What is it you want? an' let me go about my
business.”

“Throw that ould threadbare Cothamore off o' you,” replied Honor, “and
beg of God to give you grace to sit down, an' have common feeling and
common sense.”

“If it's money to get cloes either for yourself or Connor, there's no
use in it. I needn't sit; you don't want a stitch, either of you.”

Honor, without more ado, seized the coat, and, flinging it aside, pushed
him over to a seat on which she forced him to sit down.

“As heaven's above me,” she exclaimed, “I dunna what come over you at
all, at all. Your money, your thrash, your dirt an' filth, ever, ever,
an' for evermore in your thought, heart and sowl. Oh, Chierna! to think
of it, an' you know there is a God above you, an' that you must meet
Him, an' that widout your money too!”

“Ay, ay, the money's what you want to come at; but I'll not sit here to
be hecthor'd. What is it, I say again, you want?”

“Fardorougha ahagur,” continued the wife, checking herself, and
addressing him in a kind and affectionate voice, “maybe I was spakin'
too harsh to you, but sure it was an' is for your own good. How an'
ever, I'll thry kindness, and if you have a heart at all, you can't but
show it when you hear what I'm goin' to say.”

“Well, well, go an,” replied the pertinacious husband; “but--money--ay,
ay, is there. I feel, by the way you're comin' about me, that there is
money at the bottom of it.”

The wife raised her hands and eyes to heaven, shook her head, and after
a slight pause, in which she appeared to consider her appeal a hopeless
one, she at length went on in an earnest but subdued and desponding
spirit--

“Fardorougha, the time's now come that will show the world whether you
love Connor or not.”

“I don't care a pin about the world; you an' Connor know well enough
that I love him.”

“Love for one's child doesn't come out merely in words, Fardorougha;
actin' for their benefit shows it better than spakin'. Don't you grant
that?”

“Very well, may be I do, and again may be I don't; there's times when
the one's better than the other; but go an; may be I do grant it.”

“Now tell me where in this parish, ay, or in the next five parishes to
it, you'd find sich a boy for a father or mother to be proud out of, as
Connor, your own darlin' as you often cau him?”

“Divil a one, Honor; _damnho_ to the one; I won't differ wid you in
that.”

“You won't differ wid me! the divil thank you for that. You won't
indeed! but could you, I say, if you wor willin'?”

“I tell you I could _not_.”

“Now there's sinse an' kindness in that. Very well, you say you're
gatherin' up all the money you can for him.”

“For him--him,” exclaimed the unconscious miser, “why, what do you
mane--for--well--ay--yes, yes, I did say for him; it's for him I'm
keeping it--it is, I tell you.”

“Now, Fardorougha, you know he's ould enough to be settled in life on
his own account, an' you heard last night the girl he can get, if you
stand to him, as he ought to expect from a father that loves him.”

“Why, last night, thin, didn't I give my--”

“Whist, ahagur! hould your tongue awhile, and let me go on. Thruth's
best--he dotes on that girl to such a degree, that if he doesn't get
her, he'll never see another happy day while he's alive.”

“All _feasthalagh_, Honor--that won't pass wid me; I know otherwise
myself. Do you think that if I hadn't got you, I'd been unhappy
four-an'-twenty hours, let alone my whole life? I tell you that's
_feasthalagh_, an' won't pass. He wouldn't eat an ounce the less if he
was never to get her. You seen the breakfast he made this mornin';
I didn't begrudge it to him, but may I never stir if that Flanagan
wouldn't ate a horse behind the saddle; he has a stomach that'd require
a king's ransom to keep it.”

“You know nothing of what I'm spakin' about,” replied his wife. “I
wasn't _Una dhas dhun_ O'Brien in my best days; an' be the vestment, you
warn't Connor, that has more feelin', an' spirit, an' generosity in the
nail of his little finger than ever you had in your whole carcass. I
tell you if he doesn't get married to that girl he'll break his heart.
Now how can he marry her except you take a good farm for him, and stock
it dacently, so that he may have a home sich as she desarves to bring
her to?”

“How do you know but they'll give her a fortune when they find her bent
on him?”

“Why, it's not unpossible,” said the wife, immediately changing her
tactics, “it's not impossible, but I can tell you it's very unlikely.”

“The best way, then, in my opinion, 'ud be to spake to Connor about
breaking it to the family.”

“Why, that's fair enough,” said the wife. “I wondher myself I didn't
think of it, but the time was so short since last night.”

“It is short,” replied the miser, “far an' away too short to expect
any one to make up their mind about it. Let them not be rash themselves
aither, for I tell you that when people marry in haste, they're apt to
have time enough to repint at laysure.”

“Well, but Fardorougha acushla, now hear me, throth it's thruth and
sinse what you say; but still, avourneen, listen; now set in case
that the Bodagh and his wife don't consint to their marriage, or to
do anything for them, won't you take them a farm and stock it bravely?
Think of poor Connor, the darlin' fine fellow that he is. Oh, thin,
Saver above, but it's he id go to the well o' the world's end to ase
you, if your little finger only ached. He would, or for myself, and yet
his own father to trate him wid sich--”

It was in vain she attempted to proceed; the subject was one in which
her heart felt too deep an interest to be discussed without tears. A
brief silence ensued, during which Fardorougha moved uneasily on his
seat, took the tongs, and mechanically mended the fire, and, peering at
his wife with a countenance twitched as if by _tic douloureux_,
stared round the house with a kind of stupid wonder, rose up, then sat
instantly down, and in fact exhibited many of those unintelligible and
uncouth movements, which, in person of his cast, may be properly
termed the hieroglyphics of human action, under feelings that cannot be
deciphered either by those on whom they operate, or by those who witness
them.

“Yes,” said he, “Connor is all you say, an' more--an' more--an'--an'--a
rash act is the worst thing he could do. It's betther, Honor, to spake
to him as I sed, about lettin' the matther be known to Una's family out
of hand.”

“And thin, if they refuse, you can show them a ginerous example, by
puttin' them into a dacent farm. Will you promise me that, Fardorougha?
If you do, all's right, for they're not livin' that ever knew you to
braak your word or your promise.”

“I'll make no promise, Honor; I'll make no promise; but let the other
plan be tried first. Now don't be pressin' me; he is a noble boy, and
would, as you say, thravel round the earth to keep my little finger from
pain; but let me alone about it now--let me alone about it.”

This, though slight encouragement, was still, in Honor's opinion,
quite as much as, if not more, than she expected. Without pressing him,
therefore, too strongly at that moment, she contented herself with a
full-length portrait of their son, drawn with all the skill of a mother
who knew, if her husband's heart could be touched at all, those points
at which she stood the greatest chance of finding it accessible.

For a few days after this the subject of Connor's love was permitted to
lie undebated, in the earnest hope that Fardorougha's heart might have
caught some slight spark of natural affection from the conversation
which had taken place between him and Honor. They waited, consequently,
with patience for some manifestation on his part of a better feeling,
and flattered themselves that his silence proceeded from the struggle
which they knew a man of his disposition must necessarily feel in
working up his mind to any act requiring him to part with that which
he loved better than life, his money. The ardent temperament of Connor,
however, could ill brook the pulseless indifference of the old man; with
much difficulty, therefore, was he induced to wait a whole week for the
issue, though sustained by the mother's assurance, that, in consequence
of the impression left on her by their last conversation, she was
certain the father, if not urged beyond his wish, would declare himself
willing to provide for them. A week, however, elapsed, and Fardorougha
moved on in the same hard and insensible spirit which was usual to him,
wholly engrossed by money, and never, either directly or indirectly,
appearing to remember that the happiness and welfare of his son were at
stake, or depending upon the determination to which he might come.

Another half week passed, during which Connor had made two unsuccessful
attempts to see Una, in order that some fixed plan of intercourse
might be established between them, at least until his father's ultimate
resolution on the subject proposed to him should be known. He now felt
deeply distressed, and regretted that the ardor of his attachment had so
far borne him away during their last meeting, that he had forgotten to
concert measures with Una for their future interviews.

He had often watched about her father's premises from a little before
twilight until the whole family had gone to bed, yet without any chance
either of conversing with her, or of letting her know that he was in the
neighborhood. He had gone to chapel, too, with the hope of seeing
her, or snatching a hasty opportunity of exchanging a word or two, if
possible; but to his astonishment she had not attended mass--an omission
of duty of which she had not been guilty for the last three years. What,
therefore, was to be done? For him to be detected lurking about the
Bodagh's house might create suspicion, especially after their interview
in the garden, which very probably had, through the officiousness of
the servants, been communicated to her parents. In a matter of such
difficulty he bethought him of a confidant, and the person to whom the
necessity of the ease directed him was Bartle Flanagan. Bartle, indeed,
ever since he entered into his father's service, had gained rapidly upon
Connor's good will, and on one or two occasions well-nigh succeeded
in drawing from him a history of the mutual attachment which subsisted
between him and Una. His good humor, easy language, and apparent
friendship for young O'Donovan, together with his natural readiness of
address, or, if you will, of manner, all marked him out as admirably
qualified to act as a confidant in a matter which required the very tact
and talent he possessed.

“Poor fellow,” thought Connor to himself, “it will make him feel more
like one of the family than a servant. If he can think that he's trated
as my friend and companion, he may forget that he's ating the bread of
the very man that drove him an' his to destruction. Ay, an' if we're
married, I'm not sure but I'll have him to give me away too.”

This resolution of permitting Flanagan to share his confidence had been
come to by Connor upon the day subsequent to that on which he had last
tried to see Una. After his return home, disappointment on one hand, and
his anxiety concerning his father's liberality on the other, together
with the delight arising from the certainty of being beloved, all kept
his mind in a tumult, and permitted him to sleep but little. The next
day he decided on admitting Bartle to his confidence, and reposing this
solemn trust to his integrity. He was lying on his back in the
meadow--for they had been ricking the hay from the lapcocks--when that
delicious languor which arises from the three greatest provocatives to
slumber, want of rest, fatigue, and heat, so utterly overcame him, that,
forgetting his love, and all the anxiety arising from it, he fell into a
dreamless and profound sleep.

From this state he was aroused after about an hour by the pressure of
something sharp and painful against his side, near the region of the
heart, and on looking up, he discovered Bartle Flanagan standing over
him with pitchfork in his hand, one end of which was pressed against
his breast, as if he had been in the act of driving it forward into his
body. His face was pale, his dark brows frightfully contracted, and
his teeth apparently set together, as if working over some fearful
determination. When Connor awoke, Flanagan broke out into a laugh that
no language could describe. The character of mirth which he wished
to throw into his face, jarred so terrifically with his demoniacal
expression when first seen by Connor, that, even unsuspecting as he
was, he started up with alarm, and asked Flanagan what was the matter.
Flanagan, however, laughed on--peal after peal succeeded--he tossed the
pitchfork aside, and, clapping both his hands upon his face, continued
the paroxysms until he recovered his composure.

“Oh,” said he, “I'm sick, I'm as wake as a child wid laughin'; but, Lord
bless us, after all, Connor, what is a man's life worth whin he has an
enemy near him? There was I, ticklin' you wid the pitchfork, strivin'
to waken you, and one inch of it would have baked your bread for life.
Didn't you feel me, Connor?”

“Divil a bit, till the minute before I ris.”

“Then the divil a purtier jig you ever danced in your life; wait till I
show you how your left toe wint.”

He accordingly lay down and illustrated the pretended action, after
which he burst out into another uncontrollable fit of mirth.

“'Twas just for all the world,” said he, “as if I had tied a string to
your toe, for you groaned an' grunted, an' went on like I dunna what;
but, Connor, what makes you so sleepy to-day as well as on Monday last?”

“That's the very thing,” replied the unsuspicious and candid young man,
“that I wanted to spake to you about.”

“What! about sleepin' in the meadows?”

“Divil a bit o' that, Bartle, not a morsel of sleepin' in the meadows is
consarned in what I'm goin' to mintion to you. Bartle, didn't you tell
me, the day you hired wid my father, that you wor in love?”

“I did, Connor, I did.”

“Well, so am I; but do you know who I'm in love with?”

“How the divil, man, could I?”

“Well, no swerin', Bartle; keep the commandments, my boy. I'll tell
you in the mane time, an' that's more than you did me, you
close-mouth-is-a-sign-of-a-wise-head spalpeen!”

“Did you ever hear tell of one _Colleen dhas dhun_ as she's called,
known by the name Una or Oona O'Brien, daughter to one Bodagh Buie
O'Brien, the richest man, barin' a born gentleman, in the three
parishes?”

“All very fair, Connor, for you or any one else to be in love wid
her--ay, man alive, for myself, if it goes to that--but, but, Connor,
avouchal, are you sure that sure you'll bring her to be in love wid
you?”

“Bartle,” said Connor, seriously and after a sudden change in his whole
manner, “in this business I'm goin' to trate you as a friend, and a
brother. She loves me, Bartle, and a solemn promise of marriage has
passed between us.”

“Connor,” said Bartle, “it's wondherful, it's wondherful! you couldn't
believe what a fool I am--fool! no, but a faint-hearted, cowardly
villain.”

“What do you mane, Bartle? what the dickens are you drivin' at!”

“Driven at! whenever I happen to have an opportunity of makin' a drive
that id--but! I'm talkin' balderdash. Do you see here, Connor,” said he,
putting his hand to his neck, “do you see here?”

“To be sure I do. Well, what about there?”

“Be my sowl, I'm very careful of--but!--sure I may as well tell you the
whole truth--I sed I was in love; well, man, that was thrue, an',” he
added in a low, pithy whisper, “I was near--no, Connor, I won't but
go an; it's enough for you to know that I was an' am in love, an' that
it'll go hard wid me if ever any one else is married to the girl I'm in
love wid. Now that my business is past, let me hear yours, poor fellow,
an' I'm devilish glad to know, Connor, that--that--why, tunder an' ouns,
that you're not as I am. Be the crass that saved us, Connor, I'm glad of
that!”

“Why, love will set you mad, Bartle, if you don't take care of
yourself; an', faith, I dunna but it may do the same with myself, if I'm
disappointed. However, the truth is, you must sarve me in this business.
I struv to see her twiste, but couldn't, an' I'm afraid of bein' seen
spyin' about their place.”

“The truth is, Connor, you want to make me a go-between--a blackfoot;
very well, I'll do that same on your account, an' do it well, too, I
hope.”

It was then arranged that Flanagan, who was personally known to some of
the Bodagli's servants, should avail himself of that circumstance, and
contrive to gain an interview with Una, in order to convey her a letter
from O'Donovan. He was further enjoined by no means to commit it to the
hands of any person save those of Una herself, and, in the event of his
not being able to see her, then the letter was to be returned to Connor.
If he succeeded, however, in delivering it, he was to await an answer,
provided she found an opportunity of sending one; if not, she was to
inform Connor, through Flanagan, at what time and place he could see
her. This arrangement having been made, Connor immediately wrote the
letter, and, after having despatched Flanagan upon his errand, set
himself to perform, by his individual labor, the task which his father
had portioned out for both. Ere Bartle's return, Fardorougha came to
inspect their progress in the meadow, and, on finding that the servant
was absent, he inquired sharply into the cause of it.

“He's gone on a message for me,” replied Connor, with the utmost
frankness.

“But that's a bad way for him to mind his business,” said the father.

“I'll have the task that you set both of us finished,” replied the son,
“so that you'll lose nothin' by his absence, at all events.”

“It's wrong, Connor, it's wrong; where did you sind him to?”

“To Bodagh Buie's wid a letter to Una.”

“It's a waste of time, an' a loss of work; about that business I have
something to say to your mother an' you to--night, afther the supper,
when the rest goes to bed.”

“I hope, father,you'll do the dacent thing still.”

“No; but I hope, son, you'll do the wise thing still; how--an--ever let
me alone now; if you expect me to do anything, you mustn't drive me as
your mother does. To-night we'll make up a plan that'll outdo Bodagh
Buie. Before you come home, Connor, throw a stone or two in that gap,
to prevent the cows from gettin' into the hay; it won't cost you much
throuble. But, Connor, did you ever see sich a gut as Bartle has?
He'll brake me out o'house an' home feedin' him; he has a stomach for
ten-penny-nails; be my word it 'ud be a charity to give him a dose of
oak bark to make him dacent; he's a divil at aitin', an' little good may
it do him!”

The hour of supper arrived without Bartle's returning, and Connor's
impatience began to overcome him, when Fardorougha, for the first time,
introduced the subject which lay nearest his son's heart.

“Connor,” he began, “I've been thinkin' of this affair with Una O'Brien;
an' in my opinion there's but one way out of it; but if you're a fool
an' stand in your own light, it's not my fault.”

“What is the way, father?” inquired Connor.

“The very same I tould your mother an' you before--run away wid her--I
mane make a runaway match of it--then refuse to marry her unless they
come down wid the money. You know afther runnin' away wid you nobody
else ever would marry her; so that rather than see their child
disgraced, never fear but they'll pay down on the nail, or maybe bring
you both to live wid 'em.”

“My sowl to glory, Fardorougha,” said the wife, “but you're a bigger an'
cunninner ould rogue than I ever took you for! By the scapular upon me,
if I had known how you'd turn out, the sorra carry the ring ever you'd
put on my finger!”

“Father,” said Connor, “I must be disobedient to you in this at all
events. It's plain you'll do nothing for us; so there's no use in sayin'
anything more about it. I have no manes of supportin' her, an' I swear
I'll never bring her to poverty. If I had money to carry me, I'd go to
America an' thry my fortune there; but I have not. Father, it's too hard
that you should stand in my way when you could so easily make me happy.
Who have you sich a right to assist as your son--your only son, an' your
only child too?”

This was spoken in a tone of respect and sorrow at once impressive
and affectionate. His fine features were touched with something beyond
sadness or regret, and, as the tears stood in his eyes, it was easy to
see that he felt much more deeply for his father's want of principle
than for anything connected with his own hopes and prospects. In fact,
the tears that rolled silently down his cheeks were the tears of shame
and sorrow for a parent who could thus school him to an act of such
unparalleled baseness. As it was, the genius of the miser felt rebuked
by the natural delicacy and honor of his son; the old man therefore
shrunk back abashed, confused, and moved at the words which he had
heard--simple and inoffensive though they were.

“Fardorougha,” said the wife, wiping her eyes, that were kindling into
indignation, “we're now married goin' an--”

“I think, mother,” said Connor, “the less we say about it now the
better--with my own good will I'll never speak on the subject.”

“You're right, avourneen,” replied the mother; “you're right; I'll say
nothing--God sees it's no use.”

“What would you have me do?” said the old man, rising and walking' about
in unusual distress and agitation; “you don't know me--I can't do it--I
cant do it. You say, Honor, I don't care about him--I'd give him my
blood--I'd give him my blood to save a hair of his head. My life an'
happiness depinds on him; but who knows how he an' his wife might
mismanage that money if they got it--both young an' foolish? It wasn't
for nothing it came into my mind what I'm afeard will happen to me yet.”

“And what was that, Fardorougha?” asked the wife.

“Sich foreknowledge doesn't come for nothing, Honor. I've had it
an' felt it hangin' over me this many a long day, that I'd come to
starvation yit; an' I see, that if you force me to do as you wish, that
it 'ill happen. I'm as sure of it as that I stand before you. I'm an
unfortunate man wid sich a fate before me; an' yet I'd shed my blood for
my boy--I would, an' he ought to know that I would; but he wouldn't ax
me to starve for him--would you, Connor, avick machree, would you ax
your father to starve? I'm unhappy--unhappy--an' my heart's breakin'!”

The old man's voice failed him as he uttered the last words; for the
conflict which he felt evidently convulsed his whole frame. He wiped his
eyes, and, again sitting down, he wept bitterly and in silence, for many
minutes.

A look of surprise, compassion, and deep distress passed between Connor
and his mother. The latter also was very much affected, and said,

“Fardorougha, dear, maybe I spake sometimes too cross to you; but if I
do, God above knows it's not that I bear you ill will, but bekase I'm
troubled about poor Connor. But I hope I won't spake angry to you again;
at all events, if I do, renumber it's only the mother pladin' for her
son--the only son an' child that God was plazed to sind her.”

“Father,” added Connor, also deeply moved, “don't distress yourself
about me--don't, father dear. Let things take their chance; but come or
go what will, any good fortune that might happen me wouldn't be sweet if
it came by givin' you a sore heart.”

At this moment the barking of the dog gave notice of approaching
footsteps; and in a few moments the careless whistle of Bartle Flanagan
was heard within a few yards of the door.

“This is Bartle,” said Connor; “maybe, father, his answer may throw some
light upon the business. At any rate, there's no secret in it; we'll all
hear what news he brings us.”

He had scarcely concluded when the latch was lifted, but Bartle could
not enter.

“It's locked and bolted,” said Fardorougha; “as he sleeps in the barn I
forgot that he was to come in here any more to-night--open it, Connor.”

“For the sake of all the money you keep in the house, father,” said
Connor, smiling, “it's hardly worth your while to be so timorous; but
God help the county treasurer if he forgot to bar his door--Asy, Bartle,
I'm openin' it.”

Flanagan immediately entered, and, with all the importance of a
confidant, took his seat at the fire.

“Well, Bartle,” said Connor, “what news?”

“Let the boy get his supper first,” said Honor; “Bartle, you must be
starved wid hunger.”

“Faith, I'm middlin' well, I thank you, that same way,” replied Bartle;
“divil a one o' me but's as ripe for my supper as a July cherry; an' wid
the blessin' o' Heaven upon my endayvors I'll soon show you what good
execution is.”

A deep groan from Fardorougha gave back a fearful echo to the truth of
this formidable annunciation.

“Aren't you well, Fardorougha?” asked Bartle.

“Throth I'm not, Bartle; never was more uncomfortable in my life.”

Flanagan immediately commenced his supper, which consisted of flummery
and new milk--a luxury among the lower ranks which might create envy in
an epicure. As he advanced in the work of destruction, the gray eye
of Fardorougha, which followed every spoonful that entered his mouth,
scintillated like that of a cat when rubbed down the back, though from
a directly opposite feeling. He turned and twisted on the chair, and
looked from his wife to his son, then turned up his eyes, and appeared
to feel as if a dagger entered his heart with every additional dig of
Bartle's spoon into the flummery. The son and wife smiled at each other;
for they could enjoy those petty sufferings of Fardorougha with a great
deal of good-humor.

“Bartle,” said Connor, “what's the news?”

“Divil a word worth telling; at laste that I can hear.”

“I mane from Bodagh Buie's.”

Bartle stared at him; “Bodagh Buie's!--what do I know about Bodagh Buie?
are you ravin'?”

“Bartle,” said Connor, smiling, “my father and mother knows all about
it--an' about your going to Una with the letter. I have no secrets from
them.”

“Hoot toot! That's a horse of another color; but you wouldn't have me,
widout knowin' as much, to go to betray trust. In the mane time, I may
as well finish my supper before I begin to tell you what-som-ever I
happen to know about it.”

Another deep groan from Fardorougha followed the last observation.

At length the work of demolition ceased, and after Honor had put past
the empty dish, Bartle, having wiped his mouth, and uttered a hiccup or
two, thus commenced to dole out his intelligence:--

“Whin I wint to the Bodagh's,” said Bartle, “it was wid great
schamin' an' throuble I got a sight of Miss Una at all, in regard of
--(hiccup)--in regard of her not knowin' that there was any sich message
for her--(hiccup). But happenin' to know Sally Laffan, I made bould to
go into the kitchen to ax, you know, how was her aunt's family up
in Skelgy, when who should I find before me in it but Sally an' Miss
Una--(hiccup). (Saver of earth this night! from Fardorougha.) Of coorse
I shook hands wid her--wid Sally, I mane; an', 'Sally,' says I, 'I was
sent in wid a message from the masther to you; he's in the haggard an'
wants you.' So, begad, on---(hiccup) out she goes, an' the coast bein'
clear, 'Miss Una,' says I, 'here's a scrap of a letther from Misther
Connor O'Donovan; read it, and if you can write him an answer, do; if
you haven't time say whatever you have to say by me.' She go--(hiccup)
she got all colors when I handed it to her; an' run away, say--in' to
me, 'wait for a while, an' don't go till I see you.' In a minute or
two Sally comes in agin as mad as the dickens wid me, 'The curse o' the
crows an' you!' says she, 'why did you make me run a fool's erran' for
no rason? The masther wasn't in the haggard, an' didn't want me good or
bad.'”

“Bartle,” said the impatient lover, “pass all that over for the present,
an' let us know the answer, if she sent any.”

“Sent any! be my sowl, she did so! Afther readin' your letther, an'
findin' that she could depind on me, she said that for fear of any
remarks bein' made about my waitin', espishally as I live at present
in this family, it would be better she thought to answer it by word o'
mouth. 'Tell him,' said she, 'that I didn't think he wa--(hiccup) (Queen
o' heaven!) was so dull an' ignorant o' the customs of the country, as
not to know that whin young people want to see one another they stay
away from mass wid an expectation that'--begad, I disremimber exactly
her own words; but it was as much as to say that she staid at home on
last Sunday expectin' to see you.”

“Well, but Bartle, what else?--short an' sweet, man.”

“Why, she'll meet you on next Thursday night, God willin', in the same
place; an' whin I axed her where, she said you knew it yourself.”

“An' is that all?”

“No, it's not all; she sed it 'ud be better to mention the thing to
her father. Afther thinkin' it over she says, 'as your father has the
na--(hiccup) '(Saints above!) the name of being so rich, she doesn't
know if a friend 'ud interfere but his consint might be got;' an' that's
all I have to say about it, barrin' that she's a very purty girl, an' I'd
advise you not to be too sure of her yet, Bartle. So now I'm for the
barn--Good night, Far--(hiccup) (at my cost, you do it!) Fardorougha.”

He rose and proceeded to his sleeping--place in the barn, whither
Connor, who was struck by his manner, accompanied him.

“Bartle,” said O'Donovan, “did you take anything since I saw you last?”

“Only a share of two naggins wid my brother Antony at Peggy Finigan's.”

“I noticed it upon you,” observed Connor; “but I don't think they did.”

“An' if they did, too, it's not high thrason, I hope.”

“No; but, Bartle, I'm obliged to you. You've acted as a friend to me,
an' I won't forget it to you.”

“An' I'm so much obliged to you, Connor, that I'll remimber your
employin' me in this the longest day I have to live. But, Connor?”

“Well, Bartle.”

“I'd take the sacrament, that, after all, a ring you'll never put on
her.”

“And what makes you think so, Bartle?”

“I don't--I do--(hiccup) don't know; but somehow something or another
tells it to me that you won't; others is fond of her, I suppose, as well
as yourself; and of coorse they'll stand betune you.”

“Ay, but I'm sure of her.”

“But you're not; wait till I see you man and wife, an' thin I'll say so.
Here's myself, Bartle, is in love, an' dhough I don't expect ever the
girl will or would marry me, be the crass of heaven, no other man will
have her. Now, how do you know but you may have some one like me--like
me, Connor, to stand against you?”

“Bartle,” said Connor, laughing, “your head's a little moidher'd; give
me your hand; whish! the devil take you, man! don't wring my fingers
off. Say your prayers, Bartle, an' go to sleep. I say agin I won't
forget your kindness to me this night.”

Flanagan had now deposited himself upon his straw bed, and, after having
tugged the bedclothes about him, said, in the relaxed, indolent voice of
a man about to sleep,

“Good night, Connor; throth my head's a little soft to-night--good
night.”

“Good night, Bartle.”

“Connor?”

“Well?”

“Didn't I stand to you to-night? Very well--goo--(hiccup) good night.”

On Connor's return, a serious conclave was held upon the best mode of
procedure in a manner which presented difficulties that appeared to be
insurmountable. The father, seizing upon the advice transmitted by Una
herself, as that which he had already suggested, insisted that the most
judicious course was to propose for her openly, and without appearing to
feel that there was any inferiority on the part of Connor.

“If they talk about wealth, Connor,” said he, “say that you are my son,
an' that--that--no--no--I'm too poor for such a boast, but say that you
will be able to take good care of anything you get.”

At this moment the door, which Connor had not bolted, as his father
would have done, opened, and Bartle, wrapped in the treble folds of a
winnow--cloth, made a distant appearance.

“Beg pardon, Connor; I forgot to say that Una's brother, the young
priest out o' Maynooth, will be at home from his uncle's, where it
appears he is at present; an' Miss Una would wish that the proposal 'ud
be made while he's at his father's. She says he'll stand her friend,
come or go what will. I forgot, begad, to mintion it before--so beg
pardon, an' wishes you all good--night!”

This information tended to confirm them in the course recommended by
Fardorougha. It was accordingly resolved upon that he (Fardorougha)
himself should wait upon Bodagh Buie, and in the name of his son
formally propose for the hand of his daughter.

To effect this, however, was a matter of no ordinary difficulty, as they
apprehended that the Bodagh and his wife would recoil with indignation
at the bare notion of even condescending to discuss a topic which, in
all probability, they would consider as an insult. Not, after all, that
there existed, according to the opinion of their neighbors, such a vast
disparity in the wealth of each; on the contrary, many were heard
to assert, that of the two Fardorougha had the heavier purse. His
character, however, was held in such abhorrence by all who knew him, and
he ranked, in point of personal respectability and style of living,
so far beneath the Bodagh, that we question if any ordinary occurrence
could be supposed to fall upon the people with greater amazement than
a marriage, or the report of a marriage, between any member of the two
families. The O'Donovans felt, however, that it was better to make
the experiment already agreed on, than longer to remain in a state of
uncertainty about it. Should it fail, the position of the lovers, though
perhaps rendered somewhat less secure, would be such as to suggest, as
far as they themselves were concerned, the necessity of a more prompt
and effectual course of action. Fardorougha expressed his intention of
opening the matter on the following day; but his wife, with a better
knowledge of female character, deemed it more judicious to defer it
until after the interview which was to take place between Connor and Una
on the succeeding Thursday. It might be better, for instance, to make
the proposal first to Mrs. O'Brien herself, or, on the other hand, to
the Bodagh; but touching that and other matters relating to what was
proposed to be done, Una's opinion and advice might be necessary.

Little passed, therefore, worthy of note, during the intermediate time,
except a short conversation between Bartle and Connor on the following
day, as they returned to the field from dinner.

“Bartle,” said the other, “you wor a little soft last night; or rather a
good deal so.”

“Faith, no doubt o' that--but when a man meets an old acquaintance or
two, they don't like to refuse a thrate. I fell in wid three or four
boys--all friends o' mine, an' we had a sup on account o' what's
expected.”

As he uttered these words, he looked at Connor with an eye which seemed
to say--you are not in a certain secret with which I am acquainted.

“Why,” replied Connor, “what do you mane, Bartle? I thought you were
with your brother--at laste you tould me so.”

Flanagan started on hearing this.

“Wid my brother,” said he--“why, I--I--what else could I tell you? He
was along wid the boys when I met them.”

“Took a sup on account o' what's expected!--an' what's the manin'o'
that, Bartle?”

“Why, what would it mane--but--but--your marriage?”

“An' thunder an' fury?” exclaimed Connor, his eyes gleaming; “did you
go to betray trust, an' mintion Una's name an' mine, afther what I tould
you?”

“Don't be foolish, Connor,” replied Flanagan; “is it mad you'd have me
to be? I said there was something expected soon, that 'ud surprise them;
and when they axed me what it was--honor bright! I gave them a knowin'
wink, but said notion'. Eh! was that breakin' trust? Arrah, be me sowl,
Connor, you don't trate me well by the words you spoke this blessed
minute.”

“An' how does it come, Bartle, my boy, that you had one story last
night, an' another to-day?”

“Faix, very aisily, bekase I forget what I sed last night--for sure
enough I was more cut than you thought--but didn't I keep it well in
before the ould couple?”

“You did fairly enough; I grant that--but the moment you got into the
barn a blind man could see it.”

“Bekase I didn't care a button wanst I escaped from the eye of your
father; anyhow, bad luck to it for whiskey; I have a murdherin' big
heddick all day afther it.”

“It's a bad weed, Bartle, and the less a man has to do with it, the less
he'll be throubled afther wid a sore head or a sore conscience.”

“Connor, divil a one, but you're the moral of a good boy; I dunna a
fault you have but one.”

“Come, let us hear it.”

“I'll tell you some day, but not now, not now--but I will tell you--an'
I'll let you know the raison thin that I don't mintion it now; in the
mane time I'll sit down an take a smoke.”

“A smoke! why, I never knew you smoked.”

“Nor I, myself, till last night. This tindher--box I was made a present
of to light my pipe, when not near a coal. Begad, now that I think of
it, I suppose it was smokin' that knocked me up so much last night, an'
mide my head so sick to-day.”

“It helped it, I'll engage; if you will take my advice, it's a custom
you won't larn.”

“I have a good deal to throuble me, Connor; you know I have; an' what we
are brought down to now; I have more nor you'd believe to think of; as
much, any way, as'll make this box an' steel useful, I hope, when I'm
frettin'.”

Flanagan spoke truth, in assuring Connor that the apology given for
his intoxication on the preceding night had escaped his memory. It was
fortunate for him, indeed, that O'Donovan, like all candid and ingenuous
persons, was utterly devoid of suspicion, otherwise he might have
perceived, by the discrepancy in the two accounts, as well as by
Flanagan's confusion, that he was a person in whom it might not be
prudent to entrust much confidence.




PART III.

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, tha

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