Fardorougha, The Miser Part 30

The faces of the domestics grew pale as they heard, with silent horror, the incoherent blasphemies of the frantic miser; but his wife, whose eyes were riveted on him while he spoke, and paced, with a hurried step, up and down the room, felt at a loss whether to attribute his impiety to an attack of insanity, or to a temporary fever, brought on by his late sufferings and the intoxication of the preceding night.

"In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Fardorougha," she said calmly, placing her hand upon his shoulder, "are you sinsible that you're this minute afther blasphemin' your Creator?"

He gave her a quick, disturbed, and peevish look, but made no reply. She then proceeded:

"Fardorougha, I thought the loss of Connor the greatest punishment that could be put upon me; but I find I was mistaken. I would rather see him dead to-morrow, wid, wid the rope about his neck, than to hear his father blasphemin' the livin' G.o.d! Fardorougha, it's clear that you're not now fit to pray for yourself, but, in the name of our Saviour, I'll go an' pray for you. In the mean time, go to bed; sleep will settle your head, and you will be better, I trust, in the mornin'."

The calm solemnity of her manner awed him, notwithstanding the vehemence of his grief. He stood and looked at her, with his hands tightly clasped, as she went to her son's bedroom, in order to pray for him.

For a moment, he seemed abashed and stunned. While she addressed him, he involuntarily ceased to utter those sounds of anguish which were neither shrieks nor groans, but something between both. He theli resumed his pace, but with a more settled step, and for some minutes maintained perfect silence.

"Get me," said he, at length, "get me a drink of wather; I'm in a flame wid drouth."

When Biddy Nulty went out to fetch him this, he inquired of the rest what Honor meant by charging him with blasphemy.

"Surely to G.o.d, I didn't blasphame," he said, peevishly; "no, no, I'm not that bad; but any how, let her pray for me; her prayer will be heard, if ever woman's was."

When Biddy returned, he emptied the jug of water with the same trembling eagerness as before; then clasped his hands again, and commenced pacing the room, evidently in a mood of mind about to darken into all the wildness of his former grief.

"Fardorougha," said Nogher M'Cormick; "I was undher this roof the night your manly son was born. I remimber it well; an' I remimber more betoken, I had to check you for flying in the face o' G.o.d that sent him to you. Instead o' feelin' happy and delighted, as you ought to ha'

done, an' as any other man but yourself would, you grew dark an' sulky, and grumbled bekase you thought there was a family comin'. I tould you that night to take care an' not be committing sin; an' you may renumber, too, that I gev you chapter an' verse for it out o' Scripture: 'Woe be to the man that's born wid a millstone about his neck, especially if he's to be cast into the say.' The truth is, Fardorougha, you warn't thankful to G.o.d for him; and you see that afther all, it doesn't do to go to loggerheads wid the Almighty. Maybe, had you been thankful for him, he wouldn't be where he is this night. Millstone! Faith, it was a home thrust, that same verse; for if you didn't carry the millstone about your neck, you had it in your heart; an' you now see and feel the upshot. I'm now goin' fast into age myself; my hair is grayer than your own, and I could take it to my death," said the honest fellow, while a tear or two ran slowly down his cheek; "that, exceptin' one o' my own childre', an' may G.o.d spare them to me! I couldn't feel more sorrow at the fate of any one livin', than at Connor's. Many a time I held him in these arms, an' many a little play I made for him; an' many a time he axed me why his father didn't nurse him as I did;' bekase,' he used to say, 'I would rather he would nurse me than anybody else, barring my mother; and, afther him, you, Nogher.'"

These last observations of his servant probed the heart of the old man to the quick; but the feeling which they excited was a healthy one; or, rather, the a.s.sociations they occasioned threw Fardorougha's mind upon the memory of those affections, which avarice had suppressed, without destroying.

"I loved him, Nogher," said he, deeply agitated; "Oh none but G.o.d knows how I loved him, although I didn't an' couldn't bring myself to show it at the time. There was something upon me; a curse, I think, that prevented me; an' now that I love him as a father ought to do, I will not have him. Oh, my son, my son, what will become of me, after you?

Heavenly Father, pity me and support me! Oh, Connor, my son, my son, what will become of me?"

He then sat down on the bed, and, placing his hands upon his face, wept long and bitterly. His grief now, however, was natural, for, during the most violent of his paroxysms in the preceding hour, he shed not a tear; yet now they ran down his cheeks, and through his fingers, in torrents.

"Cry on, cry on," said Nogher, wiping his own eyes; "it will lighten your heart; an' who knows but it's his mother's prayers that brought you to yourself, and got this relief for you. Go, Biddy," said he, in a whisper, to the servant-maid, "and tell the mistress to come here; she'll know best how to manage him, now that he's a little calm."

"G.o.d be praised!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Honor, on seeing him weep; "these tears will cool your head, avourneen; an' now, Fardorougha, when you're tired cryin', if you take my advice, you'll go to your knees an' offer up five pathers, five Aves, an' a creed, for the grace of the Almighty to direct and strengthen you; and thin, afther that, go to bed, as I sed, an'

you'll find how well you'll be afther a sound sleep."

"Honor," replied her husband, "avourneen machree, I think you'll save your husband's sowl yet, undhor my merciful Saviour."

"Your son, undher the same merciful G.o.d, will do it. Your heart was hard and G.o.dless, Fardorougha, and, surely, if Connor's death 'll be the manes of savin' his father's sowl, wouldn't it be a blessin' instead of a misfortune? Think of it in that light, Fardorougha, and turn your heart to G.o.d. As for Connor, isn't it a comfort to know that the breath won't be out of his body till he's a bright angel in heaven?"

The old man wiped his eyes and knelt down, first having desired them to leave him. When the prayers were recited he called in Honor.

"I'm afeard," said he, "that my heart wasn't properly in them, for I couldn't prevent my mind from wanderin' to our boy."

This touching observation took the mother's affections by surprise.

A tear started to her eye, but, after what was evidently a severe struggle, she suppressed it.

"It's not at once you can do it, Fardorougha; so don't be cast down.

Now, go to bed, in the name of G.o.d, and sleep; and may the Lord in heaven support you--and support us both! for oh! it's we that want it this night of sorrow!"

She then stooped down and affectionately kissed him, and, having wished him good night, she retired to Connor's bed, where, ever since the day of his incarceration, this well-tried mother and enduring Christian slept.

At this stage of our story we will pause, for a moment, to consider the state of mind and comparative happiness of the few persons who are actors in our humble drama.

To a person capable of observing only human action, independently of the motives by which it is regulated, it may appear that the day which saw Connor O'Donovan consigned to a premature and shameful death, was one of unmingled happiness to Bartle Flanagan. They know little of man's heart, however, who could suppose this to be the case, or, who could even imagine that he was happier than those on whom his revenge and perfidy had entailed such a crus.h.i.+ng load of misery. It is, indeed, impossible to guess what the nature of that feeling must be which arises from the full gratification of mean and diabolic malignity. Every action of the heart at variance with virtue and truth is forced to keep up so many minute and fearful precautions, all of which are felt to be of vast moment at the time, that we question if ever the greatest glut of vengeance produced, no matter what the occasion may have been, any satisfaction capable of counterbalancing all the contigencies and apprehensions by which the mind is distracted both before and after its preparation. The plan and accomplishment must both be perfect in all their parts--for if either fail only in a single point, all is lost, and the pleasure arising from them resembles the fruit which is said to grow by the banks of the Dead Sea--it is beautiful and tempting to the eye, but bitterness and ashes to the taste.

The failing of the county treasurer, for instance, deprived Bartle Flanagan of more than one half his revenge. He was certainly far more anxious to punish the father than the son, and were it not that he saw no other mode of effecting his vengeance on Fardorougha, than by destroying the only object on earth that he loved next to his wealth, he would have never made the innocent pay the penalty of the guilty. As he had gone so far, however, self-preservation now made him anxious that Connor should die; as he knew his death would remove out of his way the only person in existence absolutely acquainted with his villany. One would think, indeed, that the sentence p.r.o.nounced upon his victim ought to have satisfied him on that head. This, however, it failed to do. That sentence contained one clause, which utterly destroyed the completeness of his design, and filled his soul with a secret apprehension either of just retribution, or some future ill which he could not shake off, and for which the reward received for Connor's apprehension was but an ineffectual antidote. The clause alluded to in the judge's charge, viz.--"the recommendation of the jury to the mercy of the Crown, in consideration of your youth, and previous good conduct, shall not be overlooked"--sounded in his ears like some mysterious sentence that involved his own fate, and literally filled his heart with terror and dismay. Independently of all this his villanous projects had involved him in a systematic course of guilt, which was yet far from being brought to a close. In fact, he now found by experience how difficult it is to work out a bad action with success, and how the means, and plans, and instruments necessary to it must multiply and become so deep and complicated in guilt, that scarcely any single intellect, in the case of a person who can be reached by the laws, is equal to the task of executing a great crime against society, in a perfect manner. If this were so, discovery would be impossible, and revenge certain.

With respect to Connor himself it is only necessary to say that a short but well-spent life, and a heart naturally firm, deprived death of its greatest terrors. Still he felt it, in some depressed moods, a terrible thing indeed to reflect, that he, in the very fullness of strength and youth, should be cut down from among his fellows--a victim without a crime, and laid with shame in the grave of a felon. But he had witnessed neither his mother's piety nor her example in vain, and it was in the gloom of his dungeon that he felt the light of both upon his spirit.

"Surely," said he, "as I am to die, is it not better that I should die innocent than guilty? Instead of fretting that I suffer, a guiltless man, surely I ought to thank G.o.d that I am so; an' that my soul hasn't to meet the sin of such a revengeful act as I'm now condemned for. I'll die, then, like a Christian man, putting my hope and trust in the mercy of my Redeemer--ever an' always hoping that by His a.s.sistance I will be enabled to do it."

Different, indeed, were the moral state and position of these two young men; the one, though lying in his prison cell, was sustained by the force of conscious innocence, and that reliance upon the mercy of G.o.d, which const.i.tutes the highest order of piety, and the n.o.blest basis of fort.i.tude; the other, on the contrary, disturbed by the tumultuous and gloomy a.s.sociations of guilt, and writhing under the conviction, that, although he had revenge, he had not satisfaction. The terror of crime was upon him, and he felt himself deprived of that best and only security, which sets all vain apprehensions at defiance, the consciousness of inward integrity. Who, after all, would barter an honest heart for the danger arising from secret villany, when such an apparently triumphant villain as Bartle Flanagan felt a deadly fear, of Connor O'Donovan in his very dungeon? Such, however, is guilt, and such are the terrors that accompany it.

The circ.u.mstances which, in Ireland, usually follow the conviction of a criminal, are so similar to each other, that we feel it, even in this case, unnecessary to do more than give a mere sketch of Connor's brief life as a culprit. We have just observed that the only clause in the judge's charge which smote the heart of the traitor, Flanagan, with a presentiment of evil, was that containing the words in which something like a, hope of having his sentence mitigated was held out to him, in consequence of the recommendation to mercy by which the jury accompanied their verdict. It is very strange, on the other hand, that, at the present stage of our story, neither his father nor mother knew anything whatsoever of the judge having given expression to such a hope. The old man, distracted as he was at the time, heard nothing, or at least remembered nothing, but the awful appearance of the black cap, or, as they term it in the country, the barradh dhu, and the paralyzing words in which the sentence of death was p.r.o.nounced upon his son.

It consequently happened that the same clause in the charge actually, although in a different sense, occasioned the misery of Bartle Flanagan on the one hand, and of Connor's parents on the other.

The morning after the trial, Fardorougha was up as early as usual, but his grief was nearly as vehement and frantic as on the preceding night.

It was observed, however--such is the power of sorrow to humanize and create sympathy in the heart--that, when he arose, instead of peevishly and weakly obtruding his grief and care upon those about him, as he was wont to do, he now kept aloof from the room in which Honor slept, from an apprehension of disturbing her repose--a fact which none who knew his previous selfishness would have believed, had he not himself expressed in strong terms a fear of awakening her. Nor did this new trait of his character escape the observation of his own servants, especially of his honest monitor, Nogher M'Cormick.

"Well, well," exclaimed this rustic philosopher; "see what G.o.d's affliction does. Faith, it has brought Fardorougha to feel a trifle for others, as well as for himself. Who knows, begad, but it may take the millstone out of his heart yet; and if it does, my word to you, he may thank his wife, undher G.o.d, for it."

Before leaving home that morning to see his son, he found with deep regret that Honor's illness had been so much increased by the events of the preceding day, that she could not leave her bed. And now, for the first time, a thought, loaded with double anguish, struck upon his heart.

"Saver of earth!" he exclaimed, "what would become of me if both should go and lave me alone? G.o.d of heaven, alone! Ay, ay," he continued, "I see it. I see how asily G.o.d might make my situation still worse than I thought it could be. Oh G.o.d, forgive me my sins; and may G.o.d soften my heart! Amin!"

He then went to see his wife ere he set out for his unhappy son; and it was with much satisfaction that Honor observed a changed and chastened tone in his manner, which she had never, except for a moment at the birth of his child, noticed before. Not that his grief was much lessened, but it was more rational, and altogether free from the violence and impiety which had characterized it when he awoke from his intoxication.

"Honor," said he, "how do you find yourself this mornin', alanna? They tell me you're worse than you Wor yesterday."

"Indeed, I'm wake enough," she replied, "and very much bate down, Fardorougha; but you know it's not our own stringth at any time that we're to depend upon, but G.o.d's. I'm not willing to attempt anything beyant my power at present. My seeing him now would do neither of us any good, and might do me a great dale o' harm. I must see him, to be sure, and I'll strive, plase G.o.d, to gather up a little strength for that."

"My heart's breakin', Honor, and I'm beginnin' to see that I've acted a bad part to both of you all along. I feel it, indeed; and if it was the will of G.o.d, I didn't care if--"

"Whisht, accushla, whisht--sich talk as that's not right. Think, Fardorougha, whether you acted a bad part towards G.o.d or not, and never heed us; an' think, too, dear, whether you acted a bad or a good part towards the poor, an' them that was in distress and hards.h.i.+p, an' that came to you for relief; they were your fellow-crathers, Fardorougha, at all evints. Think of these things I'm sayin, and never heed us. You know that Connor and I forgive you, but you arn't so sure whether G.o.d and them will."

These observations of this estimable woman had the desired effect, which was, as she afterwards said, to divert her husband's mind as much as possible from the contemplation of Connor's fate, and to fix it upon the consideration of those duties in which she knew his conscience, now touched by calamity, would tell him he had been deficient.

Fardorougha was silent for some time after her last observations--but at length he observed:

"Would it be possible, Honor, that all this was brought upon us in ordher to punish me for--for--"

"To punish you, Fardorougha? Fareer gaih avourneen, arn't we all punished? look at my worn face, and think of what ten days' sorrow can do in a mother's heart--think, too, of the boy. Oh no, no--do you think I've have nothin' to be punished for? But we have all one comfort, Fardorougha, and that is, that G.o.d's ever and always willin' to re-save us, when we turn to Him wid a true heart? n.o.body, avillish, can forget and forgive as He does."

"Honor, why didn't you oftener spake to me this a-way than you did?"

"I often did, dear, an' you may remember it; but you were then strong; you had your wealth; everything flowed wid you, an' the same wealth--the world's temptation--was strong in your heart; but G.o.d has taken it from you I hope as a blessing--for, indeed, Fardorougha, I'm afeard if you had it now, that neither he nor--but I won't say it, dear, for G.o.d sees I don't wish to say one word that 'ud distress you now, avourneen. Any how, Fardorougha, never despair in G.o.d's goodness--never do it; who can tell what may happen?"

Her husband's grief was thus checked, and a train of serious reflection laid, which, like some of those self-evident convictions that fastened on the awakened conscience, the old man could not shake off.

Honor, in her further conversation with him, touching the coming interview with the unhappy culprit, desired him, above all things, to set "their n.o.ble boy" an example of firmness, and by no means to hold out to him any expectation of life.