Читать книгу Fardorougha, The Miser - William Carleton - Страница 6

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.