Extracted from Fardorougha the Miser by William Carleton, published by Appletree Press
Fardorougha the Miser
by William Carleton
Chapter One - part 3
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 rapture. 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 true 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 humour, and his niggardly habits caused 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 easy bout to the misthress, sir, and 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, be gorra, 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 better misthress ever," &c. &c. &c.
Here, however, there was nothing of the kind. Fardorougha's heart in the first instance was set 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, and here's a family comin'."
"Faith, take care it's not sin you're committin' 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, that your heart's too much fixed upon the world. Be my faiks, it's on your knees you ought to be this same night, thankin' the Almighty for his goodness, an' not grumblin' an' sthreelin' about the place, flyin' in the face of God for sendin' you an' your wife a blessin' –for sure I hear the Scripther says that all childre's a blessin' if they're resaved as sich; 'an' vo be to the man', says Scripther, 'dat's born wid a millstone about his neck, esphishally if he's cast into the say.' I know you pray enough, but be me sowl, it hasn't improved your morals, or it's the misthress's health we'd be drinkin' in a good bottle of whiskey at the present time. Faix, myself wouldn't be much surprised if she had a hard twist in quensequence; an' if she does, the fau't's your own an' not ours, for we're willin' as the flowers of May to drink all sorts o' good luck to her."
"Nogher," said the other, "it's truth a great dale of what you've said–may be all of it."
"Faith, I know," returned Nogher, "that about the whiskey it's parfit rospel. "
"In one thing I'll be advised by you, and 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 airnest, that your heart may be inclined to give it."
"You desarve none,for them words," said Fardorougha, who felt that Nogher's humour jarred upon the better feelings that were rising within him,–"you desarve none, and you'll get none–for the present at least, an' ('m only a fool for spakin' 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 of 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 are you?]? Where's my footin' masther? [To pay one's footing means in Ireland to give a present to a servant for any agreeable circumstances or event that happens for the first time; or upon entering any particular place of an humble character in order to testify your approval of what you may see] Where's my arles?–Come in–come in, you're a wantin' to kiss your son–the misthress is dyin' till you kiss your 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 with him inready."
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 tears of delight ran quietly down her cheeks. When he seized her hand he stooped to kiss her, but she put her other hand up and said–
"No, no, you must kiss him first."
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 breast, 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 rason 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.
"Honor," said he, "I'll go out for a little–you can tell Mary Moan where any thing's to be had–let them all be trated so that they don't take too much–an' Mary Moan, you won't be forgotten."
He then passed out, and did not appear for upwards of an hour, nor could anyone of them tell where he had been.
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