“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.”