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.”