“What would you have me do?” said the old man, rising and walking' about in unusual distress and agitation; “you don't know me—I can't do it—I cant do it. You say, Honor, I don't care about him—I'd give him my blood—I'd give him my blood to save a hair of his head. My life an' happiness depinds on him; but who knows how he an' his wife might mismanage that money if they got it—both young an' foolish? It wasn't for nothing it came into my mind what I'm afeard will happen to me yet.”
“And what was that, Fardorougha?” asked the wife.
“Sich foreknowledge doesn't come for nothing, Honor. I've had it an' felt it hangin' over me this many a long day, that I'd come to starvation yit; an' I see, that if you force me to do as you wish, that it 'ill happen. I'm as sure of it as that I stand before you. I'm an unfortunate man wid sich a fate before me; an' yet I'd shed my blood for my boy—I would, an' he ought to know that I would; but he wouldn't ax me to starve for him—would you, Connor, avick machree, would you ax your father to starve? I'm unhappy—unhappy—an' my heart's breakin'!”
The old man's voice failed him as he uttered the last words; for the conflict which he felt evidently convulsed his whole frame. He wiped his eyes, and, again sitting down, he wept bitterly and in silence, for many minutes.
A look of surprise, compassion, and deep distress passed between Connor and his mother. The latter also was very much affected, and said,
“Fardorougha, dear, maybe I spake sometimes too cross to you; but if I do, God above knows it's not that I bear you ill will, but bekase I'm troubled about poor Connor. But I hope I won't spake angry to you again; at all events, if I do, renumber it's only the mother pladin' for her son—the only son an' child that God was plazed to sind her.”
“Father,” added Connor, also deeply moved, “don't distress yourself about me—don't, father dear. Let things take their chance; but come or go what will, any good fortune that might happen me wouldn't be sweet if it came by givin' you a sore heart.”
At this moment the barking of the dog gave notice of approaching footsteps; and in a few moments the careless whistle of Bartle Flanagan was heard within a few yards of the door.
“This is Bartle,” said Connor; “maybe, father, his answer may throw some light upon the business. At any rate, there's no secret in it; we'll all hear what news he brings us.”
He had scarcely concluded when the latch was lifted, but Bartle could not enter.