Connor could not help smiling at this extraordinary cure for jealousy, nor at the simple piety of a heart, the strength of whose affection he knew so well. After her return she informed the son, that, in addition to the masses to be said against his father's avarice, she had some notion of getting another said towards his marriage with Una.
“God help you, mother,” said Connor, laughing; “for I think you're one of the innocentest women that ever lived; but whisht!” he added, “here's my father—God grant that he may bring good news!”
When Fardorougha entered he was paler or rather sallower than usual; and, on his thin, puckered face, the lines that marked it were exhibited with a distinctness greater than ordinary. His eyes appeared to have sunk back more deeply into his head; his cheeks had fallen farther into his jaws; his eyes were gleamy and disturbed; and his Whole appearance bespoke trouble and care and the traces of a strong and recent struggle within him.
“Father,” said Connor, with a beating heart, “for Heaven's sake, what news—what tidings? I trust in God it's good.”
“They have no bowels, Connor—they have no bowels, thim O'Briens.”
“Then you didn't succeed.”
“The father's as great a bodagh as him he was called after—they're a bad pack—an' you mustn't think of any one belongin'to them.”
“But tell us, man dear,” said the wife, “what passed—let us know it all.”
“Why, they would do nothin'—they wouldn't hear of it. I went on my knees to them—ay, to every one of them, barrin' the colleen herself; but it was all no use—it's to be no match.”
“And why, father, did you go on your knees to any of them,” said Connor; “I'm sorry you did that.”