Part 32 (1/2)

She had hardly uttered the last words, when O'Brien entered.

”Young man,” said this superior woman, '”it's a poor welcome we can give you to a house of sorrow.”

”Ay,” said Fardorougha, ”his mother an' I's here, but where is he? Nine days from this; but it 'ill kill me--it will--it will. Whin he's taken from me, I don't care how soon I folly him; G.o.d forgive me if it's a sin to say so!”

”Fardorougha,” said his wife, in a tone of affectionate reproof, ”remember what you promised me, an', at all evints, you forget that Mr.

O'Brien here may have his own troubles; I heard your sister was unwell.

Oh, how is she, poor thing?”

”I thank you, a great deal better; I will not deny but she heard a piece of intelligence this day, that has relieved her mind and taken a dead weight off her heart.”

Honor, with uncommon firmness and solemnity of manner, placed her hand upon his shoulder, and, looking him earnestly in the face, said,

”That news is about our son?”

”It is,” replied O'Brien, ”and it's good; his sentence is changed, and he is not to die.”

”Not to die!” shrieked the old man, starting up, and clapping his hands frantically--”not to die! our son--Connor, Connor--not to be hanged--not to be hanged! Did you say that, son of O'Brien Buie, did you--did you?”

”I did,” replied the other; ”he will not suffer.”

”Now that's G.o.d,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Fardorougha, wildly; ”that's G.o.d an' his mother's prayers. Boys,” he shrieked, ”come here; come here, Biddy Nulty, come her; Connor's not to die; he won't suffer--he won't suffer!”

He was rus.h.i.+ng wildly to the door, but Honor placed herself before him, and said, in that voice of calmness which is uniformly that of authority and power:

”Fardorougha, dear, calm yourself. If this is G.o.d's work, as you say, why not resave it as comm' from G.o.d? It's upon your two knees you ought to drop, an'--Saver above, what's the matther wid him? He's off; keep him up. Oh, G.o.d bless you! that's it, avourneen; jist place him on the chair there fornext the door, where he can have air. Here, dear,” said she to Biddy Nulty, who, on hearing herself called by her master, had come in from another room; ”get some feathers, Biddy, till we burn them undher his nose; but first fetch a jug of cold water.”

On looking at the face of the miser, O'Brien started, as indeed well he might, at such a pallid, worn, and death--like countenance; why, thought he to himself, surely this must be death, and the old man's cares, and sorrows, and hopes, are all pa.s.sed forever.

Honor now bathed his face, and wet his lips with water, and as she sprinkled and rubbed back the gray hair from his emaciate! temples, there might be read there an expression of singular wildness that resembles the wreck produced by insanity.

”He looks ill,” observed O'Brien, who actually thought him dead; ”but I hope it won't signify.”

”I trust in G.o.d's mercy it won't,” replied Honor; ”for till his heart, poor man, is brought more to G.o.d--”

She paused with untaught delicacy, for she reflected that he was her husband.

”For that matther, who is there,” she continued, ”that is fit to go to their last account at a moment's warnin'? That's a good girl, Biddy; give me the feathers; there's nothing like them. Dheah Gratihias! Dheah Gratihias!” she exclaimed, ”he's not--he's not--an' I was afeard he was--no, he's recoverin'. Shake him; rouse him a little; Fardorougha, dear!”

”Where--where am I?” exclaimed her husband; ”what is this? what ails me?”

He then looked inquiringly at his wife and O'Brien; but it appeared that the presence of the latter revived in his mind the cause of his excitement.

”Is it--is it thrue, young man? tell me--tell me!”

”How, dear, can any one have spirits to tell you good news, when you can't bear it aither like a man or a Christian?”

”Good news! You say, then, it's thrue, an' he's not to be hanged by the neck, as the judge said; an' my curse--my heavy curse upon him for a judge!”