Fardorougha, The Miser Part 7

When she approached, the twilight was just sufficient to enable him to perceive that her face was pale, and tinged apparently with melancholy, if not with sorrow. After the first salutations were over, he was proceeding to inquire into the cause of her depression, when, to his utter surprise, she placed her hands upon her face, and burst into a fit of grief.

Those who have loved need not be told that the most delightful office of that delightful pa.s.sion is to dry the tears of the beloved one who is dear to us beyond all else that life contains. Connor literally performed this office, and inquired, in a tone so soothing and full of sympathy, why she wept, that her tears for a while only flowed the faster. At length her grief abated, and she was able to reply to him.

"You ask me why I am raying," said the fair young creature; "but, indeed, I cannot tell you. There has been a sinking of the heart upon me during the greater part of this day. When I thought of our meeting I was delighted; but again some heaviness would come over me that I can't account for."

"I know what it is," replied Connor, "a very simple thing; merely the terrible calm an' blackness of the evenin'. I was sunk myself a little."

"I ought to cry for a better reason," she returned. "In meeting you I have done--an' am doing--what I ought to be sorry for--that is, a wrong action that my conscience condemns."

"There is n.o.body perfect, my dear Una," said Connor; "an' none without their failins; they have little to answer for that have no more than you."

"Don't flatter me," she replied; "if you love me as you say, never flatter me while you live; I will always speak what I feel, and I hope you'll do the same."

"If I could spake what I feel," said he, "you would still say I flattered you--it's not in the power of any words that ever were spoken, to tell how I love you--how much my heart an' soul's fixed upon you.

Little you know, my own dear Una, how unhappy I am this minute, to see you in low spirits. What do you think is the occasion of it? Spake now, as you say you will do, that is, as you feel."

"Except it be that my heart brought me to meet you tonight contrary to my conscience, I do not know. Connor, Connor, that heart is so strongly in your favor, that if you were not to be happy neither could its poor owner."

Connor for a moment looked into the future, but, like the face of the sky above him, all was either dark or stormy; his heart sank, but the tenderness expressed in Una's last words filled his whole soul with a vehement and burning pa.s.sion, which he felt must regulate his destiny in life, whether for good or evil. He pulled her to his breast, on which he placed her head; she looked up fondly to him, and, perceiving that he wrought under some deep and powerful struggle, said in a low, confiding voice, whilst the tears once more ran quietly down her cheeks, "Connor, what I said is true."

"My heart's burnin'--my heart's burnin'!" he exclaimed. "It's not love I feel for you, Una--it's more than love; oh, what is it--Una, Una, this I know, that I cannot live long without you, or from you; if I did, I'd go wild or mad through the world. For the last three years you have never been out of my mind, I may say awake or asleep; for I believe a night never pa.s.sed during that time that I didn't drame of you--of the beautiful young crature. Oh! G.o.d in heaven, can it be thrue that she loves me at last? Say them blessed words again, Una; oh, say them again!

But I'm too happy--I can hardly bear this delight."

"It is true that I love you, and if our parents could think as we do, Connor, how easy it would be for them to make us happy, but--"

"It's too soon, Una; it's too soon to spake of that. Happy! don't we love one another? Isn't that happiness? Who or what can deprive us of that? We are happy without them; we can be happy in spite of them; oh, my own fair girl! sweet, sweet life of my life, and heart of my heart!

Heaven--heaven itself would be no heaven to me, if you weren't with me!"

"Don't say that, Connor dear; it's wrong. Let us not forget what is due to religion, if we expect our love to prosper. You may think this strange from one that has acted contrary to religion in coming to meet you against the will and knowledge of her parents; but beyond that, dear Connor, I hope I never will go. But is it true that you've loved me so long?"

"It is," said he; "the second Sunday in May next was three years, I knelt opposite you at ma.s.s. You were on the left hand side of the altar, I was on the right; my eyes were never off you; indeed, you may remember it."

"I have a good right," said she, blushing and hiding her face on his shoulder. "I ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it, an' me so young at the time; little more than sixteen. From that day to this, my story has been just your own. Connor, can you tell me how I found it out but I knew you loved me?"

"Many a thing was to tell you that, Una dear. Sure my eyes were never off you, whenever you wor near me; an' wherever you were, there was I certain to be too. I never missed any public place if I thought you would be at it, an' that merely for the sake of seein' you. An', now will you tell me why it was that I could 'a sworn you lov'd me?"

"You have answered for us both," she replied. "As for me, if I only chance to hear your name mentioned my heart would beat; if the talk was about you I could listen to nothing else, and I often felt the color come and go on my cheek."

"Una, I never thought I could be born to such happiness. Now that I know that you love me, I can hardly think that it was love I felt for you all along; it's wonderful--it's wonderful!"

"What is so wonderful?" she inquired.

"Why, the change that I feel since knowin' that you love me; since I had it from your own lips, it has overcome me--I'm a child--I'm anything, anything you choose to make me; it was never love--it's only since I found you loved me that my heart's burnin' as it is."

"I'll make you happyr if I can," she replied, "and keep you so, I hope."

"There's one thing that will make me still happier than I am," said Connor.

"What is it? If it's proper and right I'll do it."

"Promise me that if I live you'll never marry any one else than me."

"You wish then to have the promise all on one side," she replied with a smile and a blush, each as sweet as ever captivated a human heart.

"No, no, no, my darling Una, _acushla gra gal machree_, no! I will promise the same to you."

She paused, and a silence of nearly a minute ensued.

"I don't know that it's right, Connor; I have taken one wrong step as it is, but, well as I love you, I won't take another; whatever I do I must feel that it's proper. I'm not sure that this is."

"Don't you say you love me, Una?"

"I do; you know I do."

"I have only another question to ask; could you, or would you, love me as you do, and marry another?"

"I could not, Connor, and would not, and will not. I am ready to promise; I may easily do it; for G.o.d knows the very thought of marrying another, or being deprived of you, is more than I can bear."

"Well, then," returned her lover, seizing her hand, "I take G.o.d to witness that, whilst you are alive an' faithful to me, I will never marry any woman but yourself. Now," he continued, "put your right hand into mine, and say the same words."

She did so, and was in the act of repeating the form, "I take G.o.d to witness----" when a vivid flash of lightning shot from the darkness above them, and a peal of thunder almost immediately followed, with an explosion so loud as nearly to stun both. Una started with terror, and instinctively withdrew her hand from Connor's.

"G.o.d preserve us!" she exclaimed; "that's awful. Connor, I feel as if the act I am goin' to do is not right. Let us put it off at all events, till another time."

"Is it because there comes an accidental brattle of thunder?" he returned. "Why, the thunder would come if we were never to change a promise. You have mine, now, Una dear, an' I'm sure you wouldn't wish me to be bound an' yourself free. Don't be afraid, darling; give me your hand, an' don't tremble so; repeat the words at wanst, an' let it be over."

He again took her hand, when she repeated the form in a distinct, though feeble voice, observing, when it was concluded,

"Now, Connor, I did this to satisfy you, but I still feel like one who has done a wrong action. I am yours now, but I cannot help praying to G.o.d that it may end happily for us both."

"It must, darling Una--it must end happily for us both. How can it be otherwise? For my part, except to see you my wife, I couldn't be happier than I am this minute; exceptin' that, my heart has all it wished for.

Is it possible--Oh! is it possible that this is not a dream, my heart's life? But if it is--if it is--I never more will wish to waken."

Her young lover was deeply affected as he uttered these words, nor was Una proof against the emotion they produced.

"I could pray to G.o.d, this moment, with a purer heart than I ever had before," he proceeded, "for makin' my lot in life so happy. I feel that I am better and freer from sin than I ever was yet. If we're faithful and true to one another, what can the world do to us?"

"I couldn't be otherwise than faithful to you," she replied, "without being unhappy myself; an' I trust it's no sin to love each other as we do. Now let us----G.o.d bless me, what a flash! and here's the rain beginning. That thunder's dreadful; Heaven preserve us! It's an awful night! Connor, you must see me as far as the corner of the garden; as for you, I wish you were safe at home."

"Hasten, dear," said he, "hasten; it's no night for you to be out in, now that the rain's coming. As for me, if it was ten times as dreadful I won't feel it. There's but one thought--one thought in my mind, and that I wouldn't part with for the wealth of the universe."

Both then proceeded at a quick puce until they reached the corner of Bodagh's garden, where, with brief but earnest rea.s.surances of unalterable attachment, they took a tender and affectionate farewell.

It is not often that the higher ranks can appreciate the moral beauty of love as it is experienced by those humbler cla.s.ses to whom they deny the power of feeling in its most refined and exalted character. For our parts we differ so much from them in this, that, if we wanted to give an ill.u.s.tration of that pa.s.sion in its purest and most delicate state, we would not seek for it in the saloon or the drawing--room, but among the green fields and the smiling landscapes of rural life. The simplicity of humble hearts is more accordant with the unity of affection than any mind can be that is distracted by the compet.i.tion of rival claims upon its gratification. We do not say that the votaries of rank and fashion are insensible to love; because, how much soever they may be conversant with the artificial and unreal, still they are human, and must, to a certain extent, be influenced by a principle that acts wherever it can find a heart on which to operate. We say, however, that their love, when contrasted with that which is felt by the humble peasantry, is languid and sickly; neither so pure, nor so simple, nor so intense. Its a.s.sociations in high life are unfavorable to the growth of a healthy pa.s.sion; for what is the glare of a lamp, a twirl through the insipid maze of the ball-room, or the unnatural distortions of the theatre, when compared to the rising of the summer sun, the singing of birds, the music of the streams, the joyous aspect of the varied landscape, the mountain, the valley, the lake, and a thousand other objects, each of which transmits to the peasant's heart silently and imperceptibly that subtle power which at once strengthens and purifies the pa.s.sion?

There is scarcely such a thing as solitude in the upper ranks, nor an opportunity of keeping the feelings unwasted, and the energies of the heart unspent by the many vanities and petty pleasures with which fashion forces a compliance, until the mind falls from its natural dignity, into a habit of coldness and aversion to everything but the circle of empty trifles in which it moves so giddily. But the enamored youth who can retire to the beautiful solitude of the still glen to brood over the image of her he loves, and who, probably, sits under the very tree where his love was avowed and returned; he, we say, exalted with the fulness of his happiness, feels his heart go abroad in gladness upon the delighted objects that surround him, for everything that he looks upon is as a friend; his happy heart expands over the whole landscape; his eye glances to the sky; he thinks of the Almighty Being above him, and though without any capacity to a.n.a.lyze his own feelings--love--the love of some humble, plain but modest girl--kindles by degrees into the sanct.i.ty and rapture of religion.

Let not our readers of rank, then, if any such may honor our pages with a perusal, be at all surprised at the expression of Connor O'Donovan when, under the ecstatic power of a love so pure and artless as that which bound his heart and Una's together, he exclaimed, as he did, "Oh! I could pray to G.o.d this moment with a purer heart than I ever had before!" Such a state of feeling among the people is neither rare nor anomalous; for, however, the great ones and the wise ones of the world may be startled at our a.s.sertion, we beg to a.s.sure them that love and religion are more nearly related to each other than those, who have never felt either in its truth and purity, can imagine.

As Connor performed his journey home, the thunder tempest pa.s.sed fearfully through the sky; and, though the darkness was deep and unbroken by anything but the red flashes of lightning, yet, so strongly absorbed was his heart by the scene we have just related, that he arrived at his father's house scarcely conscious of the roar of elements which surrounded him.