Fardorougha, The Miser. William Carleton
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 God 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 God 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 God 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.
“God 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 God 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 God, 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——God 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 reassurances 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 classes 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 illustration of that passion 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 competition 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 associations in high life are unfavorable to the growth of a healthy passion; 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 passion? 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