Fardorougha, The Miser. William Carleton
come near them; I'll be in, by an' by. Where's my father?”
“He's in the house, an' wants you to answer Mrs. Fogarty, statin' feder you'll take a month's larnin' on the flure or not.”
“Well, I'll see her letter in a minute or two, but you may tell my father he needn't wait—I won't answer it to-night at all event's.”
“You must answer it on the nail,” replied her mother, “becase the messager's waitin' in the kitchen 'ithin.”
“That alters the case altogether,” returned Una, “and I'll follow you immediately.”
The good woman then withdrew, having once more enjoined the daughter to avoid delay, and not to detain the messenger.
“You must go instantly,” she said to Connor. “Oh, what would happen me if they knew that I lov—that I—” a short pause ensued, and she blushed deeply.
“Say, what you were goin' to say,” returned Connor; “Oh, say that one word, and all the misfortunes that ever happened to man, can't make me unhappy! Oh, God! an' is it possible? Say that word—Oh! say it—say it!”
“Well, then,” she continued, “if they knew that I love the son of Fardorougha Donovan, what would become of me? Now go, for fear my father may come out.”
“But when will I see you again?”
“Go,” said she anxiously; “go, you can easily see me.”
“But when?—when? say on Thursday.”
“Not so soon—not so soon,” and she cast an anxious eye towards the garden gate.
“When then—say this day week.”
“Very well—but go—maybe my father has heard from the servants that you are here.”
“Dusk is the best time.”
“Yes—yes—about dusk; under the alders, in the little green field behind the garden.”
“Show me the wounded finger,” said he with a smile, “before I go.”
“There,” said she, extending her hand; “but for Heaven's sake go.”
“I'll tell you how to cure it,” said he, tenderly; “honey is the medicine; put that sweet finger to your own sweeter lip—and, afterwards, I'll carry home the wound.”
“But not the medicine, now,” said she, and, snatching her hand from his, with light, fearful steps, she fled up the garden and disappeared.
Such, gentle reader, were the circumstances which brought our young and artless lovers together in the black twilight of the singularly awful and ominous evening which we have already described.
Connor, on reaching the appointed spot, sat down; but his impatience soon overcame him; and, while hurrying to and fro, under the alders, he asked himself in what was this wild but rapturous attachment to terminate? That the proud Bodagh, and his prouder wife, would never suffer their beautiful daughter, the heiress of all their wealth, to marry the son of Fardorougha, the miser, was an axiom, the truth of which pressed upon his heart with a deadly weight. On the other hand, would his father, or rather could he, change his nature so far as to establish him in life, provided Una and he were united without the consent of her parents? Alas! he knew his father's parsimony too well; and, on either hand, he was met by difficulties that appeared to him to be insurmountable. But again came the delightful and ecstatic consciousness, that, let their parents act as they might, Una's heart and his were bound to each other by ties which, only to think of, was rapture. In the midst of these reflections, he heard her light foot approach, but with a step more slow and melancholy than he could have expected from the ardor of their love.
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 passion 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 nobody 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 passion, 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 passed during that time that I didn't drame of you—of the beautiful young crature. Oh! God 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