Fardorougha, The Miser Part 6

Independently of this, however, he was not proof against the popular superst.i.tion of the bees, particularly as it appeared to be an augury to which his enamored heart could cling with all the hope of young and pa.s.sionate enthusiasm.

Nor was it long till he had an opportunity of perceiving that she whose image had floated in light before his fancy, gave decided manifestations of being struck by the same significant occurrence. On entering the garden, the first person his eye rested upon was Una herself, who, as some of the other hives were expected to swarm, had been engaged watching them during the day. His appearance at any time would have created a tumult in her bosom, but, in addition to this, when she heard that the bees which had rested on Connor's house, had swarmed from _her own hive_, to use the words of Burns--

She looked--she reddened like the rose, Syne pale as ony lily,

and, with a shy but expressive glance at Connor, said, in a low hurried voice, "These belong to me."

Until the moment we are describing, Connor and she, notwithstanding that they frequently met in public places, had never yet spoken; nor could the words now uttered by Una be considered as addressed to him, although from the glance that accompanied them it was sufficiently evident that they were intended for him alone. It was in vain that he attempted to accost her; his confusion, her pleasure, his timidity, seemed to unite in rendering him incapable of speaking at all. His lips moved several times, but the words, as they arose, died away unspoken.

At this moment, Mike, with waggish good-humor, and in a most laudable fit of industry, reminded the other servants, who had been a.s.sisting to secure the bees, that as they (the bees) were now safe, no further necessity existed for their presence.

"Come, boys--death-alive, the day's pa.s.sin'--only think. Miss Una, that we have all the hay in the Long-shot meadow to get into c.o.c.ks yet, an'

here we're idlin' an' ghosther--in' away our time like I dunna what.

They're schamin', Miss Una--divil a thing else, an' what'll the masther say if the same meadow's not finished to--night?"

"Indeed, Mike," replied Una--; "if the meadow is to be finished this night, there's little time to be lost."

"Come, boys," exclaimed Mike, "you hear what Miss Una says--if it's to be finished to-night there's but little time to be lost--turn out--march. Miss Una can watch the bees widout our help. Good evenin', Misther Donovan; be my word, but you're ent.i.tled to a taste o' honey any way, for bringing back Miss Una's bees to her."

Mike, after having uttered this significant opinion relative to his sense of justice, drove his fellow-servants out of the garden, and left the lovers together. There was now a dead silence, during the greater part of which, neither dared to look at the other; at length each hazarded a glance; their eyes met, and their embarra.s.sment deepened in a tenfold degree. Una, on withdrawing her gaze, looked with an air of perplexity from one object to another, and at length, with downcast lids, and glowing cheeks, her eyes became fixed on her own white and delicate finger.

"Who would think," said she, in a voice tremulous with agitation, "that the sting of a bee could be so painful."

Connor advanced towards her with a beating heart. "Where have you been stung, Miss...o...b..ien?" said he, in a tone shaken out of it's fulness by what he felt.

"In the finger," she replied, and she looked closely into the spot as she uttered the words.

"Will you let me see it?" asked Connor.

She held her hand towards him without knowing what she did, nor was it till after a strong effort that Connor mastered himself so far as to ask her in which finger she felt the pain. In fact, both saw at once that their minds were engaged upon far different thoughts, and that their anxiety to pour out the full confession of their love was equally deep and mutual.

As Connor put the foregoing question to her, he took her hand in his.

"In what finger?" she replied, "I don't--indeed--I--I believe in the--the--but what--what is this?--I am very--very weak."

"Let me support you to the summer--house, where you can sit," returned Connor, still clasping her soft delicate hand in his; then, circling her slender waist with the other, he helped her to a seat under the thick shade of the osiers.

Una's countenance immediately became pale as death, and her whole frame trembled excessively.

"You are too weak even to sit without support," said Connor, "your head is droopin'. For G.o.d's sake, lean it over on me! Oh! I'd give ten thousand lives to have it on my breast only for one moment!"

Her paleness still continued; she gazed on him, and, as he gently squeezed her hand, a slight pressure was given in return. He then drew her head over upon his shoulder, where it rather fell than leaned; a gush of tears came from her eyes, and the next moment, with sobbing hearts, they were encircled in each other's arms.

From this first intoxicating draught of youthful love, they were startled by the voice of Mrs. O'Brien calling upon her daughter, and, at the same time, to their utter dismay, they observed the portly dame sailing, in her usual state, down towards the arbor, with an immense bunch of keys dangling from her side.

"Oonagh, Miss--Miss Oonagh--where are you, Miss, Ma Colleen?--Here's a litther," she proceeded, when Una appeared, "from Mrs. Fogarty, your school-misthress, to your fadher--statin' that she wants you to finish your Jiggraphy at the dancin', wid a new dancin'--teacher from _Dubling_. Why--Eah! what ails you, Miss, Ma Colleen? What the d.i.c.kens wor you cryin' for?"

"These nasty bees that stung me," returned the girl. "Oh, for goodness sake, mother dear, don't come any farther, except you wish to have a whole hive upon you!"

"Why, sure, they wouldn't sting any one that won't meddle wid them,"

replied the mother in a kind of alarm.

"The sorra pin they care, mother--don't 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, G.o.d! 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing her hand from his, with light, fearful steps, she fled up the garden and disappeared.

Such, gentle reader, were the circ.u.mstances 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.