Fardorougha, The Miser Part 35

"No," said John, "it is not. Connor, I have now a few words to say to you, and I know they will prove whether you are as generous as you are said to be; and whether your love for iny sister is truly tender and disinterested. You have it now in your power to ease her heart very much of a heavy load of concern which she feels on your account. Your father, you know, is now a ruined man, or I should say a poor man. You are going out under circ.u.mstances the most painful. In the country to which you are unhappily destined, you will have no friends--and no one living feels this more acutely than Una; for, observe me, I am now speaking on her behalf, and acting in her name. I am her agent. Now Una is richer than you might imagine, being the possessor of a legacy left her by our grandfather by my father's side. Of this legacy, she herself stands in no need--but you may and will, when you reach a distant country. Now, Connor, you see how that admirable creature loves you--you see how that love would follow you to the uttermost ends of the earth. Will you, or rather are you capable of being as generous as she is?--and can you show her that you are as much above the absurd prejudice of the world, and its cold forms, as he ought to be who is loved by a creature so truly generous and delicate as Una? You know how very poorly she is at present in health; and I tell you candidly, that your declining to accept this as a gift and memorial by which to remember her, may be attended with very serious consequences to her health."

Connor kept his eyes fixed upon the speaker, with a look of deep and earnest attention; and as...o...b..ien detailed with singular address and delicacy these striking proofs of Una's affection, her lover's countenance became an index of the truth with which his heart corresponded to the n.o.ble girl's tenderness and generosity. He seized O'Brien's hand.

"John," said he, "you are worthy of bein' Una's brother, and I could say nothing higher in your favor; but, in the mane time, you and she both know that I want nothing to enable me to remember her by. This is a proof, I grant you, that she loves me truly; but I knew that as well before, as I do now. In this business I cannot comply with her wish an'

yours, an' you musn't press me. You, I say, musn't press me. Through my whole life I have never lost my own good opinion; but if I did what you want me now to do, I couldn't respect myself--I would feel lowered in my own mind. In short, I'd feel unhappy, an' that I was too mane to be worthy of your sister. Once for all, then, I cannot comply in this business with your wish an' hers."

"But the anxiety produced by your refusal may have very dangerous effects on her health."

"Then you must contrive somehow to consale my refusal from her till she gets recovered. I couldn't do what you want me; an' if you press me further upon it, I'll think you don't respect me as much as I'd wish her brother to do. Oh, G.o.d of Heaven!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands, "must I lave you, my darling Una, forever? I must, I must! an' the drame of all we hoped is past--but never, never, will she lave my heart! Her eye dim, an' her cheek pale! an' all forme--for a man covered with shame and disgrace! Oh, John, John, what a heart!--to love me in spite of all this, an' in spite of the world's opinion along with it!"

At this moment one of the turnkeys entered, and told him that his mother and a young lady were coming up to see him.

"My mother!" he exclaimed, "I am glad she is come; but I didn't expect her till the day after to--morrow. A young lady! Heavens above, what young lady would come with my mother?"

He involuntarily exchanged looks with O'Brien, and a thought flashed on the instant across the minds of both. They immediately understood each other.

"Undoubtedly," said John, "it can be no other--it is she--it is Una.

Good G.o.d, how is this? The interview and separation will be more than she can bear--she will sink under it."

Connor made no reply, but sat down and pressed his right hand upon his forehead, as if to collect energy sufficient to meet the double trial which was now before him.

"I have only one course, John," said he, "now, and that is, to appear to be--what I am not--a firm--hearted man. I must try to put on a smiling face before them."

"If it be Una," returned the other, "I shall withdraw for a while.

I know her extreme bashfulness in many cases; and I know, too, that anything like restraint upon her heart at present--in a word, I shall retire for a little."

"It may be as well," said Connor; "but so far as I am concerned, it makes no difference--just as you think proper."

"Your mother will be a sufficient witness," said the delicate--minded brother; "but I will see you again after they have left you."

"You must," replied O'Donovan. "Oh I see me--see me again. I have something to say to you of more value even than Una's life."

The door then opened, and a.s.sisted, or rather supported, by the governor of the gaol, and one of the turnkeys, Honor O'Donovan and Una O'Brien entered the gloomy cell of the guiltless convict.

The situation in which O'Donovan was now placed will be admitted, we think, by the reader, to have been one equally unprecedented and distressing. It has been often said, and on many occasions with perfect truth, that opposite states of feeling existing in the same breast generally neutralize each other. In Connor's heart, however, there was in this instance nothing of a conflicting nature. The n.o.ble boy's love for such a mother bore in its melancholy beauty a touching resemblance to the purity of his affection for Una O'Brien--each exhibiting in its highest character those virtues which made the heart of the mother proud and! loving, and that of his beautiful girl generous and devoted. So far, therefore, from their appearance together tending to concentrate his moral fort.i.tude, it actually divided his strength, and forced him to meet each with a I heart subdued and softened by his love for the other.

As they entered, therefore, he approached! them, smiling as well as he could; and, first taking a hand of each, would have led them over to a deal form beside the fire, but it was soon evident, that, owing to their weakness and agitation united, they required greater support. He and O'Brien accordingly helped them to a seat, on which they sat with every symptom of that exhaustion which results at once from illness and mental suffering.

Let us not forget to inform our readers that the day of this mournful visit was that on which, according to his original sentence, he should have yielded up his life as a penalty to the law.

"My dear mother," said he, "you an' Una know that this day ought not to be a day of sorrow among us. Only for the goodness of my friends, an' of Government, it's not my voice you'd be now listening to--but that is now changed--so no more about it. I'm glad to see you both able to come out."

His mother, on first sitting down, clasped her hands together, and in a silent e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, with closed eyes, raised her heart to the Almighty, to supplicate aid and strength to enable her to part finally with that boy who was, and ever had been, dearer to her than her own heart. Una trembled, and on meeting her brother so unexpectedly, blushed faintly, and, indeed, appeared to breathe with difficulty. She held a bottle of smelling salts in her hand.

"John," she said, "I will explain this visit."

"My dear Una," he replied, affectionately, "you need not--it requires none--and I beg you will not think of it one moment more. I must now leave you together for about half an hour, as I have some business to do in town that will detain me about that time." He then left them.

"Connor," said his mother, "sit down between this darlin' girl an' me, till I spake to you."

He sat down and took a hand of each.

"A darlin' girl she is, mother. It's now I see how very ill you have been, my own Una."

"Yes," she replied, "I was ill--but when I heard that your life was spared, I got better."

This she said with an artless but melancholy naivete, that was very trying to the fort.i.tude of her lover. As she spoke she looked fondly but mournfully into his face.

"Connor," proceeded his mother, "I hope you are fully sensible of the mercy G.o.d has shown you, under this great trial?"

"I hope I am, indeed, my dear mother. It is to G.o.d I surely owe it."

"It is, an' I trust that, go where you will and live where you may, the day will never come when you'll forget the debt you owe the Almighty, for preventin' you from bein' cut down like a flower in the very bloom of your life. I hope, avillish machree, that that day will never come."

"G.o.d forbid it ever should, mother dear!"

"Thin you may learn from what has happened, avick agus asthofe, never, oh never, to despair of G.o.d's mercy--no matter into what thrial or difficulty you maybe brought. You see, whin you naither hoped for it here, nor expected it, how it came for all that."

"It did, blessed be G.o.d!"

"You're goin' now, ahagur, to a strange land, where you'll meet--ay, where my darlin' boy will meet the worst of company; but remember, alanna avillish, that your mother, well as she loves you, an' well, I own, as you deserve to be loved--that mother that hung over the cradle of her only one--that dressed him, an' reared him, an' felt many a proud heart out of him--that mother would sooner at any time see him in his grave, his sowl bein' free from stain, than to know that his heart was corrupted by the world, an' the people you'll meet in it."

Something in the last sentence must have touched a chord in Una's heart, for the tears, without showing any other' external signs of emotion, streamed down her cheeks.

"My advice, then, to you--an' oh, avick machree, machree, it is my last, the last you will ever hear from my lips--"

"Oh, mother, mother!" exclaimed Connor, but he could not proceed--voice waa denied him, Una here sobbed aloud.

"You bore your thrial n.o.bly, my darlin' son--you must thin bear this as well; an' you, a colleen dhas, remember your promise to me afore I consulted to come with you this day."

The weeping girl here dried her eyes, and, by a strong effort, hushed her grief.

"My advice, thin, to you, is never to neglect your duty to G.o.d; for, if you do it wanst or twist, you'll begin by degrees to get careless--thin, bit by bit, asth.o.r.e, your heart will harden, your conscience will leave you, an' wickedness, an' sin, an' guilt will come upon you. It's no matter, asth.o.r.e, how much wicked comrades may laugh an' jeer at you, keep you thrue to the will of your good G.o.d, an' to your religious duties, an' let them take their own coorse. Will you promise me to do this, _avuillish machree?_"

"Mother, I have always sthrove to do it, an' with G.o.d's a.s.sistance, always will."

"An', my son, too, will you bear up undher this like a man? Remember, Connor darlin', that although you're lavin' us forever, yet your poor father an' I have the blessed satisfaction of knowin' that we're not childless--that you're alive, an' that you may yet do well an' be happy. I mintion these things, acushla machree, to show you that there's nothin' over you so bad, but you may show yourself firm and manly undher it--act as you have done. It's you, asth.o.r.e, ought to comfort your father an me; an' I hope, whin you're parted from, him, that you 'ill--Oh G.o.d, support him! I wish, Connor, darlin', that that partin'

was over, but I depend upon you to make it as light upon him as you can do."

She paused, apparently from exhaustion. Indeed, it was evident, either that she had little else to add, or that she felt too weak to speak much more, with such a load of sorrow and affliction on her heart.

"There is one thing, Connor jewel, that I needn't mintion. Of coorse you'll write to us as often as you convaniently can. Oh, do not forget that! for you know that that bit of paper from your own hand, is all belongin' to you we will ever see more. Avick machree, machree, many a long look--out we will have for it. It may keep the ould man's heart from breakin'."

She was silent, but, as she uttered the last words, there was a shaking of the voice, which gave clear proof of the difficulty with which she went through the solemn task of being calm, which, for the sake of her son, she had heroically imposed upon herself.

She was now silent, but, as is usual with Irish women under the influence of sorrow, she rocked herself involuntary to and fro, whilst, with closed eyes, and hands clasped as before, she held communion with G.o.d, the only true source of comfort.

"Connor," she added, after a pause, during which he and Una, though silent from respect to her, were both deeply affected; "sit fornint me, avick machree, that, for the short time you're to be with me, I may have you before my eyes. Husth now, a colleen machree, an' remimber your promise. Where's the stringth you said you'd show?"