Fardorougha, The Miser Part 36

She then gazed with a long look of love and sorrow upon the fine countenance of her manly son, and nature would be no longer restrained--

"Let me lay my head upon your breast," said she; "I'm attemptin' too much--the mother's heart will give out the mother's voice--will speak the mother's sorrow! Oh, my son, my son, my darlin', manly son--are you lavin' your lovin' mother for evermore, for evermore?"

She was overcome; placing her head upon his bosom, her grief fell into that beautiful but mournful wail with which, in Ireland, those of her s.e.x weep over the dead.

Indeed, the scene a.s.sumed a tenderness, from this incident, which was inexpressibly affecting, inasmuch as the cry of death was but little out of place when bewailing that beloved boy, whom, by the stern decree of law, she was never to see again.

Connor kissed her pale cheek and lips, and rained down a flood of bitter tears upon her face; and Una, borne away by the enthusiasm of her sorrow, threw her arms also around her, and wept aloud.

At length, after having, in some degree, eased her heart, she sat up, and with that consideration and good sense for which she had ever been remarkable, said--

"Nature must have its way; an' surely, within reason, it's not sinful, seein' that G.o.d himself has given us the feelin's of sorrow, whin thim that we love is lavin' us--lavin' us never, never to see them agin. It's only nature, afther all; and now ma colleen dhas"--

Her allusion to the final separation of those who love--or, in her own words, "to the feelin's of sorrow, whin thim that we love is lavin us"--was too much for the heart and affections of the fair girl at her side, whose grief now pa.s.sed all the bounds which her previous attempts at being firm had prescribed to it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PAGE 282-- O'Donovan took the beloved one in his arms]

O'Donovan took the beloved one in his arms, and, in the long embrace which ensued, seldom were love and sorrow so singularly and mournfully blended.

"I don't want to prevent you from cryin' a colleen machree; for I know it will lighten an' aise your heart," said Honor; "but remimber your wakeness an' your poor health; an', Connor avourneen, don't you--if you love her--don't forget the state her health's in either."

"Mother, mother, you know it's the last time I'll ever look upon my Una's face again," he exclaimed. "Oh, well may I be loath an' unwillin'

to part with her. You'll think of me, my darlin' life, when I'm gone--not as a guilty man, Una dear, but as one that if he ever committed a crime, it was lovin' you an' bringin' you to this unhappy state."

"G.o.d sees my heart this day," she replied--and she spoke with difficulty--"that I could and would have travelled over the world; borne joy and sorrow, hards.h.i.+p and distress--good fortune and bad--all happily, if you had been by my side--if you had not been taken from me. Oh, Connor, Connor, you may well pity your Una--for yours I am and was--another's I never will be. You are entering into scenes that will relieve you by their novelty--that will force you to think of other things and of other persons than those you've left behind you; but oh, what Can I look upon that will not fill my heart with despair and sorrow, by reminding me of you and your affection?"

"Fareer gair," exclaimed the mother, speaking involuntarily aloud, and interrupting her own words with sobs of bitter anguish--"Fareer gair, ma colleen dhas, but that's the heavy truth with us all. Oh, the ould man--the ould man's heart will break all out, when he looks upon the place, an' everything else that our boy left behind him."

"Dear Una," said Connor, "you know that we're partin' now forever."

"My breaking heart tells me that," she replied. "I would give the wealth of the world that it was not so--I would--I would."

"Listen to me, my own life. You must not let love for me lie so heavy upon your heart. Go out and keep your mind employed upon other thoughts--by degrees you'll forget--no, I don't think you could altogether forget me--me--the first, Una, you ever loved."

"And the last, Connor--the last I ever will love."

"No, no. In the presence of my lovin' mother I say that you must not think that way. Time will pa.s.s, my own Una, an' you will yet be happy with some other. You're very young; an', as I said, time will wear me by degrees out of your mimory."--

Una broke hastily from his embrace, for she lay upon his breast all this time--

"Do you think so, Connor O'Donovan?" she exclaimed; but on looking into his face, and reading the history of deep--seated sorrow which appeared there so legible, she again "fled to him and wept."

"Oh, no," she continued, "I cannot quarrel with you now; but you do the heart of your own Una injustice, if you think it could ever feel happiness with another. Already I have my mother's consent to enter a convent--and to enter a convent is my fixed determination."

"Oh, mother," said Connor, "How will I lave this blessed girl? how will I part with her?"

Honor rose up, and, by two or three simple words, disclosed more forcibly, more touchingly, than any direct exhibition of grief could have done, the inexpressible power of the misery she felt at this eternal separation from her only boy. She seized Una's two hands, and, kissing her lips, said, in tones of the most heart--rending pathos--

"Oh, Una, Una, pity me--I am his mother!"

Una threw herself into her arms, and sobbed out--

"Yes, and mine."

"Thin you'll obey me as a daughter should," said Honor. "This is too much for you, Oona; part we both must from him, an' neither of us is able to bear much, more."

She here gave Connor a private signal to be firm, pointing un.o.bservedly to Una's pale cheek, which at that moment lay upon her bosom.

"Connor," she proceeded, "Oona has what you sent her. Nogher--an' he is breakin' his heart too--gave it to me; an' my daughter, for I will always call her so, has it this minute next her lovin' heart. Here is hers, an' let it lie next yours."

Connor seized the glossy ringlet from his mother's hand, and placed it at the moment next to the seat of his undying affection for the fair girl from whose ebon locks it had been taken.

His mother then kissed Una again, and, rising, said--

"Now, my daughther, remimber I am your mother, an' obey me."

"I will," said Una, attempting to repress her grief--"I will; but--"

"Yes, darlin', you will. Now, Connor, my son, my son--Connor?"

"What is it, mother, darlin'?"

"We're goin', Connor,--we're lavin' you--be firm--be a man. Aren't you my son, Connor? my only son--an' the ould man--an' never, never more--kneel down--kneel down, till I bless you. Oh, many, many a blessin' has risen from your mother's lips an' your mother's heart, to Heaven for you, my son, my son!"

Connor knelt, his heart bursting, but he knelt not alone. By his side was his own Una, with meek and bended head, awaiting for his mothers blessing.

She then poured forth that blessing; first: upon him who was nearest to her heart, and afterwards upon the worn but still beautiful; girl, whose love for that adored son had made her so inexpressibly dear to her.

Whilst! she uttered this fervent but sorrowful benediction, a hand was placed upon the head of each, after which she stooped and kissed them both, but without shedding a single tear.

"Now," said she, "comes the mother's wakeness; but my son will help me by his manliness--so will my daughter. I am very weak. Oh, what heart can know the sufferin's of this hour, but mine? My son, my son--Connor O'Donovan, my son!"

At this moment John O'Brien entered the room; but the solemnity and pathos of her manner and voice hushed him so completely into silent attention, that it is probable she did not perceive him.

"Let me put my arms about him and kiss his lips once more, an' then I'll say farewell."

She again approached the boy, who S opened his arms to receive her, and, after having kissed him and looked into his face, said, "I will now go--I will' now go;" but instead of withdrawing, as she had intended, it was observed that she pressed him more closely to her heart than before; plied her hands about his neck and bosom, as if she were not actually conscious of what she did; and at length sunk into a forgetfulness of all her misery upon the aching breast of her unhappy son.

"Now," said Una, rising into a spirit of; unexpected fort.i.tude, "now, Connor, I will be her daughter, and you must be her son. The moment she recovers we must separate, and in such a manner as to show that our affection for each other shall not be injurious to her."

"It is nature only," said her brother; "or, in other words, the love that is natural to such a mother for such a son, that has overcome her.

Connor, this must be ended."

"I am willing it should," replied the other. "You must a.s.sist them home, and let me see you again tomorrow. I have something of the deepest importance to say to you."

Una's bottle of smelling salts soon relieved the woe-worn mother; and, ere the lapse of many minutes, she was able to summon her own natural firmness of character. The lovers, too, strove to be firm; and, after one long and last embrace, they separated from Connor with more composure than, from the preceding scene, might have been expected.

The next day, according to promise, John O'Brien paid him an early visit, in order to hear what Connor had a.s.sured him was of more importance even than Una's life itself. Their conference was long and serious, for each felt equally interested in its subject-matter. When it was concluded, and they had separated, O'Brien's friends observed that he appeared like a man whose mind was occupied by something that occasioned him to feel deep anxiety. What the cause of this secret care was, he did not disclose to anyone except his father, to whom, in a few days afterwards, he mentioned it. His college vacation had now nearly expired; but it was mutually agreed upon, in the course of the communication he then made, that for the present he should remain with them at home, and postpone his return to Maynooth, if not abandon the notion of the priesthood altogether. When the Bodagh left his son, after this dialogue, his open, good-humored countenance seemed clouded, his brow thoughtful, and his whole manner that of a man who has heard something more than usually unpleasant; but, whatever this intelligence was, he, too, appeared equally studious to conceal it. The day now arrived on which Connor O'Donovan was to see his other parent for the last time, and this interview he dreaded, on the old man's account, more than he had done even the separation from his mother. Our readers may judge, therefore, of his surprise on finding that his father exhibited a want of sorrow or of common feeling that absolutely amounted almost to indifference.

Connor felt it difficult to account for a change so singular and extraordinary in one with whose affection for himself he was so well acquainted. A little time, however, and an odd hint or two thrown out in the early part of their conversation, soon enabled him to perceive, either that the old man labored under some strange hallucination, or had discovered a secret source of comfort known only to himself. At length, it appeared to the son that he had discovered the cause of this unaccountable change in the conduct of his father; and, we need scarcely a.s.sure our readers, that his heart sank into new and deeper distress at the words from which he drew the inference.