which grew beside her: she surveyed it a moment, and exclaimed:--
“Do you see this flower, Denis? it's a faded primrose. I'm like that
flower in one sense; I'm faded; my heart's broke.”
“No, my beloved Susan, don't say so; you're only low-spirited. Why
should your heart be broke, and you in the very bloom of youth and
beauty?”
“Do you remember our last meetin', Denis? Oh, how could you be so cruel
then as to bid me think of marryin' another, as if I had loved you for
anything but yourself? I'm but a simple girl, Denis, and know but little
of the world; but if I was to live a thousand years, you would always
see the sorrow that your words made me feel visible upon my countenance.
I'm not angry with you, Denis; but I'm telling you the truth.”
“Susan, my darling, this is either weakness of mind or ill health. I
will see you as beautiful and happy as ever. For my part, I now tell
you, that no power on earth can separate us! Yes, my beloved Susan, I
will see you as happy and happier than I have ever seen you. That will
be when you are my own young and guileless wife.”
“Ah, no, Denis! My mind is made up: I can never be your wife, Do you
think that I would bring the anger of God upon myself, by temptin' you
back from the holy office you're entering into? Think of it yourself
Denis. Your feelings are melted now by our discoorse, and, maybe,
because I'm near you; but when time passes, you'll be glad that in the
moment of weakness you didn't give way to them. I know it's natural for
you to love me now. You're lavin' me--you're lavin' the place where I
am--the little river and the glen where we so often met, and where we
often spent many a happy hour together. That has an effect upon you;
for why should I deny it--you see it--it is hard--very hard--even upon
myself.”
She neither sobbed nor cried so as to be heard, but the tears gushed
down her cheeks in torrents.
“Susan,” said Denis, in an unsteady voice, “you speak in vain. Every
word you say tells me that I cannot live without you; and I will not.”
“Don't say that, Denis. Suppose we should be married, think of what I
would suffer if I saw you in poverty or distress, brought on because
you married me! Why, my heart would sink entirely under it. Then your
friends would never give me a warm heart. Me! they would never give
yourself a, warm heart; and I would rather be dead than see you brought
to shame, or ill-treatment, or poverty, on my account. Pray to God,
Denis, to grant you grace to overcome whatever you feel for me. I have
prayed both for you and myself. Oh, pray to him, Denis, sincerely, that
he may enable you to forget that such, a girl--such an unhappy girl--as
Susan Connor ever lived!”
Poor Denis was so much overcome that he could not restrain his tears. He
gazed upon the melancholy countenance of the fair girl, in a delirium of
love and admiration; but in a few minutes he replied:--
“Susan, your words are lost: I am determined. Oh! great heavens! what
a treasure was I near losing! Susan, hear me: I will bear all that this
world can inflict; I will bear shame, ill-treatment, anger, scorn, and
every harsh word that may be uttered against me; I will renounce church,
spiritual power, rank, honor; I will give up father and family--all--all
that this world could flatter mo with: yes, I will renounce each and
all for your sake! Do not dissuade me; my mind is fixed, and no power on
earth can change it.”
“Yes, Denis,” she replied calmly, “there is a power, and a weak power,
too, that will change it; for I will change it. Don't think, Denis, that
in arguin' with you, against the feelin's of my own heart, I am doin' it
without sufferin'. Oh, no, indeed! You know, Denis, I am a lonely
girl; that I have neither brother, nor sister, nor mother to direct
me. Sufferin'!--Oh, I wish you knew it! Denis, you must forget me. I'm
hopeless now: my, heart, as I said, is broke, and I'm strivin' to fix it
upon a happier world! Oh! if I had a mother or a sister, that I could,
when my breast is likely to burst, throw myself in their arms, and cry
and confess all I feel! But I'm alone, and must bear all my own sorrows.
Oh, Denis! I'm not without knowin' how hard the task is that I have set
to myself. Is it nothing to give up all that the heart is fixed upon? Is
it nothing to walk about this glen, and the green fields, to have one's
eyes upon them, and to remember what happiness one has had in them,
knowin', at the same time, that it's all blasted? Oh, is it nothing to
look upon the green earth itself,and all its beauty--to hear the happy
songs and the joyful voices of all that are about us--the birds singing
sweetly, the music of the river flowin'--to see the sun shinin', and to
hear the rustlin' of the trees in the warm winds of summer--to see and
hear all this, and to feel that a young heart is brakin', or already
broken within us--that we are goin' to lave it all--all we loved--and to
go down into the clay under us? Oh, Denis, this is hard;--bitter is it
to me, I confess it; for something tells me it will be my fate soon!”
“But, Susan”--
“Hear me out. I have now repated what I know I must suffer--what I know
I must lose. This is my lot, and I must bear it. Now, Denis, will you
grant your own Susan one request?”
“If it was that my life should save yours, I would grant it.”
“It's the last and only one I will ever ask of you. My health has been
ill, Denis; my strength is gone, and I feel' I am gettin' worse every
day: now when you hear that I am--that I am--gone,--will you offer up
the first mass you say for my pace and rest in another world? I say
the first, for you know there's more virtue in a first mass than in any
other. Your Susan will be then in the dust, and you may feel sorrow, but
not love for her.”
“Never, Susan! For God's sake, forbear! You will drive me distracted. As
I hope to meet judgment, I think I never loved you till now; and by the
same oath, I will not change my purpose in making you mine.”
“Then you do love me still, Denis? And you would give up all for your
Susan? Answer me truly, for the ear of God is open to our words and
thoughts.”
“Then, before God, I love you too strongly for words to express; and I
would and will give up all for your sake!”
Susan turned her eyes upon vacancy; and Denis observed that a sudden and
wild light broke from them, which alarmed him exceedingly. She put her
open hand upon her forehead, as if she felt pain, and remained glancing
fearfully around her for a few minutes; her countenance, which became
instantly like a sheet of paper, lost all its intelligence, except,
perhaps, what might be gleaned from a smile of the most ghastly and
desolating misery.
“Gracious heaven! Susan, dear, what's the matter? Oh, my God! your face
is like marble! Dearest Susan, speak to me!--Oh, speak to me, or I will
go distracted!”
She looked upon him long and steadily; but he perceived with delight
that her consciousness was gradually returning. At length she drew a
deep sigh, and requested him to listen.
“Denis,” said she, “you must now be a man. We can never be married. I am
PROMISED TO ANOTHER!”
“Promised to another! Your brain is turned, Susy. Collect yourself,
dearest, and think of what you say.”
“I know what I say--I know it too well! What did I say? Why--why,” she
added, with an unsettled look, “that I'm promised to another! It is
true--true as God's in heaven. Oh, Denis! why did you lave me so' long
without seein' me? I said my heart was broke, and you will soon know
that it has bitter, bitter rason to be so. See here.”
She had, during her reply, taken from her bosom a small piece of brown
cloth, of a square shape, marked with the letters I. M. I. the initials
of the names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. She kissed it fervently as she
spoke, and desired Denis to look upon it and hear her.
“When you saw me last,” she continued, “I left you in anger, because I
thought you no longer loved me. Many a scaldin' tear I shed that nobody
witnessed; many a wringin' my heart felt since that time. I got low,
and, as I said, my health left me. I began to think of what I ought to
do; and bein' so much' alone, my thoughts were never off it. At last
I remembered the Virgin Mother of God, as bein' once a woman, and the
likelier to pity one of her own kind in sorrow. I then thought of a
scapular; and made a promise to myself, that if you didn't come within
a certain time, I would dedicate myself to her for ever. I saw that you
neglected me, and I heard so much of the way you spent your time, how
you were pleasant and merry while my heart was breakin', that I made a
vow to remain a spotless virgin all my life. I got a scapular, too, that
I might be strengthened to keep my holy promise; for you didn't come to
me within the time. This is it in my hand. It is now on me. The VOW IS
MADE AND I AM MISERABLE FOB EVER!”
Denis sobbed and wrung his hands, whilst tears, intensely bitter, fell
from his eyes.
“Oh, Susan!” he exclaimed, “what have you done? Miserable! Oh you have
ruined me utterly! You have rendered us both for ever miserable!”
“Miserable!” she exclaimed with flashing eyes. “Who talks of misery?”
But again she put her hand to her forehead, and endeavored to recollect
herself. “Denis,” she added, “Denis, my brain is turning! Oh, I have
no friend! Oh, mother, that I never seen, but as if it was in a dream;
mother, daughter of your daughter's heart, look down from heaven, and.
pity your orphan child in her sore trouble and affliction! Oh, how often
did I miss you, mother darlin', durin' all my life! In sickness I had
not your tend her hands about me; in sorrow I could no' hear your voice;
and in joy and happiness you were never with me to share them! I had not
your advice, my blessed mother, to guide and direct me, to tache me what
was right and what was wrong! Oh, if you will not hear your own poor
lonely orphan, who will you hear? if you will not assist her, who
ought you to assist? for, as sure as I stand here this night, you are
a blessed saint in heaven. But let me not forget the Virgin Queen of
Heaven, that I am bound to. I kneel to you, Hope of the Afflicted! To
you let them go that have a broken heart, as I have! Queen of Glory,
pity me!--Star of the Sea--Comfort of the Hopeless--Refuge of Sinners,
hear me, strengthen and support me! And you will, too. Who did you
ever cast away, mild and beautiful Virgin of Heaven? As the lily among
thorns, so are you among the daughters of Adam!* Yes, Denis, she will
support me--she will support me! I feel her power on me now! I see the
angels of heaven about her, and her mild countenance smilin' sweetly
upon the broken flower! Yes, Denis, her glory is upon me!” The last
words were uttered with her eyes flashing wildly as before, and her
whole person and countenance evidently under the influence of a highly
excited enthusiasm, or perhaps a touch of momentary insanity.
* The form of the Service of the Virgin, from which
most of the above expressions are taken is certainly
replete with beauty and poetry.
Poor Denis stood with streaming eyes, incapable of checking or
interrupting her. He had always known that her education and
understanding were above the common; but he never anticipated from
her such capacity for deep feeling, united to so much vivacity of
imagination as she then displayed. Perhaps he had not philosophy enough,
at that period of his youth, to understand the effects of a solitary
life upon a creature full of imagination and sensibility. The scenery
about her father's house was wild, and the glens singularly beautiful;
Susan lived among them alone, so that she became in a manner enamored of
solitude; which, probably mote than anything else, gives tenderness
to feeling and force to the imaginative faculties. Soon after she had
pronounced the last words, however, her good sense came to her aid.
“Denis,” said she, “you have seen my weakness; but you must now see
my strength. You know we have a trial to go through before we part for
ever.”
“Oh! Susy, don't say 'for ever.' You know that the vow you made was a
rash vow. It may be set aside.”
“It was not a rash vow, Denis. I made it with a firm intention of
keepin' it, and keep it I will. The Mother of God is not to be mocked,
because I am weak, or choose to prefer my own will to hers.”
“But, Susy, the Church can dissolve it. You know she has power to bind
and to loose. Oh, for God's sake, Susy, if you ever loved me, don't
attempt to take back your promise.”
“I love you too well to destroy you, Denis. I will never stand between
you and God, for that would be my crime. I will never bring disgrace, or
shame, or poverty, upon you; for surely these things would fall upon you
as a punishment for desartin' him. If you were another--if you weren't
intended to be the servant of God, I could beg with you--starve with
you--die with you. But when I am gone, remember, that I gave up all
my hopes, that you might succeed in yours. I'm sure that is love. Now,
Denis, we must return our promises, the time is passin', and we'll both
be missed from home.”
“Susan, for the sake of my happiness, both in this world and in the
next, don't take away all hope. Make me not miserable and wretched; send
me not into the church a hypocrite. If you do, I will charge you with
my guilt; I will charge you with the crimes of a man who will care but
little what he does.”
“You will have friends, Denis; pious men, who will direct you and guide
you and wean your heart from me and the world. You will soon bless me
for this. Denis,” she added, with a smile of unutterable misery, “my mind
is made up. I belong now to the Virgin Mother of God. I never will be
so wicked as to forsake her for a mortal. If I was to marry you--with
a broken vow upon me, I could not prosper. The curse of God and of his
Blessed Mother would follow us both.”
Denis felt perfectly aware of the view entertained by Susan, respecting
such a vow as she had taken. To reason with her, was only to attack
a prejudice which scorned reason. Besides this, he was not himself
altogether free from the impression of its being a vow too solemn to be
broken without the sanction of the Church.
“Let us go,” said Susan, “to the same spot where we first promised.
It was under this tree, in this month, last year. Let us give it back
there.”
The hand-promise in Ireland between the marriageable young of both
sexes, is considered the most solemn and binding of all obligations. Few
would rely upon the word or oath of any man who had been known to break
a hand-promise. And, perhaps, few of the country girls would marry or
countenance the addresses of a yoking person known to have violated
such a pledge. The vow is a solemn one, and of course, given by mutual
consent, by mutual consent, also, must it be withdrawn, otherwise, it
is considered still binding. Whenever death removes one of the parties,
without the other having had an opportunity of “giving it back,” the
surviving party comes, and in the presence of witnesses first grasping
the hand of the deceased, repeats the form of words usual in withdrawing
it. Some of these scenes are very touching and impressive, particularly
one which the author had an opportunity of witnessing. It is supposed
that in cases of death, if the promise be not thus dissolved, the spirit
of the departed returns and haunts the survivor until it be cancelled.
When Denis and Susan had reached the hawthorn, they both knelt down.
So exhausted, however, had Susan been by the agitation of her feelings,
that Denis was under the necessity of assisting her to the place.
He could perceive, too, that, amid the workings of her religious
enthusiasm, she trembled like an aspen leaf.
“Now,” said she, “you are stronger than I am, begin and repeat the
words; I will repeat them with you.”
“No,” replied Denis, “I will never begin. I will never be the first to
seal both your misery and mine.”
“I am scarcely able,” said she; “dear Denis, don't ask me to do what
I have not strength for. But it's useless,” she added; “you will never
begin unless I do.”
They then blessed themselves after the form of their church, and as they
extended their right hands to each other, the tears fell fast from the
eyes of both. The words they repeated were the same, with the difference
of the name only.
“I, Susan Connor, in the presence of God, do release you, Denis
O'Shaughnessy, from your promise of marriage to me, and from all
promises of marriage that you ever made me. I now give you back that
promise of marriage, and all promises of marriage you ever made me. To
which I call God to witness.”
Denis repeated the same words, substituting the name of Susan Connor.
The sobs of Susan were loud and incessant, even before she had concluded
the words; their eyes were fixed upon each other with a hopeless and
agonizing expression: but no sooner were they uttered, than a strong
hysteric sense of suffocation rose to her throat; she panted rapidly for
breath; Denis opened his arms, and she fell, or rather threw herself,
over in a swoon upon his bosom. To press his lips to hers, and carry her
to the brink of the well, was but the work of a moment. There he laid
her, and after having sprinkled her face with water, proceeded to slap
the palms of her hands, exclaiming,--
“Susan, my beloved, will you not hear me? Oh, look upon me, my heart's
dearest treasure, and tell me that you're living. Gracious God! her
heart is broken--she is dead! This--this--is the severest blow of all! I
have killed her!”
She opened her eyes as he spoke, and Denis, in stooping to assist her,
weeping at the same time like a child; received--a bang from a cudgel
that made his head ring.
“Your sowl to the divil, you larned vagabone,” said her father, for
it was he, “is this the way you're preparin' yourself for the church?
Comin' over that innocent colleen of a daughter o' mine before you
set out,” he added, taking Denis a second thwack across the
shoulders--“before you set out for Maynewth!!”
“Why, you miserable vulgarian,” said Denis, “I scorn you from the head
to the heel. Desist, I say,” for the father was about to lay in another
swinger upon his kidney--“desist, I say, and don't approximate, or I
will entangle the ribs of you!”
“My sowl to glory,” said the father, “if ever I had a greater mind
to ate my dinner, than I have to anoint you wid this cudgel, you
black-coated skamer!”
“Get out, you barbarian,” replied Denis, “how dare you talk about
unction in connection with a cudgel? Desist, I say, for I will
retaliate, if you approximate an inch. Desist, or I will baptize you in
the well as Philip did the Ethiopian, without a sponsor. No man but a
miserable barbarian would have had the vulgarity to interrupt us in the
manner you did. Look at your daughter's situation!”
“The hussy,” replied the father, “it's the supper she ought to have
ready, instead of coortin' wid sich a larned vag----Heavens above me!
What ails my child? Susy! Susy, _alanna dhas!_ what's over you? Oh, I
see how it is,” he continued--“I see how it is! This accounts for her
low spirits an' bad health for some time past! Susy, rouse yourself,
avourneen! Sure I'm not angry wid you! My sowl to glory, Denis
Shaughnessy, but you have broke my child's heart, I doubt!”
“Owen,” said Denis, “your indecorous interruption has stamped you with
the signature of genuine ignorance and vulgarity; still, I say, we must
have some conversation on that subject immediately. Yes, I love your
daughter a thousand times better than nay own life.”
“Faith, I'll take care that we'll have discoorse about it,” replied the
father. “If you have been a villain to the innocent girl--if you have,
Denny, why you'll meet your God sooner than you think. Mark my words.
I have but one life, and I'll lose it for her sake, if she has come to
ill.”
“Here,”, said Denis, “let me sprinkle her face with this cool water,
that we may recover her, if possible. Your anger and your outrage, Owen,
overcame the timid creature. Speak kindly to her, she is recovering.
Thank God, she is recovering.”
“Susy, avourneen,” said the father, “rouse yourself,' ma colleen; rouse
yourself, an' don't thrimble that way. The sorra one o' me's angry wid
you, at all at all.”
“Oh, bring me home,” said the poor girl. “Father, dear, have no bad
opinion of me. I done nothing, an' I hope I never will do anything, that
would bring the blush of shame to your face.”
“That's as true as that God's in heaven,” observed Denis. “The angels in
his presence be not purer than she is.”
“I take her own word for it,” said the father; “a lie, to the best of my
knowledge, never came from her lips.”
“Let us assist her home,” said Denis. “I told you that we must have some
serious conversation about her. I'll take one arm, and do you take the
other.”
“Do so,” said the father, “an', Denny, as you're the youngest and the
strongest, jist take up that pitcher o' wather in your hand, an' carry
it to the house above.”
Denis, who was dressed in his best black from top to toe, made a wry
face or two at this proposal. He was able, however, for Susan's sake, to
compromise his dignity: so looking about him, to be certain that there
was no other person observing them, he seized the pitcher in one hand,
gave Susan his arm, and in this unheroic manner assisted to conduct her
home.
In about half an hour or better after this, Denis and Owen Connor
proceeded in close and earnest conversation towards old Shaughnessy's.
On entering, Denis requested to speak with his father and brothers in
private.
“Father,” said he, “this night is pregnant--that is, _vulgariter_, in
the family way--with my fate.”
“Throth, it is, avick. Glory be to Goodness!”
“Here is Owen Connor, an honest, dacent neighbor--”
“Throth, he is an honest, dacent man, said the lather, interrupting him.
“Yes,” replied the son, “I agree with you. Well, he has a certain
disclosure or proposal to make, which you will be pleased to take into
your most serious consideration. I, for my part, cannot help being
endowed with my own gifts, and if I happen to possess a magnet to
attract feminine sensibility, it is to heaven I owe it, and not to
myself.”
“It is,”--said the father, “glory be to his name!”
“Don't be alarmed, or surprised, or angry, at anything Owen Connor may
say to you. I speak significantly. There are perplexities in all human
events, and the cardinal hinge of fate is forever turning. Now I must
withdraw; but in, the meantime I will be found taking a serenade behind
the garden, if I am wanted.”
“Brian,” said the father, “get the bottle; we can't on this night, any
way, talk to Owen Connor, or to anybody else, wid dhry lips.”
The bottle was accordingly got, and Owen, with no very agreeable
anticipations, found himself compelled to introduce a very hazardous
topic.
Denis, as he said, continued to walk to and fro behind the garden. He
thought over the incidents of the evening, but had no hope that Owen
Connor's proposal would be accepted. He knew his father and family too
well for that. With respect to Susan's vow, he felt certain that any
change of opinion on her part was equally improbable. It was clear,
then, that he had no pretext for avoiding Maynooth; and as the shame,
affliction, and indignation of the family would, he knew, be terrible,
he resolved to conform himself to his circumstances, trusting to absence
for that diminution of affection which it often produces. Having settled
these points in his mind, he began to grope that part of his head which
had come in contact with Owen Connor's cudgel. He had strong surmises
that a bump existed, and on examining, he found that a powerful organ of
self-esteem had been created.
At this moment he saw Owen Connor running past him at full speed,
pursued by his father and brothers, the father brandishing a cudgel
in his hand. The son, who understood all, intercepted the pursuers,
commanding them, in a loud voice to stop. With his brothers he
succeeded; but the father's wrath was not to be appeased so easily.
Nothing now remained but to stand in his way, and arrest him by friendly
violence; Denis, therefore, seized him, and, by assuming all his
authority, at length prevailed upon him to give over the chase.
“Only think of him,” exclaimed the father, breathless--“only think
of him havin' the assurance to propose a match between you an' his
baby-faced daughter! Ho! _Dher manhim_, Owen Connor,” he shouted,
shaking the staff at Owen as he spoke--“_Dher manhim!_ if I was near
you, I'd put your bones through other, for darin' to mintion sich a
thing!”