Chapter 11

As she pronounced the last words, her voice, which she evidently strove to keep firm, became unsteady.

“That's true, Susan, I know it; but I will never forgive myself for acting a double part to you and to the world. There is not a pang you suffer but ought to fall as a curse upon my head, for leading you into greater confidence, at a time when I was not seriously resolved to fulfil my vows to you.”

“Denis,” said the unsuspecting girl, “you're imposin' on yourself--you never could do so bad, so treacherous an act as that. No, you never could, Denis; an', above all the world, to a heart that loved and trusted you as mine did. I won't believe it, even from your own lips. You surely loved me, Denis, and in that case you couldn't be desateful to me.”

“I did love you; but I never loved you half so well as I ought, Susy; and I never was worthy of you. Susy, I tell you--I tell you--my heart is breaking for your sake. It would have been well for both of us we had never seen, or known, or loved each other; for I know by my own heart what you must suffer.”

“Denis, don't be cast down on my account; before I ever thought of you, when I was runnin' about the glens here, a lonely little orphan, I was often sorry, without knowin' why. Sometimes I used to wonder at it, and search my mind to find out what occasioned it: but I never could. I suppose it was because I saw other girls, like myself, havin' their little brothers an' sisters to play with or because I had no mother's voice to call me night or mornin', or her bosom to lay my head on, if I was sick or tired. I suppose it was this. Many a time, Denis, even then, I knew what sorrow was, and I often thought that, come what would to others, there was sorrow before me. I now find I was right; but for all that, Denis, it's betther that we should give up one another in time, than be unhappy by my bein' the means of turning you from the ways and duties of God.”

The simple and touching picture which she drew of her orphan childhood, together with the tone of resignation and sorrow which ran through all she said, affected Denis deeply.

“Susan,” he replied, “I am much changed of late. The prospect before me is a dark one--a mysterious one. It is not many months since my head was dizzy with the gloomy splendor which the pomps and ceremonies of the Church--soon, I trust, to be restored in this country to all her pride and power--presented to my imagination. But I have mingled with those on whom before this--that is, during my boyhood--I looked with awe, as on men who held vested in themselves some mysterious and spiritual power. I have mingled with them, Susan, and I find them neither better nor worse than those who still look upon them as I once did.”

“Well, but, Denis, how does that bear upon your views?”

“It does, Susan. I said I have found them neither better nor worse than their fellow-creatures; but I believe they are not so happy. I think I could perceive a gloom, even in their mirth, that told of some particular thought or care that haunted them like a spirit. Some of them and not a few, in the moments of undisguised feeling, dissuaded me against ever entering the Church.”

“I am sure they're happy,” said Susan. “Some time ago, accordin' to your own words, you thought the same; but something has turned your heart from the good it was fixed upon. You're in a dangerous time, Denis; and it's not to be wondhered at, if the temptations of the devil should thry you now, in hopes to turn you from the service of God. This is a warnin' to me, too, Denis. May Heaven above forbid that I should be made the means of temptin' you from the duty that's before you!”

“No, Susan, dear, it's not temptation, but the fear of temptation, that prevails with me.”

“But, Denis, surely if you think yourself not worthy to enter that blessed state, you have time enough to avoid it.”

“Ay, but, Susy, there is the difficulty. I am now so placed that I can hardly go back. First, the disgrace of refusing to enter the Church would lie upon me as if I had committed a crime. Again, I would break my father's and my mother's heart: and rather than do that, I could almost submit to be miserable for life. And finally, I could not live in the family, nor bear the indignation of my brothers and other relations. You know, Susan, as well as I do, the character attached to those who put their friends to the expense of educating them for the Church, who raise their hopes and their ambition, and afterwards disappoint them.”

“I know it.”

“This, Susan, dear, prevails with me. Besides, the Church now is likely to rise from her ruins. I believe that if a priest did his duty, he might possibly possess miraculous power. There is great pomp and splendor in her ceremonies, a sense of high and boundless authority in her pastors; there is rank in her orders sufficient even for ambition. Then the deference, the awe, and the humility with which they are approached by the people--ah! Susan, there is much still in the character of a priest for the human heart to covet. The power of saying mass, of forgiving sin, of relieving the departed spirits of the faithful in another world, and of mingling in our holy sacrifices, with the glorious worship of the cherubims, or angels, in heaven--all this is the privilege of a priest, and what earthly rank can be compared to it?”

“None at all, Denis--none at all. Oh, think this way still, and let no earthly temptation--no--don't let--even me--what am I?--a poor humble girl--oh! no, let nothing keep you back from this.”

The tears burst from her eyes, however, as she spoke.

“But, Denis,” she added, “there is one thing that turns my brain. I fear that, even afther your ordination, I couldn't look upon you as I would upon another man. Oh, my heart would break if one improper thought of it was fixed upon you then.”

“Susy, hear me. I could give up all, but you. I could bear to disappoint father, mother, and all; but the thought of giving you up for ever is terrible. I have been latterly in a kind of dream. I have been among friends and relatives until my brain was turned; but now I am restored to myself, and I find I cannot part with you. I would gladly do it; but I cannot. Oh, no, Susan, dear, my love for you was dimmed by other passions; but it was not extinguished. It now burns stronger and purer in my heart than ever. It does--it does. And, Susan, I always loved you.”

Susan paused for some time, and unconsciously plucked a wild flower 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!”