It was at the close of a somewhat long disquisition upon the comparative merits of Ireland and the Garden of Eden,—in which, I am bound to say, the balance inclined to the former,—that the Padre, as if struck by a sudden thought, remarked,—
“You are the very first of your nation I ever met in a frame of mind disposed to melancholy! I have just been running over, to myself, all the Irishmen I ever knew, and I cannot recall one that had a particle of gloom or sorrow about him.”
“Nor had I, Father,” said I, with emotion; “nor did I know what sorrow was, till three days back! I was light-hearted and happy; the world went well with me, and I was content with the world. I will not trouble you with my story; enough when I say that I came abroad to indulge a taste for adventure and enterprise, and that the New World has not disappointed my expectations. If I spent money a little too freely, an odd grumble or so from 'the governor' was the darkest cloud that shaded my horizon. An only son, perhaps I pushed that prerogative somewhat too far; but our estate is unencumbered, and my father's habits are the reverse of extravagant,—for a man of his class, I might call them downright rustic in simplicity. Alas! why do I think of these things? I have done with them forever.”
“Nay, nay, you must not give way thus. It is very unlikely that one young as you are can have any real guilt upon his conscience.”
“Not yet, Father,” said I, with a shudder,—“not yet; but who can tell how it may be with me to-morrow or next day? What a different answer should I have to give your question then!”
“This is some fancy,—some trick of a warm and ill-regulated imagination, my son.”
“It is the language my heart pours from my lips,” said I, grasping his hand as if with irrepressible emotion. “I have a heavy crime here—here!” and I struck my breast violently; “and if it be as yet unaccomplished, the shadow of the guilt is on me already.”
“Sit still, my son, sit still, and listen to me,” said he, restraining me, as I was about to rise. “To whom can you reveal these mysterious terrors more fittingly than to me? Be candid; tell me what weighs upon your heart. It may be that a mere word of mine can give you courage and calm.”
“That cannot be,” said I, firmly; “you speak in kindness, but you know not what you promise. I am under a vow, Father,—I am under a vow.”
“Well, my son, there are many vows meritorious. There are vows of penitence, and of chastity, and of abstinence—”