Ellen said no more. Patrick did not re-enter the house, but proceeded homeward—to the place which was now doubly home to him, since the home of his childhood was about to be broken up. But the efforts of his mother to change his determination did not cease, and many a half-altercation he had with his family in his now frequent visits. Still, though strongly tempted to yield, he never would give full consent, and the sight of Norah reassured him in his resistance. The few weeks that remained between the fixing upon the purpose of emigration and the day of departure, were a long, long time to Patrick, and a season of sad trouble; and he could not speak with freedom to any of his distress. Norah was high-spirited, and the bare suspicion of the manner in which her name was bandied, and her love for Patrick all but cursed at the house of his father, would have led her to forbid Patrick ever to speak on the subject to her again. With slow reluctance the family gave way to Patrick’s resolute determination, and ceasing unkind reproaches, loaded him with tenderness, that much more affected his determined spirit. The day of parting came at last, and Norah herself proposed that she should accompany her betrothed to take leave of his kindred. It was a dangerous thing for him to suffer, Patrick knew; but how could he avoid it? And what would he have thought of her, too, had she not proposed it?
Unmixed and bitter was the grief with which Patrick’s kindred took leave of him to commence their long journey. They sorrowed as persons who should see his face no more; and without extravagance or hyperbole, the passion of grief which they felt and exhibited may be termed heart-rending. Scarce a word did they give to Norah. The mother looked on her almost with aversion, and the father scarce heeded her presence at all. Ellen only said:
“Cherish him, Norah—love him, for you see what he foregoes for you. God forgive him if he is wrong, and me if he is right.”
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CHAPTER IV.
They were gone. Norah thought it was but natural, at first, that Patrick should be sad, for the interview which she had witnessed made her unhappy too. But she was not well pleased that his gloom continued. Weeks and months passed, and still Patrick had not resumed his former light-heartedness. Nor did there appear any indication of its return to him. The wedding day, to which he once looked forward with continual expectation, and of which, at one time, he daily spoke, he now seemed to dread and scarcely mentioned. And when he did speak of it, it was with a forced appearance of interest. Norah was offended at his coldness, and as he did not press, as formerly, a positive and early date, you may be sure that she did not increase in impatience for the nuptials to which Patrick appeared to be growing daily more indifferent. He thought her ungrateful that she did not duly estimate the sacrifice he had made for her; and she considered him weak-minded that he had over-estimated his affection for her, and undervalued his own kin, and was now repenting. Patrick was indeed more miserable than he had ever been in his life before. Not a word had he heard from his connections in many long months; and what Ellen said to him under the tree before his father’s door, now haunted him—“Shall we plough the seas while you cling to her apron-strings? Will you be easy in your bed, when the mother that loves you is tossed on the sea, and the sister that toiled for you is drowned?” By day these words haunted him, and by night his mother and sister rose out of the sea to come to his bedside. And truly, when he waked in a cold perspiration of terror from these visions, it was hard to persuade him that they were not true; and that the sea had not verily given up its dead to reproach him.
“Norah, dear,” he said at length one evening, as they sat alone, “my heart is broke, so it is.”
She answered with a look in which deep sorrow mingled with all her old affection. Nor did she resist, when he drew her to his side, and placed her head against his bosom. He felt that he could not say what he must when her eyes met his. So she nestled lovingly to him while he sat long in silence. She guessed, but would not ask, what he wished to say, and at length he continued:
“Every morning when I wake it is to hear what they said to me, when I wouldn’t go with them. And every night when I lie down, sure the clatter of that leave-taking drives sleep away. And when the eyes shut for very weariness, and I have cried myself into a troubled slumber, it is no rest. Sometimes my mother comes to me, Norah, and sometimes my sister. I know that they come from the deep, deep sea, for they are all dripping wet. Never a word do they say with their mouths, but their eyes, Norah. God save us, what was that?”
Norah had caught his contagious horror, and clung closer to him, as they both shivered with terror. It was many minutes before Patrick could resume his narrative, but after a trembling pause he proceeded: