“As for my part,” continued Connor, “what is the world to me now, that I've lost her? It is—it is a hard and a dark fate, but why it should fall upon us I do not know. It's as much as I can do to bear it as I ought.”
“Well, well,” replied John, “don't dwell too much on it. I have something else to speak to you about.”
“Dwell on it!” returned the other; “as God is above me, she's not one minute out of my thoughts; an' I tell you, I'd rather be dead this minute, than forget her. Her memory now is the only happiness that is left to me—my only wealth in this world.”
“No,” said John, “it is not. Connor, I have now a few words to say to you, and I know they will prove whether you are as generous as you are said to be; and whether your love for iny sister is truly tender and disinterested. You have it now in your power to ease her heart very much of a heavy load of concern which she feels on your account. Your father, you know, is now a ruined man, or I should say a poor man. You are going out under circumstances the most painful. In the country to which you are unhappily destined, you will have no friends—and no one living feels this more acutely than Una; for, observe me, I am now speaking on her behalf, and acting in her name. I am her agent. Now Una is richer than you might imagine, being the possessor of a legacy left her by our grandfather by my father's side. Of this legacy, she herself stands in no need—but you may and will, when you reach a distant country. Now, Connor, you see how that admirable creature loves you—you see how that love would follow you to the uttermost ends of the earth. Will you, or rather are you capable of being as generous as she is?—and can you show her that you are as much above the absurd prejudice of the world, and its cold forms, as he ought to be who is loved by a creature so truly generous and delicate as Una? You know how very poorly she is at present in health; and I tell you candidly, that your declining to accept this as a gift and memorial by which to remember her, may be attended with very serious consequences to her health.”
Connor kept his eyes fixed upon the speaker, with a look of deep and earnest attention; and as O'Brien detailed with singular address and delicacy these striking proofs of Una's affection, her lover's countenance became an index of the truth with which his heart corresponded to the noble girl's tenderness and generosity. He seized O'Brien's hand.
“John,” said he, “you are worthy of bein' Una's brother, and I could say nothing higher in your favor; but, in the mane time, you and she both know that I want nothing to enable me to remember her by. This is a proof, I grant you, that she loves me truly; but I knew that as well before, as I do now. In this business I cannot comply with her wish an' yours, an' you musn't press me. You, I say, musn't press me. Through my whole life I have never lost my own good opinion; but if I did what you want me now to do, I couldn't respect myself—I would feel lowered in my own mind. In short, I'd feel unhappy, an' that I was too mane to be worthy of your sister. Once for all, then, I cannot comply in this business with your wish an' hers.”
“But the anxiety produced by your refusal may have very dangerous effects on her health.”
“Then you must contrive somehow to consale my refusal from her till she gets recovered. I couldn't do what you want me; an' if you press me further upon it, I'll think you don't respect me as much as I'd wish her brother to do. Oh, God of Heaven!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands, “must I lave you, my darling Una, forever? I must, I must! an' the drame of all we hoped is past—but never, never, will she lave my heart! Her eye dim, an' her cheek pale! an' all forme—for a man covered with shame and disgrace! Oh, John, John, what a heart!—to love me in spite of all this, an' in spite of the world's opinion along with it!”
At this moment one of the turnkeys entered, and told him that his mother and a young lady were coming up to see him.
“My mother!” he exclaimed, “I am glad she is come; but I didn't expect her till the day after to—morrow. A young lady! Heavens above, what young lady would come with my mother?”