Part 28 (1/2)

”Father, and John are going to his trial,” she observed; ”for me I like to be alone;--alone; but when you return to-night, let John break it to me. I'll go now to the garden. I'll walk about to-day--only before you go, John, I want to speak to you.”

Calmly and without a tear, she then left the parlor, and proceeded to the garden, where she began to dress and ornament the hive which contained the swarm that Connor had brought to her on the day their mutual attachment was first disclosed to each other.

”Father,” said John, when she had gone, ”I'm afraid that Una's heart is broken, or if not broken, that she won't survive his conviction long--it's breaking fast--for my part, in her present state, I neither will nor can leave her.”

The affectionate father made no reply, but, putting his handkerchief to his eyes, wept, as did her mother, in silent but bitter grief.

”I cannot spake about it, nor think of it, John,” said he, after some time, ”but we must do what we can for her.”

”If anything happens her,” said the mother, ”I'd never get over it. Oh marciful Savior! how could we live widout her?”

”I would rather see her in tears,” said John--”I would rather see her in outrageous grief a thousand times than in the calm but ghastly resolution with which she is bearing herself up against the trial of this day. If he's condemned to death, I'm afraid that either her health or reason will sink under it, and, in that case, G.o.d pity her and us, for how, as you say, mother, could we afford to lose her? Still let us hope for the best. Father, it's time to prepare; get the car ready. I am going to the garden, to hear what the poor thing has to say to me, but I will be with you soon.”

Her brother found her, as we have said, engaged calmly, and with a melancholy pleasure, in adorning the hive which, on Connor's account, had become her favorite. He was not at all sorry that she had proposed this short interview, for, as his hopes of Connor's acquittal were but feeble, if, indeed, he could truly be said to entertain any, he resolved, by delicately communicating his apprehensions, to gradually prepare her mind for the worst that might happen.

PART V.

On hearing his step she raised her head, and advancing towards the middle of the garden, took his arm, and led him towards the summer--house in which Connor and she had first acknowledged their love.

She gazed wistfully upon it after they entered, and wrung her hands, but still shed no tears.

”Una,” said her brother, ”you had something to say to me; what is it, darling?”

She glanced timidly at him, and blushed.

”You won't be angry with me, John,” she replied; ”would it be proper for me to--to go”--

”What! to be present at the trial? Dear Una, you cannot think of it.

It would neither be proper nor prudent, and you surely would not be considered indelicate? Besides, even were it not so, your strength is unequal to it. No, no, Una dear; dismiss it from your thoughts.”

”I fear I could not stand it, indeed, John, even if it were proper; but I know not what to do; there is a weight like death upon my heart. If I could shed a tear it would relieve me; but I cannot.”

”It is probably better you should feel so, Una, than to entertain hopes upon the matter that may be disappointed. It is always wisest to prepare for the worst, in order to avoid the shock that may come upon us, and which always falls heaviest when it comes contrary to our expectations.”

”I do not at all feel well,” she replied, ”and I have been thinking of the best way to break this day's tidings to me, when you come home. If he's cleared, say, good-humoredly, 'Una, all's lost;' and if--if not, oh, desire me--say to me, 'Una, you had better go to bed, and let yaur mother go with you;' that will be enough; I will go to bed, and if ever I rise from it again, it will not be from a love of life.”

The brother, seeing that conversation on the subject of her grief only caused her to feel more deeply, deemed it better to terminate than to continue a dialogue which only aggravated her sufferings.

”I trust and hope, dear Una,” he said, ”that you will observe my father's advice, and make at least a worthy effort to support yourself, under what certainly is a heavy affliction to you, in a manner becoming your own character. For his sake--for my mother's, and for mine, too, endeavor to have courage; be firm--and, Una, if you take my advice, you'll pray to G.o.d to strengthen you; for, after all, there is no support in the moment of distress and sorrow, like His.”

”But is it not strange, John, that such heavy misfortunes should fall upon two persons so young, and who deserve it so little?”

”It may be a trial sent for your advantage and his; who can say but it may yet end for the good of you both? At present, indeed, there is no probability of its ending favorably, and, even should it not, we are bound to bear with patience such dispensations as the Great Being, to whom we owe our existence, and of whose ways we know so little, may think right to lay upon us. Now, G.o.d bless you, and support you, dear, till I see you again. I must go; don't you hear the jaunting-car driving up to the gate; be firm--dear Una--be firm, and good--by!”

Never was a day spent under the influence of a more terrible suspense than that which drank up the strength of this sinking girl during the trial of her lover. Actuated by a burning and restless sense of distraction, she pa.s.sed from place to place with that mechanical step which marks those who seek for comfort in vain. She retired to her apartment and strove to pray; but the effort was fruitless; the confusion of her mind rendered connection and continuity of thought and language impossible. At one moment she repaired to the scenes where they had met, and again with a hot and aching brain, left them with a shudder that arose from a withering conception of the loss of him whose image, by their a.s.sociation, was at once rendered more distinct and more beloved. Her poor mother frequently endeavored to console her, but became too much affected herself to proceed. Nor were the servants less anxious to remove the heavy load of sorrow which weighed down her young spirit to the earth. Her brief, but affecting reply was the same to each.

”Nothing can comfort me; my heart is breaking; oh, leave me--leave me to the sorrow that's upon, me.”

Deep, indeed, was the distress felt on her account, even by the females of her father's house, who, that day, shed many bitter tears on witnessing the mute but feverish agony of her sufferings. As evening approached she became evidently more distracted and depressed; her head, she said, felt hot, and her temples occasionally throbbed with considerable violence. The alternations of color on her cheek were more frequent than before, and their pallid and carmine hues were more alarmingly contrasted. Her weeping mother took the stricken one to her bosom, and, after kissing her burning and pa.s.sive lips, pressed her temples with a hope that this might give her relief.