HER SECOND LOVE

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 16, 20 April 1905, Page 23

HER SECOND LOVE

Nora MacDermot is apparently lost in deep thought, but nothing moic exhilarating than a field and some grayling cattle seem the subject of tihis unusual pen-si\crn-oss— unuslaal— for Nora is an aethe little hody, and not oitem to be found ' holding sessions of sweet s ilcni thought.' What, then, gnes her sudh food for reflection as she stands abstractedly there at the gate ? Her sclf-commuinrn-g at longtih (irtds expiesisiun in words. ' If it was anything ebe bat a cow, one miig,ht hoar it better. But to think that cows — those " with an eloquent gjesture," have dominion o\er a girl's fate. To think the happiness of our h\es often depends on thorn ' How hateful and stupid they are ! And bow unshakcable ! Poor little Kitty, you had no, cows, only a heart and soul, 'beauty and life. And suie life is now your hardest |gift to keep. Ellen O'Grady had cows— twenty, they say— and so you are left and forgotten, while Terry Lanigan de\otes himself to Ellen and the cows.' With a somewhat impatient gesture Nora turns away, and head bent, goes slowly along the country load towards a little cottage— her home. The slight to net friend, Kitty O'Mara, has nuajde her heart \eiy soic Liie seems dilierent to her to-day. A wind, cold ai.d bitter, has suddenly sprung up in her warm sunlit world. Sne stops abruptly, lias Barny cows ? Oh, yes, he has any amount— at least enough of the hideous animals. Surely he would want no more ? ' For a moment a deeper shadow flits across her face ; she seems as if in physical pam, but she quickly masters heiself, and hurries on, lellectmg. 'No, Bainy wants no cows. llc and Terry are difieient lie is— ah, I can't say what Barny is, but I think my fate at least does not hang on a cow ! ' A pleasant conclusion to sad lefioc lions. Scarcely had she leached the little gate leading to the cottage than a wihistle and the sound of familiar footsteps reached her ear. She stood waiting , the sombre look disappeared as- shadows before the sun, and the bright, gladsome light of lo\ c shone from her fanlittle face. She seemed transfigured. Till to-day shci had not realised what Barny was to her. lie had somehow dnited into her heart unconsciously, unbidden TVday she had seen what' love had done for Kitty, and'had accordingly turned the search-lights on her own heart, and found it caprtne Barny had taken that fair citadel, she sunendered, nor feared betra\?l The light-hearted whistler, coming round a corner, stood in\oluntanly as he caught sight oi Nora, flashing on him as out of a dieam. She stood so still, so restful, in the attitude of sweet unconscious grace— one hand lightly clasping the gate, the other hanging loosely by her Mdc The sunlight streamed anound her, happy in its free embrace. She did not stir or mo\e, but " her deep blue eyes were dreamily fixed on Barny. lie stood a moment as though spell-bound, then advanced quickly towards her. ' Why, Nora, you stood so still and pensne I thought you were a \ision.' 1 Nn, Barny. I was just think m;, and I am not used to it. Never thought before, m fact, but to-day it has taken complete possession of me.' 'It suits you, so take a flose often. Your thoughts were c idently of a pleasant nature' Her hand dropped to her side and she turned away somewhat. ' Like most things— sweet and hitter ' ' The last find no expression, then. But what aic they all about ? May I know '' ' ' Ah, no, at least not now. They are \ague and indefinite/.' 'If you tell me they will take form. Peihaps I could help you, Nora,' in a somewhat too earnest tone 'To think ? ' said Norvi, laughing lightly. ' That is unkind. But where are you going now— to the Milage ? ' 1 Yes. Mv uncle sent for me unexpectedly. This is a husy day, too, but now I am glad I came.' And certainly he looked it. Nora too was feeling very happy, but strangely shy and nervous— perhaps after effects of the ' demon, Thought.' ' Then, perhaps, you had better go now. Mother will want me too those thoughts have kept me idle all the morning. Good-bye,' opening the gate. ' You do change quickly. A moment ago and you looked as- if you meant to s-tay there for ever, and now you are in a desperate huny.' ' You woke me.' ' From pleasant dreams to grim reality ? '

' Not at all ! From grim dreams to pleasant reality,' said Nora, turning to go in. A light springs to the boy's eyes. He was little moie than one, and leaning forward, he quickly catches her hand. ' Thanhs, little Nora, for thai. Good-bye now and God ble.-s } on ! ' He piessts her hand for a moment between his own, then lets it Kill ai.d goes quicl-ly away. \oia .stood a moment still, her bright face flushed aii'l happy. 1 1 "a' ii o M,' <±q Laid. 'My Talc docs not depend on a e<j\v.' « N.iluie has been accused of being unsympathetic— tint is with h'man \ mssitudcs. Why should sne be (Uniwisc when the least little earthly care or distracti,n makes men forgqt her so absolutely. Barny and Noia, as they stroll in the dusky woods arc all unheeding of the twilight splendoi or the mystery of auti. it'll with its blown and crimson tints. F.amy has bi ought Nora here to tell something important, that is how he phrased it , he would more hteially ha\e said, he wanted to break her heart. She, little gnl, is happily expectant ' Bamy, we ate in the depths of the woods and it is getting late. You arc walking at such a pace and have ii-l utte t :ed as> liable for an agre. Why so serioois ?' ' Because, Noia, life is so to me now. It is one gia} tluuil.' She slaits and feels suddenly the evening chill. ' Let us sit on this eld tree and I will tell you all. 'ilus morning my father called me to his room to sneak on business matters Now, as you know, I work the farm and h a \c everything to sec after, but until to-day I did not Know exactly how matters stood. Father told me all With some capital the farm would be made— we w0, .1d prosper. Now father sajs there is only oneway to piocure tjhat— namely, by a good match. He has one in \ie\v for me— Eh/ a Morgan— with money and cattle to boot ' Iheie is a strainpd silence and Nora's, face has grown strangely pale Hut 1 don't know noi want to know Eli7a. I mean at least, I can't e\ er like her. Ah, Nora, for the first tune I icah.se the bitterness of life. "We cannot have everything, ard I lo\e you.' 1 \ni lo\c me 9 ' she says quietly. 1 You know that, Nora ," but what can I do ? Father sa- s the faim must have money. There is only oneway. i\oia, you see we could not marry.' ' Yes. Bainv, that I do see. But you speak as if j o,i assumed I liked you.' 'IJutjou do, Nora; don't you?' he almost pleads. 'A strange question, when you have decided to mairy Miss Morgan. An insult, I take it,' she says, using with quiet dignity, and drawing her shawl tight] v lound her. ' Mira don't e.o like that. I can't bear it. I thought \on did, fot I ha\e always lo\cd you.' She almost laughs at this. ' Speak, and say you forgive me ' ' I;oi what 1 ' For being yourself, and not what I thopgnt you were— a man.' W hat do you mean ? ' ITo go home, now you have told me all. Enough too I think. Good-bye, and I hope and trust you will be lumpy.' ' Nora, if it were only you We could be so happy.' Enough of that, please. Good-bye,' she says. He cal s her once-t v ice-she does not heea 1 As he loses si^ht »-i ncr his head sinks in his hand, his whole frame qi'pets, and he seems as though in keen physical agony. Let it be great and keen and .sharp i H e is the creator ( t Ins own misery. He has made his choice deliberately —let him abide by it. • 'I can't understand what has come over you, Nora. on go about so sad and drooping like, and you'used to be so brighf But to say you don't care to dance. Why I heard }on say not long ago you would walk fifty miles to one.' } ' The weather is hot, mother, and it tires me so ' said Nora in a somewhat weary voice ' 'Tires you i Now if 1 said that it would sound all right, but a yoi.ng girl like you » Nonsense, Nora ! >ou are working too hard and getting depressed You muf-t cro.' ' Very well, mother.' ' Anyone would think it was to a wake you were going, you say it so martyr-like. Are you doing too much, dea,ri c "> You never were strong, and you've lost your bit of color.' 'Oh I am all right. Just a headache. I'll take a walk— the air will cure me.' If only the air would cure her !

Yes, Hhore was a cuange in Nora. Before she was like a sunbeam— one grew unconsciously happy in her presence— but now there were shadows in the deep blue of her eyes, the sweet mouth drooped, the light step lagged. She felt suddenly old ; everything was chill and grey. If she were happy, surely she would be incongruqus in this sad world ? As yet she had only the wisdom, be it great or small, of a simple chilfl-like soul. Love had been very real to her and very sacrod. It was an ideal ; now it was wrecked, and where she had sought light and warmth, she had found only asihes. The shock of disappointment had numbed her — paial>bcd her. AJtor all, she was only a girl ! The night of the dance found her more like her old self. The excitement brought a flush to her cheeks, and sne laughed— none noticed how discordantly— and danced her little feet tired. It is, however, a supreme effort, and at length she feel 9 a great weariness creeping o\er her. The room grows stifling, she longs for air and rest. She has been dancing some moments with Brian O'Donohue, whom she has known as ltng as she can remember, and always looked on as an elder brother. He is a man about thirty, tall, dark, and athletic looking — one whom at the first glance you feel you could trust to the death. ' Brian, can we go outside ? I feel so tired.' ' Forgive me, Nora, I have tired you out. How wnite you have grown ! Come, 1 know a cosy spot in the garden.' He leads her out without saying any more to a remote, quiet little place. For a long time neither speaks. She feels no energy ; he feels his heart too full. Nora has always been his heart's idol, and to-night he has resohed to tell her so. The moment has come, but words fail him. If he dared he would justt lay her bonny dark head on his 'breast and let silence tell what speech can never aaequately. If he dared ? No ! she is but a child, and may not know the mystery of love. At length, leaning forward, he touches one hand — ' Are you better, little dear ?' She starts 1 as one in a dream, and answers quickly, 1 Oh, yes, Brian. I just wanted a breath ; but we need not go in yet, need we ? It is so nice here.' * I should like to stay beside you for ever, Mavourneen, 1 he says in a low voice, taking her hand. ' Tell me, dear, may I love you ; may I care for you and take your dear life into my hands ? I have little to offer yo'i, only love, but surely, my sweetheart, that is the best safeguard and earnest of happiness.' ' Brian, don't say any more. I can't bear it. You arc so good, and I can only give you pain.' 'Is it tears for me ? D'on't Nora. I am not worth one. You don't ]o\e me 7 Well, that is my trial. Peiihaps you may later, when 1 show that mine is.' ' No, Brian. I can never love again, nor do I want to. Listen, my friend, I will tell you all, then you may forgive me ' Briefly she tells her little story. A very little story may contain a heart-break. As She listens her sorrow becomes fiis. Though now the fairest hopes of his life lay withered, thougji there was a strange, dull pain in his heart, he felt no bitterness towards herj no jealousy, only the great unselfish love of a manly nature. What could he do for her ? What could he say ? lie would give his life to shield this little flower of May from the rough winter winds, but the hand of God had placed her mid the storm, with nought save her own true nature to uphold and help her. ' Now, Brian, you have heard all. Of course I do not love him now. Indeed, I never did—only my fancy-drawn picture of him. But is it not a hard thing, to see the clay feet of your ideal ">' He shows his sympathy mutely by a pressure of her hand. ' But, now, Brian, forget what you have flaid tonight, and if you 'do not feel it too hard, love me a little still,' she says with a child-like pathetic ring in her voice that goes to his heart, ' for I want you now more than ever.- ' What I have siaid to-night, Nora, must have been said some time. It was the hope of my life, but that it is not to be does not alter my love. Don't regret that I love you ; none could help that nor would. It has been my eaucation.' They remain some moments in silence, then he rises. 'We had better go in now,' bending over her, he continues in a lower voice, ' remember, to such as me, love comes 'but once. I am yours, heart and soul, for ever. Rome time - my chance may come, but if not, don't blame yourself. Now, little one, remember I am your friena. May God be kind to^?ou, darling.' Nora can say nothing, afce slips her hand in mute

trustfulness through his arm, and as he places his on it he feols) her hot tears fall. They pass again through the darkness. Yes, Nora, in time you must change, you must see the honesty and goodness of this man ; but we know, little girl, how hard it is to build a new Rome on the ashes of the old. * It is a year later. Nora is b.usy gardening ; every now and then turning to reply to her mother's discursive conversation. The latter is sewing at her ease in the porch, and— well, let us say, easing her constien^e ' Come and sit down, child ; you must be tired, always at work like a machine, I declaie.' ' Work is a cure for all ills, mother dear.' 1 Surely you ha"\e no ills or troubles, dearie. Wait till you marry. Oh, child, once I thought you liked Bamy Roche. What a blessing you didn't. As his wife you would learn trouble. But I dare say I needn't have bothered — a Roche wouldn't go where the money wasn't. He wouldn't be his father's son if he did. Althougjh, for the matter of that, most men are the same. A few cows, a bit of land, or a lump of money, with a woman thrown in— old, ugly, or bad-tempered— sorra much matter so long as the has the cash.' A hot flush suffuses Nora's cheek, but her hand is steady as she works. Mrs. MacDermot continues garrulously :' Well, Barny has a nice wife, and no mistake. Bless my heart, she has a tongue ! But, sure, he knew what he was doing, and was able to stock his farm with what her father, old Billy the Bank, made out of lending money to the poor. Well, Barny 'll have the more to spend on drink ; and it won't be long going; that way ; and he used to be such a steady fellow. Well, well, but a nagging tongue fills many a publichouse.' 1 Mother, see how nice these roses have grown,' said Noxa at last trying to change her mother's train of thought. ' Yes, dearie, lovely,' Mrs. MacDermot replies, scarcely looking, determined to unburden herself. ' Nora, what do you think of Brian ? ' 'What do you think of him ?' turning her face from her mother ; ' that he is my best and dearest friend.' ' Right, my dear. lie is a good man — a good, reliable man of sense and— but here is Den.' The opportune appearance of her brother saved Nora from what she felt was about to become an embarrassing conversation. The year had not gone without working its changes in Nora. In it had come that strange transition from girlhood to womanhood, sudden as it was complete. She had acquired a truer, juster estimate of men and things, and above all, had seen and kown the true love of an honest man. This, nerhaps, sa\e)d her from bitterness — kept the iron from entering her soul. Now she can almost smile at her past folly: to love a man who, with scant hesitation, passed her 'by for the sake of a cow or so ! True, once she perceived him in his true colors, she was cured, but then the unveiling had the bitterness of death. ' Mother, I am goirjg to the woods for a while,' she calls to her mother at the cottage door. 1 I must think now,' says Nora to herself. ' I have put it oft so long. It must be done now.' For some time the thought that she begins to care for Brian more than, perhaps, she ought, has been worrying her. She put it aside with impatience ; she will have nothing to do with what men call Love— that Door makebelieve ! When they want wives do they not go to the market ? Yes, such it is, and buy them like cattle? Each has her price. As for her, she was a poor thing— a cheap lot — they would not want her. But in spite of all, Brian has worked himself into her life in his quiet, unobtrusive way, and made himself so \useful with help, counsel, and sympathy, that .he is well-nigh indispensLble. She realises this in a hundred little ways now he is gone. He has been called suddenly on business to Dublin. Before he went he told her when he returned he would have something to say to her —perhaps she knew— and he hoped to meet with kindness. Meanwhile let her think ! He was gone a fortnight, and to-nigiht was coming. ' Now for a think ! ' she says, throwing herself on the grass as she reaches her pet place in the wood. ' After all, tihere is no use : I can't hide it any longer. I must love you, Brian. I must— l must ! May God make me worthy of you,' and for pure happiness she rests- her head on her arm and cries. Suddenly she feels a hana on hers, and a voice calls softly, ' Nora ! ' She looks up startled, thinking she is dreaming. But, no ! There is Brian. On the chance of meeting her alone he has come to her woodland nook. Fortune favors him. ' What is wrong, Nora ; are you troubled ? 'he asks gently.

1 Ah, no, Brian, only happy ! ' In a minute he is Kneeling beside her, and has her hand in his. ' Has my time come, Nora ? Do you care a little ? ' ' Brian, I think it must have been so always ; but when we are very young we are blind. Now I see— ah ! only too well ! You are far too good for me ! ' ' Too good for you, my darling ? Nora, I will Dray to be worthy of your ttfust— worthy of your dear self, and to bring you that happiness Iso longed to give you— my share of the world ! My life begins now.' ■ And mine, also,' Nora stays, happily. Thus, hand in hand, they watch the dying sunlight in the heart of the wood, while the .sun of 'their love riseß in all its radiance, never to set or vanish in the darkness of night. — ' Weekly Freeman.'