If we opened the garden door we entered a verdant wilderness of paths crossing one another; and each was (and there lay the charm) in itself a solitude. Country lanes may break the grand lines of a landscape; but, in the neighbourhood of a great and crowded city, every glimpse of nature is pleasant and lovely. I remember the sense of serene happiness I felt in walking out with Kate in the early morning, along a quiet path; now, alas! crowded with villas, but then called "Nightingale lane," and sheltered on one side by a cheerful orchard, with its white and fragrant blossoms in Spring, or its bending fruit in Autumn, glittering in the rising sun; and, on the other, screened by a row of elms, whose ancient roots grasped earth in the tenacious hold of ages, and whose broad base young green shoots veiled with a tender grace. The horizon on our left was bounded by an old park, a stately, motionless grove of beech-trees, above which, bending to every breeze, rose a few tall and graceful poplars; to our right, hidden in its garden, lay our humble home. Kate, reading her favourite Thomas ? Kempis, walked on, her eyes bent on the page; I followed more slowly, reading, child though I was, from the Divine book man cannot improve, and vainly tries to mar.
Between the path and the hedge which enclosed the orchard, lay a broad ditch. There grew green grasses, that bent to the breeze like forests, and beneath which flowed a faint thread of water, the river of that small world, peopled with nations of insects, and which to me possessed both attraction and beauty. For there the ground-ivy trailed along the earth, its delicate blue flowers hidden by fresh leaves; there rose the purple bugle, the stately dead-nettle, with its broad leaves and white whorls, and grew the cheerful celandine, bright buttercups, the sunny dandelion, the diminutive shepherd's purse, the starry blossoms of the chickweed, the dark bitter-sweet with its poisonous red berries, the frail and transparent flowers of the bindweed, sheltered in the prickly hedge like shy or captive beauties, with every other common weed and plant which man despises, and God disdained not to fashion.
My communion with nature, though restricted, was very sweet. I was debarred from her wildness and grandeur, but I became all the more familiar with those aspects which she takes around human homes. And is there not a great charm in the very way in which man and nature meet? The narrow garden, its flowers and shrubs so tenderly protected and cared for, the ivy that clings around the porch, the grass that half disputes the little beaten path, have a half wild, half domestic grace, I have often felt as deeply, as the romantic beauty of ancient glens, where mountain torrents make a way through pathless solitudes. My world might seem narrow, but I never found it so whilst the deep skies, with all their changes, spread above to tell of infinity, and the sweet and mysterious song of free birds, under distant cover, allured thought away to many a green and shady bower.
Not less pleasant to me were the autumn evenings. They still stand forth on the background of memory, as vivid and minutely distinct as the home scenes, by light of lamp or fire-flame, which the old masters like to paint. Cornelius loved music and poetry, those two glorious gifts of God to man. He played and sang with taste, and read well. When the piano was closed, he took down some favourite volume from the bookcase, and gave us a few scenes from Shakspeare, a grand passage from Milton, a calm meditative page from Wordsworth. Sometimes he opened AEschylus, Sophocles, or Euripides, and, translating freely, transported us into a world gone by, but beautiful and human in its passions and sorrows. Miss O'Reilly listened attentively; then, after hearing some fine fragment from the Bound Prometheus, some stirring description from the Seven against Thebes, she would look up from her work and say, with mingled wonder and admiration—
"That is grand, Cornelius!"
"Is it not?" he would reply, with kindling glance, for they both had the same strong admiration for the heroic and great.
I should have been very happy, but for one drawback. It was natural, perhaps, that having been reared by my father, and never having known my mother, I should attach myself to Cornelius in preference to his sister. But in vain I strove to win his attention and favour; in vain I ran, not merely on his bidding, but on a word and on a look; gave him his hat and gloves in the morning; watched for him every fine evening at the garden gate; followed him about the house like his shadow, sat when he sat, happy if I could but catch his eye; in vain I showed him how devotedly fond I was of him; he treated me with the most tantalizing mixture of kindness, carelessness, and indifference. Half the time, he did not seem to see me about the house; when he became conscious that I existed, he gave me a careless nod and smile. If I did anything for him he thanked me, and stroked my hair; yet if I looked unwell, he was quick to notice it. He occasionally made me small presents of books and toys, and every evening he devoted several hours to the task of teaching me. I worked hard to give him satisfaction, but he only took this as a matter of course; called me a good child, and, as I was quiet and silent, generally allowed me to sit somewhere near him for the rest of the evening, and this was all: he seldom caressed, he never kissed me.
With his sister Cornelius was very different, and I felt the contrast keenly. He loved her tenderly; he was proud of her beauty; he liked to call her his handsome Kate, to talk and jest with her, and often, too, to sit by her and caress her with a fondness more filial than brotherly; whilst I looked on, not merely unheeded, but wholly forgotten.
Of course I was still less thought of, when, as happened occasionally, evening visitors dropped in. I remember a dark-eyed Miss Hart, who kept up a gay quarrel with Cornelius, and of whom I was miserably jealous, until, to my great satisfaction, she got married and went into the country; also a bald and learned Mr. Mountford, whom I disliked heartily for keeping Cornelius to himself, but who, in a lucky hour, having made an offer to Kate and being rejected, came no more; likewise Mr. Leopold Trim, whom I detested on the score of his own merits.
As I entered the front parlour on a mild autumn afternoon which I had spent in the garden, I found Miss O'Reilly entertaining him and another gentleman. Mr. Trim sat by the fire in his usual attitude: that is to say, with his hands benevolently resting on his knees, his little eyes peering about the room, and his capacious mouth good-naturedly open.
"Eh! little Daisy!" he said, in his warm husky voice, "and how are you, little Daisy, eh?"
He stretched out an arm—long, for so short a man—and attempted to seize on me for the kind purpose of bestowing a kiss; but I eluded his grasp, and took refuge behind Miss O'Reilly's chair, whence I looked at him rather ungraciously. Mr. Trim took this as an excellent joke, threw himself back in his chair, shut his little eyes, opened his mouth wider, and gave utterance to a boisterous "Ha! ha!" that ended all at once in a strange sort of squeak. Miss O'Reilly frowned; she never heard that laugh with patience.
"Daisy," she said, "go and shake hands with Mr. Smalley, an old friend ofCornelius."
I was shy, but that name had a spell; I obeyed it at once. Morton Smalley was a pale, slender, and good-looking young clergyman, with a stoop, and a long neck; he seemed amiable, and might be said to look meekly into the world through a pair of gold spectacles and over an immaculate white neckcloth. He sat on the edge of his chair, nervously holding his hat; yet when I went up to him, he held out his hand with a smile so kind, and looked at me so benignantly through his glasses, that my shyness vanished at once.
"That Smalley always was a lucky fellow with the ladies," ejaculated Mr.Trim, once more peering round the room with his hands on his knees.
Mr. Smalley blushed rosy red at the imputation.
"A very wild fellow he used to be, I assure you, Ma'am,—ha! ha!"
"My dear Trim," nervously began Mr. Smalley.
"Now, don't Smalley," deprecatingly interrupted Leopold Trim,—"don't be severe; you always are so confoundedly severe."
"Not in an unchristian manner, I hope," observed Mr. Smalley, looking uncomfortable.
"As ifImeant any harm!" continued Mr. Trim, looking low-spirited; "as if any one minded the jokes of a good-natured fellow likeme!"
Mr. Smalley looked remorseful.
"Don't be afraid of me, my dear," he said to me, "I am very fond of little girls."
"Oh! I am not afraid," I replied, confidently; for he did not look as if he could hurt a fly.
Mr. Smalley brightened, and began questioning me; I answered readily. He looked surprised and said—
"You are really very well informed, my dear."
"It is Cornelius who teaches me," I replied proudly.
"Then my wonder ceases. We were all proud of your brother, Ma'am," observed Mr. Smalley, addressing Kate, "and grateful—"
"For fighting all your battles—eh, Smalley?" kindly interrupted Mr.Trim.
Mr. Smalley coloured, but subdued the carnal man, to answer meekly—
"I objected on principle to the unchristian encounters which take place amongst boys, and I certainly owed much to the superior physical strength of our valued friend."
"Lord, Smalley! how touchy you are!" exclaimed Mr. Trim, with mournful surprise.
"Not in this case, surely," Mr. Smalley anxiously replied; "how could I take your remarks unkindly, when you know it was actually with you our dear friend had that first little affair—"
"It is very well for you, who looked on, to call it a little affair," rather sharply interrupted Mr. Trim, "but I never got such a drubbing."
Kate laughed gaily. Mr. Smalley, finding he had unconsciously been sarcastic, looked confounded, and tried to get out of it by suddenly finding out that when Miss O'Reilly laughed she was very like her brother. But Mr. Trim was on him directly. He, as every one knew, was as blind as a bat; but how did it happen that Smalley, who wore glasses, and pretended to have weak eyes, could yet see well enough to discover likenesses? He put the question with an air of injured candour. Mr. Smalley protested that his eyes were weak; but Mr. Trim proved to him so clearly that he was physically and mentally as sharp-eyed as a lynx, that his friend gave in, a convicted impostor, and took refuge in the Dorsetshire curacy to which he was proceeding, and of which he gave an account that might have answered for a bishopric. But thither too, Mr. Trim pursued him, and broadly hinted at the selfishness of some people, who could think of nothing but that which concerned them. Upon which Mr. Smalley, looking at Kate, declared in self-defence that it was not through indifference, but from a sense of discretion, he had not inquired in what branch of literature, science, or art, her brother was now distinguishing himself. Miss O'Reilly reddened, and looked indignantly at Mr. Trim, who, with his eyes shut and his hands on his knees, had suddenly dropped into a doze by the fire-side. Then she drew up her slender figure, and said stiffly—
"My brother is a clerk, Sir."
Mr. Smalley looked at her with mute and incredulous surprise.
"Don't you remember I told you?" observed Mr. Trim, wakening up: "we were turning the corner of Oxford-street."
Mr. Smalley remembered turning the corner of Oxford-street, but no more.
"Yes, yes," confidently resumed Mr. Trim, "we were turning the corner of Oxford-street, when I said to you, 'Is it not a shame a scholar, a genius like O'Reilly, should be perched up on a high stool in a dirty hole of an office—'"
"It was his own choice," interrupted Kate, and she began speaking of the weather.
Five struck; I stole out of the room, went to the garden, and opening the door, stood on the threshold to watch for Cornelius. I soon saw him, and ran out to meet him.
"Mr. Trim is come," I said.
"Is he?" was the careless reply.
"And Mr. Smalley, too."
Cornelius uttered a joyful exclamation, and hastened in, leaving me the door to close. The greeting of the two friends was not over when I entered the parlour. They stood in a proximity that rendered more apparent Mr. Smalley's feminine slenderness as contrasted with the erect and decided bearing of Cornelius, who, although much younger, had, as if by the intuitive remembrance of their old relation of protector and protected, laid his hand on the shoulder of his former school-fellow, looking down at him with a pleased smile.
"Don't you think he's grown?" asked Mr. Trim.
"More than you," was the short reply.
"How muchyouare altered!" said Mr. Smalley, surveying his friend with evident admiration.
"And so are you," replied Cornelius, glancing at his clerical attire: "I congratulate you."
The Reverend Morton Smalley coloured a little, and, with a proud and happy smile, replied, gently squeezing the hand of Cornelius—
"Thank you, my dear friend; I have indeed obtained the privilege of entering our beloved Church—"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Mr. Trim, peering around, "Smalley always liked the ladies,—ha! ha!"
Mr. Smalley reddened and looked hurt, like a lover who hears his mistress slighted. Cornelius, who still stood with his hand on the shoulder of his friend, slowly turned towards Mr. Trim, to say, in a tone of ice—
"Did you speak, Trim?"
Mr. Trim opened his eyes with an alarmed start, as if he rather expected a sort of sequel to "the little affair" of their early days.
"Why, it is only a joke," he hastily replied; "I like a joke, you know; but who mindsme?"
Before Cornelius could answer, Miss O'Reilly closed the discussion by ringing for tea. Mr. Trim, who now seemed gathered up into himself, like a snail in his shell, drank six cups in profound silence, then went back to the fireside, where, shutting his eyes, he indulged in a nap. Miss O'Reilly was as silent as a hostess could well be. I sat near her, unnoticed, but attentive.
Both during and after the meal the conversation was left to Cornelius and his friend. They spoke of Mr. Smalley's prospects; of the Dorsetshire curacy, on which he again dweltcon amore;they talked of old times, laughed over old jokes, and exchanged information concerning old companions and school-fellows, now scattered far and wide.
"What has become of Smith?" asked Cornelius.
"He is in the army."
"And Griffiths in the navy. You know that Blake is a physician, atManchester?"
"Yes, and Reed has turned gentleman-farmer—is going to marry—"
"And lead a pastoral life. I am glad they are all doing well."
"Smalley!" observed Mr. Trim, wakening up, "tell O'Reilly you think it a shame for a fine fellow like him to poke in an office."
"Et tu Brute!" exclaimed Cornelius, turning round to Mr. Smalley, who replied, a little embarrassed—
"I confess I was surprised—"
"What did you expect from me?"
"Well, remembering your argumentative powers and flow of speech—"
"The law! Smalley, do you, a clergyman, advise me to set unfortunate people by the ears?"
Mr. Smalley looked startled, and took refuge in the healing art.
"The medical profession affords opportunities of benevolence—"
"And of being called up at two in the morning, to the relief of apoplectic gentlemen and ladies in distress."
"Shall I then suggest the army?"
"Would you advise me to make fighting a profession?"
"I fear the navy is open to the same objection," gently observed Mr. Smalley; but he suddenly brightened, laid one hand on the arm of Cornelius, and, raising the forefinger of the other, to impress on him the importance of the discovery, he said earnestly, "My dear friend, how odd it is that you should have forgotten the wide world of science, literature, and art, for which you are so wonderfully gifted!"
"Am I?" carelessly replied Cornelius. He sat on the hearth, facing the fire; he stooped, took up the poker, and began to drive in the coals, much in his sister's way.
"Why, you are a first-rate scholar."
"Learning is worthless now. Besides, cannot I enjoy my old authors without driving bargains out of them?"
"But science?"
"I have no patience for it; then it is hard work, and I am indolent."
"And literature?"
"Bid me become one of the builders of the Tower of Babel," hastily interrupted Cornelius. "No, Smalley, the office, with its paltry salary, moderate labour, and, heaven be praised for it, its absence from care, is the thing for me." He laid down the poker, and reclined back in his chair with careless indolence. Mr. Smalley slowly rubbed his forehead with his forefinger, and looked at Cornelius through his glasses and over his neckcloth, with a gently puzzled air. Then he turned to Miss O'Reilly, and said simply—
"Your brother's philosophy puts me to shame, Ma'am: yet I used to think him ambitious, and I remember that once—I mean no reflection—one of the older boys having doubted his ability to—to do something or other—our dear friend being somewhat hasty, pushed him so that he fell."
"Say I knocked him down," replied Cornelius, reddening and trying to laugh. "Well, those days are gone, and with them the knocking-down propensity, as well as the ambition: I have become as meek and lowly as a lamb."
He threw back his head with the clear keen look of a hawk, and a curl of the lip implying no great degree of meekness.
"Yes," quietly said Kate from her corner, "the child is not always father of the man."
Cornelius bit his lip; Mr. Trim, who was again napping, woke up with aHa! ha! Then, standing up to look at the clock on the mantelpiece, askedMr. Smalley "if he called this Christian conduct."
"You know," he added with feeling reproach, "that we have that appointment at seven with Jameson, that I am half blind, the most unfortunate fellow for dozing and forgetting, whilst you always have your wits about you, and are quite a telescope for seeing. Oh! Smalley!" He shook his head at him, peering around the room with eyes that looked smaller than ever. Mr. Smalley attempted a justification on the score of not remembering that the appointment had been made; but Leopold Trim hinted that it was too much to expect him to believe that; though, having been always more or less victimized and imposed upon by Smalley, he was getting used to it. Mr. Smalley expressed his penitence by rising at once, and this brought their visit to an abrupt close. The door was scarcely shut on them, when Miss O'Reilly, poking the fire with great vigour and vivacity, looked up at Cornelius and said—
"I don't believe in Trim; I don't believe in his voice; in his bark and whistle laugh: in his eyes or in his dozing: I don't believe in him at all."
"But Smalley?"
"He is a good young man," she replied impressively.
"Cornelius is a great deal better," I put in, quickly; "he fought for Mr.Smalley, who never fought for him."
"Did you ever hear such a conclusion!" exclaimed Miss O'Reilly, laying down the poker; "fighting made the test of excellence! You naughty girl! don't you see Mr. Smalley was a Christian lad, and Cornelius a young heathen?"
"I like the heathens," was my reply, more prompt than orthodox: "they were always brave; Achilles was, and so was Hector," I added, with a shy look at Cornelius, whom I had secretly identified with the Trojan hero.
Hector laughed, and told me to bring the books for the lessons. I remember that I answered him particularly well,—so well, that his sister asked if I was not progressing.
"Very much," he carelessly replied. "Kate, what has become of that 'Go where Glory waits thee'?"
"I really don't know. Child, what are you about?" I was on my knees, hunting through the music, ardent and eager to find the piece he wanted. He allowed me to search, and sat down by his sister.
"Cornelius, here it is," I said, standing before him with the piece of music in my hand.
"Thank you, put it there. Kate, Smalley is smitten with you!"
"Nonsense, boy, go and sing your song."
He laughed; rose and kissed her blooming cheek. He had never so much as looked at me. Whilst he sang, I sat at the end of the piano as usual; when he closed the instrument and went to the sofa, I followed him and drew my stool at the foot of the couch. There he indolently lay for awhile; then suddenly started up, and walked, or rather lounged about the room, looking at the books on the table, at the flowers in the stand, and talking to his sister. I rose, and, unperceived as I thought, I followed him quietly; walking when he walked, stopping when he stopped, and waiting for the favourable moment to catch a look and obtain, perhaps, a negligent caress.
"It is most extraordinary," exclaimed Miss O'Reilly, who had been watching me.
"What is extraordinary, Kate?"
"How that child persists in sneaking after you, as if she were a little spaniel and you were her master!"
"Is she not gone to bed yet?" asked Cornelius, turning round to give me a surprised look.
"She is going," replied Miss O'Reilly, rising and taking my hand: "early to bed and early to rise. By the bye, Cornelius, do try and get up earlier. It is too bad to keep breakfast as you do until near nine every morning, with the tea not worth drinking, and the ham getting cold with waiting."
She spoke with some solemnity. He laughed, and promised to amend, throwing the whole fault on "that dreadful indolence of his."
But he did not amend; for though the next morning was bright and sunny as an autumn morning can be, eight struck, and yet Cornelius did not come down, to the infinite detriment of tea and ham. This was but the repetition of a long-standing offence, until then patiently endured; but Miss O'Reilly now put by patience; she looked at the clock, gave the fire a good poke, and, knitting her smooth brow, exclaimed—
"I should like to know why it is that Cornelius will persist in getting up late!"
She was not addressing me; it was rather one of her peculiarities—and she had many—to soliloquize, and I was accustomed to it; but I now raised my eyes from the grammar I was studying, and, looking at her, I listened. She detected this.
"Did you ever see anything like it?" she emphatically observed, questioning that unknown individual with whom she often held a sort of interrogative discourse; "why, if that child were fast asleep, and you only whispered my brother's name, she would wake up directly. Oh! Midge, Midge!" She shook her head as though scarcely approving a feeling so exclusive, and gave the fire a slow meditative thrust. The clock, by striking half-past eight, roused her from her abstraction.
"Daisy," she said very seriously, "go and knock at the door of Cornelius, and tell him the hour." I obeyed; that is to say, I went upstairs; but I found the door standing wide open, and the room vacant, so I proceeded to the little study, thinking Cornelius might perhaps be there. I knocked at the door and received no answer; I knocked again with the same result. Then I perceived that the door was not quite shut, but stood ajar; I gently pushed it open and looked in. The little table was not in its usual place; it stood so as to receive the most favourable degree of light; before it sat Cornelius in a bending attitude, and, as I saw at a glance, drawing from one of the plaster casts.
So intent was Cornelius on his occupation that he never heard or saw me, until I observed, somewhat timidly, "Cornelius, Kate sent me up to tell you that it is half-past eight o'clock."
He looked up with a sudden start that nearly upset the table, and sharply exclaimed, "Why did you come in without knocking?"
"I knocked twice, Cornelius, but you did not answer."
"If you had knocked ten times, you had no right to open that door and enter this room."
"Cornelius, the door was open," I said very earnestly, for he looked quite vexed, with his face flushed, and his brow knit.
"Oh, was it?" he replied, smoothing down. He looked hastily at the drawing on the table, then gave me a quick glance, read in my face that I had seen it, and, taking a sudden resolve, he said, "Come in, and shut the door."
I obeyed. When I stood by his side, Cornelius laid his hand on my head, and gazing very earnestly in my eyes, he said, "You look as if you could keep a secret. Do you know what a secret is?"
"Yes, Cornelius, I do."
"Then keep mine for me. You see I am drawing. I rise every morning with dawn, to draw; but I do not want Kate to know it just yet,—not until I have done something worth showing. This is the secret you will have to keep; do you understand?"
"Oh yes," I confidently answered.
"How will you manage?"
"I shall not tell her," was my prompt reply.
"Why, of course," he said, smiling; "but not to tell is only the first step in keeping a secret. The next, and far more difficult, is not to let it appear that there is a secret. This shall be the test of your discretion."
He removed every trace of his late occupation, and accompanied me downstairs. Miss O'Reilly was not in the parlour; but when she came in she gave her brother a good scolding, which he bore patiently. When he rose to go I handed him his hat as usual; as he took it from my hand, he stooped, and whispered, "Remember!"
He was no sooner gone than Kate, turning to me, said, with a puzzled smile, "Daisy! what was it Cornelius whispered so mysteriously?"
I hung down my head.
"Did you hear me?"
"Yes, Kate."
"Then answer, child." Again I was mute. Kate laid down her work and beckoned me to her.
"Is it a secret?" she asked, gravely.
"I don't say it is, Kate," I replied eagerly.
"Then answer." I was obstinately silent.
"Will you tell me?" she asked, much incensed.
"No," I resolutely replied.
She rose in great wrath, and consigned me to the back-parlour for the rest of the day. Never did punishment sit so lightly on me. Towards dusk Miss O'Reilly opened the door, that I might not feel quite alone. Cornelius came home much later than usual; I sat in the dark, but I could see him; he had thrown himself down on the sofa; the light of the lamp fell full on his face; his look wandered around the room in search of me.
"She has been naughty," gravely said his sister; and she proceeded to relate my offence.
"She would not tell you?" he observed.
"No, indeed! I tried her again in the afternoon; but she stood before me, white with stubbornness, her lips quite closed, hanging down her head, and as mute as a stone."
"She is a peculiar child," quietly said Cornelius, and I could see his gaze seeking to pierce the gloom in which I had lingered.
"Peculiar! you had better call it originality."
Cornelius laughed; and half raising himself up on one elbow, summoned me in with a "Come here, Daisy!" that quickly brought me to his side. He pushed back the hair from my forehead, looked into my face, and said, gravely, "She looks stubborn; I see it in her eyes, and yet what wonderfully fine eyes they are, Kate!"
"Eyes, indeed!" was her indignant rejoinder. "Daisy, go back to your room."
I turned away to obey, but Cornelius called me back.
"Let me try my power," he said to his sister; then to me, "Daisy, tellKate what I whispered to you."
"Remember!" was my ready reply.
"How can you call her stubborn?" asked Cornelius.
"Remember—what?" inquired Kate; "there, do you see how she won't answer?"
"You obstinate child!" said Cornelius, smiling, "don't you see I mean you to speak? Say all; tell Kate why I bade you remember."
"I was not to tell you that I had found him drawing," I said, turning toMiss O'Reilly.
Her work dropped on her knees; she turned very pale; her look, keen and troubled, at once sought the calm face of her brother, who had again sunk into his indolent attitude, with his hand carelessly smoothing my hair. Miss O'Reilly tried to look composed, and observed, in a voice which all her efforts could not prevent from being tremulous and low, "Oh! you were drawing, Cornelius, were you?"
"Yes," he carelessly replied, "it amuses me in the morning."
"Oh, it amuses you very much, Cornelius?"
"Why, yes."
She took up her work; laid it down, rose, went up to her brother, and standing before him said, resolutely, "Cornelius, tell me the truth."
He sat up, and making her sit down by him, he calmly observed, "Why do you look so frightened, Kate?"
"The truth!" she exclaimed, almost passionately, "the truth!"
"You have had it."
"What does that morning drawing mean?"
"You know it."
"You mean to become an artist?"
"I am an artist," he replied, drawing himself up slightly.
She rocked herself to and fro, looking at her brother drearily. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, with earnest tone and look—
"Kate, I know all you dread; there are obstacles; I see them, and I will conquer them. Obstacles! why if there were none, would anything in this world be worth the winning?"
He had begun calmly; he ended with strange warmth and vehemence, throwing back his head with the presumptuous but not ungraceful confidence of youth. His look was daring, his smile full of trust; to both his sister responded by a mournful glance dimmed with tears.
"You had promised—" she began.
"Not to give it up for ever, Kate," he interrupted; "I have kept my promise, I have tried not to draw; I might as well try not to breathe."
"I know now why you took that paltry situation; you did not mean to stop there."
"No, indeed, Kate."
"I always knew you were ambitious."
"So I am."
"A nice mistress Fame will make you, my poor brother! Oh yes, very!"
"I won't make a mistress of her, Kate; she is too much used to that; she shall be my hand-maiden."
"First catch her!" shortly replied his sister.
He laughed good-humouredly; she gave a deep, impatient sigh.
"I know I must seem harsh," she said, "but our father's death—of a broken heart—is always before me. You are very like him in person and temper; for God's sake be not like him in destiny! I know painting; once it has taken hold of a man's mind, soul and being, he must either win or perish. Love is nothing to it. I would rather see you in love with ten girls."
"At a time?" interrupted Cornelius, looking shocked. "Am I a Turk?"
"You foolish boy, is a Turk ever in love? I mean I would rather see you wasting, in successive follies, the best years of your youth, than see you a painter. There comes a time, when, of his own accord, a man gives up passion; but when does the unlucky wight who has once begun to write poetry or paint pictures give them up?"
"Never, unless he never loved them," replied Cornelius, with a triumphant smile; "poetry or painting, which I hold to be far higher, becomes part of a man's being, and follows him to the grave. But it is a desecration to speak of it as a human passion. I am not hard-hearted; but if Venus in all her charms, or, to use a stronger figure of speech, if one of Raffaelle's divine women were to become flesh and blood for my sake, and implore me to return her passion—"
"Why you would of course; don't make yourself out more flinty than you are; it would not take one of Raffaelle's women to do that either."
"Hear me out: if to win this lovely creature I should give up painting, not for ever, not for ten years, nor yet five, but just for one year,— Kate, she might walk back to her canvas."
"Conceited fellow!" indignantly said Kate, divided between vexation at his predilection for Art, and the slight thrown on her sex.
"It is not conceit, Kate; it is the superior attraction of Art over passion. How is it you do not see there is and can be nothing like painting pictures?" Kate groaned. "It beats all else hollow,—poetry, music, ambition, war, and love, which is held master of all. Alexander, unhappy man! wept because he had no more worlds to win. Did Apelles ever weep for having no more pictures to paint? Paris carried off Helen to Troy, which was taken after a ten years' siege. Imagine Paris an artist; he paints Helen under a variety of attitudes: Menelaus benevolently looking on; little Hermione plays near her mamma; Troy stands in the distance, with Priam on the walls; everything peace and harmony.—Moral: if fine gentlemen would take the portraits, and not the persons of fair ladies, we should not hear so much of invaded hearths and affairs of honour."
"Will you talk seriously?" impatiently said Kate.
"As seriously as you can wish," he replied gravely. "What do you fear for me? It is late to begin, but I have been working hard these two years. What about our poor father? many a great painter has been the son of a disappointed artist. What even about the difficulty of winning fame? I am ambitious, not so much to be famous, as to do great things. There is the aim of a life; there is the glorious victory to win."
His handsome face had never looked half so handsome: it expressed daring, power, hope, ardour, all that subdues the future to a man's will.
"I tell you," he resumed, with a short triumphant laugh, "that I shall succeed. I feel the power within me; I shall give fame to the name of O'Reilly, stuff your pockets with money, charm your eyes with fair forms; in short I shall conquer Art."
He passed his arm around his sister's neck, and gave her a warm kiss. She half smiled.
"That always was the way," she said, with a sigh: "I argued; you talked me out of my better knowledge, and then you would put your arm around my neck, and—"
"There was no resisting that, Kate; but then I looked up, and now I look down."
"Yes, you are a man now," she replied, looking at him with an admiring smile, "and the O'Reillys have always been fine men."
"And the women lovely, gifted, admired—"
"And minded as much as the whistling of the wind. Don't look vexed, my poor boy. I know I am not fair to you; that many a son is not so good and dutiful to his mother as you are to me; but, you see, it is as if you had been marrying a girl I hated; I can't get over it, even though I feel you have a right to please yourself. The best course will be not to talk of it: we should not agree; and where's the use of disagreeing?"
"If wives were as sensible as you are—"
"Nonsense!" she interrupted, smiling; "no woman of spirit would give in to her husband; but to her boy! oh, that's very different. Please yourself; paint your pictures, my darling, only—only—if the public don't like them, don't break your heart."
She now stood by him, with her hand resting lightly on his fine dark hair, and her eyes seeking his with wistful fondness. He laughed at her last words, laughed and knit his brow as he said—
"The public may break its heart about me, Kate—not that I wish it such a fate, poor thing!—but against the reverse I protest. And now have mercy on your brother, who has heard something about Daisy, and a good deal about painting, but nothing about tea."
"Are you hungry?"
"Starving."
"Poor fellow! I had no idea of it,—I shall see to it myself."
She left the room. Her brother remained sitting in the same attitude, a little bent forward, abstractedly gazing at the fire. Then all at once he saw and noticed me, as I sat apart quiet and silent. He beckoned; I approached.
"What shall I give you?"
"Nothing," was my laconic reply.
"But I want to give you something."
I hated the idea of my being paid for my secrecy and my punishment. I felt myself reddening as I answered—
"But I don't want anything, Cornelius."
"Don't you?" he replied, smiling, and before I knew what he was about, I found myself on the knee and in the arms of Cornelius, who was kissing me merrily. He had never done half as much since I was with him and his sister. My face burned with surprise and delight; he laughed, kissed me again, and said, with the secure smile of conscious power, "Well, what am I to give you?"
I was completely subdued; I replied, submissively, "Anything you like,Cornelius."
"No, it must be anything you like, and in my power to give. A book, a plaything, a doll, etc."
"Anything! may I really ask for anything?" I exclaimed, with sudden animation.
"Yes, you may."
"Do you really mean it?"
"I always mean what I say. Why, child, what can it be? Your eyes sparkle and your cheeks flush. What is it? Speak out."
"Let me be with you in the morning when you are drawing."
"Is that it?" he said, looking annoyed and surprised.
"Yes, Cornelius."
"You will have to stay very quiet."
"I don't mind that, Cornelius."
"You must not speak."
"I don't mind that either."
"Have something else: a book with pictures."
I did not answer.
"And I will let you come in now and then."
I remained mute. Cornelius saw that what I had asked for, and nothing else, I would have. Again he warned me.
"Daisy, you will find it very dull to sit without speaking or moving. I pity you, my poor child."
I was shrewd enough to see through his pity. I looked up into his face, and said demurely—
"I shall not mind it, Cornelius."
"You will mind nothing to have your way—obstinate little thing!—but I warn you: you must come in without knocking, without saying good morning; you must not move, speak, or go in and out; if you break the agreement once, you lose the privilege for ever."
"I shall not break the agreement, Cornelius."
"Of course you won't," he said, looking both provoked and amused, "catch me again passing my word to you, Miss Bums."
I half feared he was vexed, but he was not, for when Deborah brought in the tea-tray, with the addition of fried ham and eggs, Cornelius, instead of putting me away, kept me on his knee.
"The O'Reillys always had good appetites," observed Miss O'Reilly, who stood looking on, enjoying the vigour with which her brother attacked her good-cheer. "Daisy, what are you perched up there for? Come down directly."
"Stay, Daisy," said Cornelius, "you are not in my way." And indeed, from the fashion in which everything vanished before him, I do not think I was. But Miss O'Reilly was of a different opinion, for she resumed impatiently—
"Now, Cornelius, you need not feed that child from your plate; she left half her own tea, and she drinks yours, because it is yours."
Cornelius was holding his cup to my lips. He smiled, and kissed me.
"Yes, pet her now," said Kate, "after getting her unjustly punished."
"It was thoughtless of me—I beg her pardon."
"I don't want you to beg my pardon," I replied, looking a little indignantly at his sister.
"I think if he were to beat you, you would enjoy it," was her short answer.
His meal was over; he had removed from the table to the sofa; but he had not put me away. Miss O'Reilly looked at us from her place, and evidently could not make it out.
"Are there to be no lessons?" she asked at length.
"No, this is a holiday."
"Shall there be no singing?"
"I am tired."
He was not too tired to talk to me, and make me talk, to an extent that induced Miss O'Reilly to exclaim—
"I thought the child was a mouse, and she turns out to be a magpie."
She spoke shortly, but he kept me still.
"Decidedly," said Kate, after vainly waiting for me to be put away, "decidedly, if one were to meet you in China or Japan, that little pale face would be somewhere about you."
He said it was a little pale face, but that it had fine eyes, and he caressed her who owned it, very kindly.
"Nonsense!" observed his sister, frowning.
"She is so shy," he pleaded.
"Pretty shyness, indeed!" replied Kate, as she saw me, with the sudden familiarity of childhood, pass my arm around the neck of her brother, and rest my head on his shoulder. "Daisy, it is bed-time."
She rose, but I could not bear to leave Cornelius on the first evening of his kindness. I clasped my two hands around his neck, and looked beseechingly in his face.
"Another quarter of an hour, Kate," he said.
"Not another minute," she replied, taking my hand, for I lingered in his embrace like our mother Eve in Eden. "If you are good." she added, to comfort me, "you shall stay up half an hour longer as the days increase."
"But they are shortening now," I said, mournfully.
"Let her stay up for this one evening," entreated Cornelius, "to make up for her dull day in the back-parlour."
Miss O'Reilly allowed herself to be mollified; but as she returned to her place and sat down, she said emphatically, looking at the fire—
"He will spoil that child, you'll see he will."
Cornelius only smiled; he did not attempt to contradict the prophecy by putting me away; as long as I liked, he allowed me to remain thus—once more an indulged and very happy child.
From that evening Cornelius liked me. By making him all to me, I had succeeded in becoming something to him; for there is this mysterious beauty in love, that it wins love; unlike other prodigals, it is in the very excess of its bounty that it finds a return.
Early the next morning I stole up to the study. I did not knock; I entered on tiptoe; I closed the door softly; I did not bid Cornelius good morning; but I brought forward a high stool, placed it so that it commanded a good view of him and of his drawing, and, with some trouble, I clambered up to its summit: once there, I moved no more, but watched him with intense interest.
He neither moved nor looked up; his task absorbed every faculty of his being; he looked breathless; every feature expressed the concentration of his mind and senses towards one point. For an hour he never stirred; at length he pushed away his drawing, threw himself back in his chair, and, having been up since dawn, indulged in a very unromantic yawn. I sat rather behind him; it was some time before he remembered me; he then suddenly turned round, and looked at me in profound silence. I was too much on my guard to infringe the agreement by either moving or opening my lips.
"You have a good eye for a position," he said.
I did not answer.
"Are you comfortable, perched up there?" he continued.
"I don't mind it, Cornelius."
"You can come down now."
I obeyed with great alacrity.
"May I speak now?" I asked with a questioning look.
"You may ease yourself a little," was his charitable reply.
"Cornelius, is not that Juno?"
"The wife of Jupiter and the mamma of Vulcan—precisely."
I was standing by him. There were other drawings on the table; I raised the corner of one and glanced at Cornelius; he smiled assent. I drew it forth; it represented an Italian boy sitting on sunlit stone steps.
"That is the boy to whom Kate gave the piece of bread the other morning,"I exclaimed eagerly, "is it not, Cornelius?"
I looked up into his face; he seemed charmed: first praise is like early dew, very fresh and very sweet. He drew forth another drawing, and asked whose face it was. Breathless with astonishment, I recognized myself; then Kate, Deborah, Miss Hart, and even Mr. Trim, passed before me in graphic sketches. I felt excited; I now knew the power of Cornelius: he had actually, if not created, yet drawn from obscurity, those forms and faces by the mere force of his will.
"Why, how flushed and animated you look!" said Cornelius, with an amused smile, as he put away the drawings.
"Cornelius," I said eagerly.
"Daisy."
"Don't you think that if you like—" I paused: he was not attending to me.
"I hear you," he observed, stooping to pick up a stray drawing,—"don't I think that if I like—"
"Don't you think that if you like you may become as great a painter asRaffaelle or Michael Angelo?"
I spoke seriously and waited for his reply, as if it were to decide the question. Cornelius looked at me with his drawing in his hand; he tried to laugh, but only reddened violently.
"You ambitious little thing!" he said, "what has put Raffaelle or MichaelAngelo into your head?"
"Papa told me they were the two greatest painters, but I don't see why you should not be as great as either of them."
"One can be great and yet be unlike them;—ay, and be famous too!"
"Will you be famous?"
"Who was it never bade me good morning?" asked Cornelius, kissing me.
But in the very midst of the caress, as his lips touched my cheek, I repeated my question, with the unconquerable persistency of children:
"Will you be famous?"
"Would you like it?" he asked, smiling.
"Oh! so much!" I exclaimed, with my whole heart.
"Then, on my word, my dear, I shall do my best to please you; and now let us go down to breakfast."
He was unusually late, but his sister did not complain. She received him with pleasant cheerfulness; yet several times, in the course of that day, I overheard her sighing to herself very sadly.
I have since then wondered at the secretiveness of Cornelius; but though he was religious, he never spoke of religion; he rarely alluded to his country, for which he could do nothing, whose wrongs he resented too proudly to lament, and yet which he carried in his heart; and, perhaps because he loved it so ardently, he had never made painting the subject of daily speech. When it became the avowed occupation of his life—a task instead of a feeling—this reserve lessened; something of it remained with his sister; little, I might almost say nothing, with me.
I was a child, but I gave him sympathy, a food which the strongest hearts have needed. I loved him, I admired him, I believed in him; he soon liked to have me in his study, or studio, as by a convenient change of the vowels it was now called. He could talk to me, amuse himself with my criticisms, then with a look consign me to silence. Perhaps it was thus he became so fond of me,—too fond, his sister said; all I know is, he was very kind and the winter a very happy time.
The spring that followed it was lovely. One day I remember especially for its joyous brightness. The garden was green and blooming; Kate sat sewing on the bench by the house; I stood at the door looking down the lane. The hawthorn hedge that faced the west was ready to break out in blossom; the sun was warm; the air clear; the south-western wind was gently blowing; the newly leaved trees seemed rejoicing in a second birth; afar, through the stillness of this quiet place, the cuckoo's voice was faintly heard. I know not why I record these things, save that there is a portion of our hearts to which the aspects of this lovely world ever cling, and that, as I stood there looking, Cornelius came up the lane. He had gathered the ripest hawthorn bough; he gave it to me smiling; entered and sat down on the bench by his sister: I sat on a step at their feet. For awhile they talked of indifferent things, then he said—
"Kate, will you sit to me?"
"What for?" she asked, looking rather startled.
"A little oil painting: subject, Mother and child. You we to be the mamma, Daisy the child."
"Where will you send it?"
"To the Academy, of course. Can you give me early sittings?"
"I can; but can Daisy?"
I saw his face express keen disappointment, and I said eagerly—
"I shall get up early, Cornelius; with dawn; I shall not mind a bit."
"Nonsense, you shall get up at your usual hour—and there's an end of it."
"Cornelius, may I speak to you?"
"No:" he started up, walked across the garden, came back and threw himself down, exclaiming—
"It will never be finished, never!"
"Cornelius," I said again, "let me speak to younow."
"Speak, and have done with it," he said, impatiently.
"If I go to bed early, may I not get up early? Early to bed and early to rise, you know."
He bent on me a face that lit with sudden gladness.
"And will you really do that for me?" he asked eagerly. "Will you, who hate going to bed early, do that for my sake?"
"Oh yes, Cornelius, and be so glad to help you a little!"
"God bless you, my good little girl!" cried Cornelius, as he caught me up in his arms, and accompanied the benediction with a warm kiss, "I shall never forget that, never!"
He looked touched and delighted. He who had heaped so many kindnesses on me, was as quick to feel this little proof of my grateful affection, as though he had done nothing to call it forth.
"Now, is not that good of her?" he said to Kate, "to offer to go to bed early just as she is beginning to stay up that half-hour later? Is it not good of her?"
"She shall be put to the test this very evening," replied Kate, smiling.
I stood the test with a heroism only to be equalled by my patience as a sitter on the following morning. I was as submissive as Kate was rebellious.
"Kate," once remonstrated her brother, "will you do nothing for Art,—not even to sit quietly?"
"Nonsense!" she impatiently replied.
"Nonsense!" he mournfully echoed, "she calls Art nonsense! Art, that is to win her brother so much honour, ay; and with this very picture!"
Kate sighed deeply.
"How very odd," said Cornelius, pausing in his work to look at her—"how very odd you do not see what is so clear to me, that I must succeed! I am surprised you do not see it, Kate."
There was not the shadow of a doubt on his clear brow; not a sign of fear in his secure and ardent look.
"Our poor father used to say just the same, Cornelius, only if one doubted, he would fly out."
"Then I do not; there is the difference."
"He was not bad-tempered; but disappointment—"
"Kate, your manner of supporting Daisy is getting less and less maternal; pray do not forget that you are very miserable about your darling. Daisy, my pet, your doll was put there to show you are too ill to enjoy it, not to look at."
The sitting was long; our attitudes were rather fatiguing: Kate lost patience.
"You will be late," she said, "and Daisy is tired."
"I am not tired," I observed.
"Don't you know, Kate," said her brother, smiling, "that if I were to ask her to jump out of that window, she would?"
"Nonsense!" shortly replied Miss O'Reilly.
"There," she added, as I reddened indignantly at what I considered an imputation on my devotedness,—"there, did you see the look the little minx gave me?"
"I see that, as my attitudes are spoiled, I [must] release you. Ah, Daisy is the best sitter of the two," he added, as his sister jumped up with great alacrity; and he thanked me with a caress so kind, that Kate said, in a displeased tone—
"You may make that child too fond of you, Cornelius."
"And if I do, Kate, have I not the antidote? Am I not getting very fond of her myself?"
He was, and I knew it; and daily rejoiced in the blessed consciousness.
Spring yielded to summer; summer passed; the picture progressed;Cornelius devoted to it his brief holiday in the autumn.
"You look pale and ill," said Kate; "you want rest."
"I feel in perfect health; work is my holiday," was his invariable reply.
And to work he fell—harder than ever.
"Yes, yes," she sadly said, "the fever is on you."
The fever was indeed on him; that strange, engrossing fever to which passion is nothing; which to the strong is life, but death to the weak. He revelled in it as in a new, free, delightful existence. Pale and thin he was, but his brow had never been more serene, his glance more hopeful, his whole bearing more living and energetic. But as autumn waned, as days grew short, as leisure to work lessened, the serenity of Cornelius vanished. He rose long before dawn and paced his little studio up and down, impatiently watching the east: with the first streak of daylight he was at work, and day after day it became more difficult to tear him from his task. When he came home at dusk, his first act was to run up to his picture. I often followed him unnoticed, and found him standing before it, fastening on his unfinished labour a concentrated look that seemed as if it would struggle against fate and annihilate the laws of time. When he turned away, it was with an impatient sigh unmixed with the least atom of resignation.
We were sitting dull enough in the parlour, one evening just beforeChristmas, when Kate said to him, in her sudden way—
"The days will get long in January."
"And I shall then be a free man," he replied, with a smile.
"You have been discharged!" she exclaimed, dismayed.
"I have discharged myself. Now, Kate, don't look so startled! The picture shall be finished in time."
"I dare say it will, Cornelius," she replied, ruefully.
"Well, then, what do you fear?"
"Suppose," she hesitatingly suggested, "that it cannot get exhibited!"
"I do not see how that can be," composedly replied Cornelius.
"Bless the boy! do they never reject pictures?"
I sat by Cornelius, whose hand played idly with my hair; he stopped short to give his sister an astonished glance, then he shook his handsome head, and laughed gaily.
"Rejectthatpicture, Kate!"
"He is his father all over," she sighed.
He smiled at her blindness, and turning to me, said—
"What do you say, Daisy?"
"They shan't reject it; they dare not," was my ready reply.
"It is too absurd to suppose such a thing, is it not?" he added, to teaze his sister, who disappointed him by unexpectedly veering round.
"Cornelius," she said, decisively, "your energy and decision in this matter give me more hope than your enthusiasm. I like a man to act for himself; but you must go on as you have begun, and give yourself up entirely. Will you be a student at the Royal Academy? Will you study under some great master? Will you travel? Speak, I have money."
"Thank you, Kate; I am glad you think I have acted rightly; but I have begun alone, and alone I must go on, with experience for my sole teacher. I must keep my originality."
Kate remonstrated, but Cornelius, once in the fortification of his originality, was not to be ejected thence.
"Just like his poor father!" sighed Kate; "he was always for his originality."
Cornelius also resembled his poor father in the possession of a will of his own. Kate knew it, and wisely gave up the point.
In a few days more Cornelius was free. His tread about the house had another sound; his eyes overflowed with gladness and burned with the hope of coming triumphs. He exulted in the endless sittings we gave him, and amused himself like a child with day-dreams and air-castles. His favourite one—the fame and fortune were both settled—was a skylight.
"Yes, Kate," he once said, looking up at the ceiling, "to keep your brother under your roof, you must knock it down and give him a skylight. Some artists prefer studios in town; but I, domestic man, stick to the household gods: with a skylight you may keep me for ever."
"Conceited fellow!"
"Conceited! now is not this a nice bit of painting?" he drew her to his side and made her face the easel.
"Indeed it is," she replied admiringly: "where will you send it?"
"To the Academy, Kate, the first place or none."
"Oh!" she hastened to answer, "I only fear they may not hang it as well as it deserves. Jealousy, you know, or even want of room."
"There is always room for the really good pictures," replied Cornelius.
This was in February, but his sister evidently felt some uneasiness on the subject, for she recurred to it several times, and when nothing led to the remark, observed to Cornelius with a wistful look—
"I hope it may be well hung, Cornelius."
"I hope so," he quietly replied.
At length came the day on which this interesting fact was to be ascertained. A bright May day it was; Cornelius wished to go alone, "there always was such a crowd on the first day," and had his wish. We stayed at home trying to seem very careless, very indifferent, but Miss O'Reilly could not work and I could not study. We began sudden conversations on common-place themes, that broke off as they had commenced, at once and without cause. Of the real subject that occupied our thoughts we never spoke. I went up and down the house with unusual restlessness, ever coming back to the window that overlooked the Grove.
"I should like to know what you mean by it?" suddenly asked MissO'Reilly. "Why do you look out of that window?"
"Cornelius told me he would come by the Grove."
"And why do you fidget about his coming back on this particular day? Just get out of my light, if you please."
I obeyed; but the next thing Kate did herself was to open the window and look down the Grove. The day was waning; Cornelius did not return; she could not keep in, but said anxiously—
"I am afraid it is not well hung, after all."
"I am afraid it is not," I replied, for I too began to feel very uncomfortable.
"No, decidedly it is not well hung," she continued, "but I don't see why that should prevent him from coming back;" and no longer caring to hide her impatience, she took her seat at the window, which she left no more.
"There is Cornelius!" I said, with a start, as a ring was heard at the garden-door.
"Hold your tongue!" indignantly exclaimed Kate. "Why should he slink in by the back way? Daisy, I forbid you to open; it is a run-away ring: Cornelius indeed!"
I obeyed reluctantly; I was sure it was Cornelius, and as I had not been forbidden to look, I went to the back-parlour window. I reached it as Deborah opened the door. It was Cornelius, with his hat pulled down over his brow, and what could be seen of his face, of a dull leaden white. He passed by the girl without uttering a word, entered the house, and went upstairs at once. I heard him locking himself up in his room, then all was still.
I returned to the front parlour. Miss O'Reilly was pacing it up and down in great agitation, wringing her hands and uttering many broken ejaculations of mingled grief and anger.
"My poor boy! my poor boy!" she exclaimed, with a strange mixture of pathos and tenderness in her voice, like a mother lamenting over her child; then stopping short, she added, her brown eyes kindling with sudden and rapid wrath—"What a bad set they are! a bad envious set! They thought they would not let him get up and eclipse them all. Oh no!—not they—they knew better than that—crush him at once—don't give him time—crush him at once!"
She laughed sarcastically, then resumed, in a tone of indignant and dignified wonder, "I am astonished at Cornelius. What else could he expect? Has he not genius, and is he not an Irishman? Why did he not put Samuel Smith or John Jenkins or Leopold Trim at the bottom of his picture?—it would have got in at once; but with such a name as Cornelius O'Reilly, it was ludicrous to expect it."
"Don't they take in the pictures of Irish artists?" I asked.
"Hold your tongue!" was the short reply I got.
"Please, Ma'am," said Deborah, opening the door, "don't you want the tea?"
"And why should we not want the tea?" asked Miss O'Reilly, giving her a suspicious look,—"can you tell me why, Deborah? Can you give me any reason?—I should like to know why?"
Deborah opened her mouth in mute wonder.