"It is so," she resumed, sighing: "think of Cornelius as of a very dear friend; love, respect him as much as you will, but expect nothing from him; wean your heart; you must, for his sake, as much as for your own."
"Kate," I replied, "I shall try and not be jealous of his wife."
"My poor child, you do not understand me; indeed it is very difficult; but wives do not like their husbands to care for those who cannot be included in the circle of home; they want to have them for themselves and their children."
"I shall be very fond of his children, if he has any," I answered; "indeed I shall, Kate; I shall love them as I love him—with my whole heart."
"You foolish girl, that is just the mischief." And she proceeded to explain the feeling I was to have for Cornelius: it was so cool, so distant, that it chilled me to hear her.
"Kate," I said, "I think I could sooner hate Cornelius—and I am sure I never could do that—than like him in that strange way; and I am very sure," I added, after a pause, "that is not at all the way in which you like him."
She smiled, and kissed me, and told me to like him my own way; that God would see to the future, and not let sorrow come out of true affection.
I did not understand her then, nor did she intend I should. Since that time, I have divined that she looked with uneasiness to coming years, and wished to subdue in time a feeling that might prove far more fatal to my own peace than to that of her brother. She meant well, but she had the wisdom not to insist; it was not in her power to make me love him less; it was in the power of none, not even in his own. If for that purpose he had exiled me; if to cool my affection he came so seldom near me, and gave me not his long-promised walk, he failed. I felt the banishment, the visit ever deferred, the promise never kept; but I still loved him with my whole heart.
At length, one morning in the week, and towards the middle of June, I was told by Miss Mary Clapperton that Mr. O'Reilly and another gentleman wanted to speak to me. I went down wondering if Mr. Smalley or Mr. Trim had taken a fancy to pay me a visit. On entering the parlour, I saw Cornelius, who stood facing the door; the other gentleman sat with his back to it, and his clasped hands resting on the head of his cane. He looked up as I came in, and showed me the brown face, white beard, and keen black eyes of my grandfather. I went up to Cornelius, who gave me a quiet kiss, and standing by him, I looked at Mr. Thornton.
"Come here!" he said.
I obeyed, and went up to him.
"Do you know me?" he growled, knitting his dark brow.
"Yes, Sir."
"Who am I?"
"Mr. Thornton."
"Humph! Do you know why I have come?"
"No, Sir."
"To rid Mr. O'Reilly of you."
I did not reply. I knew I had become a burden and a thing to be got rid of.
"I am going abroad," continued Mr. Thornton, "so I just want to settle that before I go; you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, what have you to say to that?"
"Nothing, Sir."
Mr. Thornton turned to Cornelius, and said impatiently—
"Has the child grown an idiot? Why, there was twice as much spirit in her formerly."
I saw Cornelius redden; but he did not reply. My grandfather again turned to me, and said—
"Why are you here?"
"To learn, Sir."
"Was that what you were sent here for?"
I hung down my head without replying.
"I thought so," he muttered; "it seems, Mr. O'Reilly," he added, addressing Cornelius, "that though you were in such a precious hurry to get that child, you could not manage to keep her."
"I thought it for her good to be here, Sir," rather haughtily repliedCornelius.
"It was not his fault," I said, eagerly, "indeed it was not."
"Whose then?" sharply asked Mr. Thornton.
"Mine," I replied in a low tone, "I was naughty."
"And were sent to school by way of punishment. Do you like being here?"
"Not much. I am alone now; these are the holidays."
"And whilst the other children are at home, you spend yours here."
I did not reply; Mr. Thornton looked at Cornelius, and still leaning his two hands on the head of his cane, he said, with some severity—
"Sir, when nearly three years ago you called to take away that child, you chose to express pretty frankly your opinion of the way in which she was treated in my house. I shall be every bit as frank with you. I tell you plainly, Sir, that I do not approve of your conduct. You had of your own accord assumed a duty no one sought to impose upon you; you should either have fulfilled or relinquished it. I told you, if the child proved troublesome or in the way, to send her back to me. I can afford, Sir, to put her in a school and pay for her, without burdening you with her support. I do not say you were not justified in getting rid of an inconvenience; I simply say you had no right not to get rid of it altogether."
Cornelius bit his lip, as if to check the temptation to reply. Mr.Thornton, laying his hand on my shoulder, resumed—
"You are old enough to understand all this: Mr. O'Reilly finding you in the way—"
"Sir," began Cornelius. .
"Sir," interrupted Mr. Thornton, "if she is not in the way, why is she here? Mr. O'Reilly," he added, turning to me, "finding you in the way, placed you in this house, which you don't much like, and where, nevertheless, you cost him a good deal of money. Now the question is, shall I put you in another place like this? And as I can better afford it than Mr. O'Reilly—"
"Sir," interrupted Cornelius.
"Sir," also interrupted Mr. Thornton, "I do not say I am a better man than you are; but I say I have more money;" and addressing me, he resumed—"Shall I therefore put you in another place like this, here in town, and pay for you? Yes or no?"
I knew that Cornelius was poor, that he could ill afford the money he spent upon me, and though my heart failed me, I faltered—
"Yes, Sir."
I looked up at Cornelius as I spoke: he seemed hurt to the quick.
"Daisy," he said, giving me a reproachful look, "remember,Idid not give you up."
He spoke fast, like one who wishes to keep his feelings under; and seizing his hat, hurried out of the room without once looking behind. I sprang forward to overtake him: a hand of iron held me back—
"You little fool," sarcastically said my grandfather, "don't you see he does not care a rush for you! Come, no sniffling; what day will you go?"
"Any day, Sir."
"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday," he rapidly enumerated on his fingers.
"Wednesday, Sir," I replied, flurried at his abrupt manner.
"That is to-day. Stay here whilst I settle with the ladies of the house."
He rose and left me as he spoke.
I remained alone a few minutes, at the end of which Mr. Thornton, whose voice I heard in the next room, returned with the two Misses Clapperton. They had brought my bonnet and cloak, put them on, bade me good-bye, and kissed me kindly; then Mr. Thornton, who looked on with evident impatience, took my hand, and hurried me off. A carriage stood waiting at the door of Alhambra Lodge; my grandfather lifted me in, and closed the door on me. The carriage drove rapidly away. I sat in it alone, mute, and still amazed. After passing through roads, streets, and along terraces unknown to me, the carriage entered a secluded-looking square, and drew up before a plain house. A demure-looking servant answered the coachman's knock, and was followed by a middle-aged widow lady, who helped me down with a smile, saying cheerfully—
"This way, dear."
I entered with her, and at once looked round for Mr. Thornton. He was nowhere to be seen.
"Please, Ma'am," I said, "is Mr. Thornton come?"
"I am so glad," she replied, seeming much relieved, "I felt afraid he was not coming. No, my dear, he is not come yet, and to tell you the truth, seeing you so suddenly, I could not understand it; but of course he'll explain all. This way, dear; upstairs, dear; mind the turning of the staircase, dear."
She took my hand and led me up carefully, as if I were a baby. She had a very soft hand, and its touch was gentle and timid. When we had reached the second-floor landing, she paused, and opened a door that led into a front bed-room, large and airy, and overlooking the dull square below.
"Don't you think, dear?" suggested the lady, with hesitating kindness,— "don't you think you had better let me take off your things?"
"I can take them off, Ma'am, thank you."
"Can you? Very well, dear; is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing, Ma'am, thank you."
"Very well. You will not look out of the window, will you? you might fall out, you know, and be killed."
I promised not to look out; she called me a dear child, and left me. In a few minutes I joined her below. I found her sitting alone in a dull and sombre English-looking parlour. She seemed flurried on seeing me, and spoke as if she had intended to go and fetch me, for fear, I suppose, of any accident on the way; but satisfied that all was right, she subsided into what appeared to be her habitual placidity. She had a kind face, that had been pretty, and was still pleasant, though it wore a somewhat uneasy expression, as if its owner were too much troubled with conscientious scruples and misgivings.
"Do you know, Ma'am, if Mr. Thornton will soon come?" I asked, after vainly waiting for my grandfather to make his appearance.
"He is gone, my dear," she replied, calmly. "I said you were taking off your things, and he said he had nothing to say to you; but you may be quite easy; it is all settled."
"Am I to stay with you, Ma'am?"
"Yes, my dear; I am to take care of you and educate you. My name is Mrs. Gray. I live in this house. It is very airy; very salubrious. Mr. Thornton was particular about that, and I am sure I would not have deceived him for anything. Then there is the square, where we have of course the privilege of walking when we like. Besides, I have received a very good education myself, so that I am fit to teach you. I think we shall be very happy together, dear," she added, with a smile, to which neither in word nor in look my heavy heart could give response.
Mrs. Gray saw this, and looked discouraged at once. She hoped we should be happy together; she trusted we should; she thought she might say it should not be her fault if we were not. She was evidently getting very uncomfortable, when I diverted her by a question.
"If you please, Ma'am, was it on account of what I said, that Mr.Thornton took me away from the Misses Clapperton?"
"Ah, the Misses Clapperton. I really don't know, dear. Who are the MissesClapperton?"
"They receive a few private pupils; they live at Alhambra Lodge."
"Alhambra Lodge, and they receive private pupils, dear me!"
"Do you know, Ma'am, why I was not left there?"
"I dare say, my dear, it was because Mr. Thornton did not approve of their method of teaching; there is a great deal in method."
"Do you know, Ma'am, if Miss O'Reilly will call next Sunday?"
"Miss O'Reilly? that is an Irish name, is it not?"
"Yes, Ma'am, she is Irish, and so is her brother. They were born at a place called Bally Bunion."
"Bally Birmingham—how odd! One would think Birmingham could have done without the Bally. Were you too born at Bally Birmingham, my dear?"
"No, Ma'am, I was born in England."
"Don't you feel much more comfortable to know that?"
"I don't know, Ma'am; but can you tell me if Miss O'Reilly will call nextSunday?"
Mrs. Gray looked perplexed.
"Really," she replied, "I don't know, but I am sure if she does call, I shall be very happy to see her, and to offer her a cup of tea. I always have tea at five exactly."
She spoke earnestly, as if she feared her hospitable feelings might be doubted. I saw she knew nothing, and questioned her no more.
Mrs. Gray was one of those quiet Englishwomen who seem to enjoy dullness for its own sake. She lived in a dull neighbourhood, in a dull square, in a dull house, and, as I soon found, she led as dull a life as she could devise. We rose early, breakfasted together in the gloomy parlour, then went to the lessons, which lasted until our two o'clock dinner. She was an intelligent educated woman, but a nervous, timid teacher; and what with her sensitiveness and her fear that she was not doing her duty by me, she managed from the first day to render both herself and her pupil somewhat uncomfortable. After dinner we took a short walk in the square, or in a neighbouring walk planted with dusty elms, and called the Mall. We took tea at five exactly; I sat up until bed-time, preparing my lessons for the next day, whilst Mrs. Gray worked, or slyly read novels. At first she was as secretive about it as if she were still a school- girl, and I a stern schoolmistress; but when she saw that I was not ignorant of the nature of the brown circulating-library volumes that now and then peeped out of her work-basket, she gave up the concealment part of the business, and informed me that though she did not approve of novels generally, she thought herself justified in making exceptions.
Her taste for fiction was shared by Miss Taylor and Mrs. Jones, the only friends she saw constantly. Once a week they came to tea with us, and twice Mrs. Gray took tea with them. They were very quiet, inoffensive women, with the organ of wonder large. I could see that they considered me from the first as a sort of living novel, a "Margaret the Orphan," a "Child of Mystery," etc. I entered Mrs. Gray's house on a Wednesday; the same evening they took tea with her, and I detected both the looks and signs they exchanged, and overheard whispered remarks of "How strange!" "Most mysterious!" "You don't say so!" and the like.
If Jane and Fanny Brook had overpowered me with their boisterous ways, the slow and quiet life I led with Mrs. Gray depressed me even to a sense of pain. I felt it much during the first few days, and waited impatiently for the Sunday. It came, but brought not Kate. I sat by the window the whole day long, eagerly watching for her through the iron railings that fenced in our abode, but she came not. As dusk closed around the dull square and brooded heavily over its melancholy trees, my last hope vanished. At first I thought she was offended with me and would not come, then it occurred to me that she might not know where I was.
"My dear," earnestly said Mrs. Gray, "pray leave that window; you will take cold. Miss O'Reilly, I dare say, will call to-morrow."
"Had I not better write to her, Mrs. Gray, and tell her I am with you?"
"No, my dear," replied Mrs. Gray, looking fidgety, "you must not do that, if you please. I dare say she will call tomorrow; pray leave the window."
I obeyed the gentle injunction, but I had no faith in the hope held forth; I did not think Kate would come, and indeed she did not, nor on the following Sunday either. I again asked Mrs. Gray if I could not write to Miss O'Reilly, who, I felt sure, did not know where I was.
"My dear," nervously said Mrs. Gray, "I fear that if Miss O'Reilly does not know it, it must be because Mr. Thornton did not wish her to know it. I should be very happy to see her, and I dare say she is a very charming person; but I must go by Mr. Thornton's wishes."
All my entreaties could not induce her to alter her resolve. If I could have disobeyed her injunction I would, but open means I saw not, and hidden ones I had not the wit to devise; so I availed myself of the only permission she gave me—that of writing to Mr. Thornton, asking his leave to see my friends. Mrs. Gray sent the letter to his solicitors, but either it did not reach him, or he did not think it worthy his attention, for he never answered it. I saw how foolish I had been to place myself under his control, and the thought that I had myself done it, and was perhaps severed for ever from Cornelius and Kate, ended by affecting my health. In my grief I had said that if I only knew how they were, I should not mind so much not seeing them. Mrs. Gray eagerly caught at this, and offered to ascertain the matter. I gave her the names of the chief tradespeople with whom Miss O'Reilly dealt, and she set off one afternoon on her errand. She stayed away two hours, and returned with a cheerful face.
"Well," she said, sitting down and smiling at my eager look, "I have learned everything. I called in at Parkins the baker, and asked Mrs. Parkins if she knew an Irish family of the name of MacMahon (that was not a story, you know, dear, because there are Irish MacMahons; indeed I knew three myself, though I cannot say they lived in the Grove), to which Mrs. Parkins replied, she did not know any MacMahons, and the only Irish family who dealt with her were a Mr. and Miss O'Reilly; Mrs. O'Reilly that was to be, would, she hoped, also give her her custom in time; I asked what sort of a person she was. Fair and handsome, and Mr. O'Reilly and his sister dark, but also very handsome. I said I did not think they could be the MacMahons, who were all red-haired; and thanking Mrs. Parkins, I came back. I hope, my dear, you will not fret after such good tidings; for if Mr. O'Reilly is going to get married, he cannot be very poorly nor his sister either; and I am sure you are too sensible to care about the bride-cake; so it is all right, you see."
Alas! yes, it was all right, and I felt how little I must now be missed in the home where I had once been petted and indulged so tenderly. They were going to marry; there was nothing to fear or hope now. Mrs. Gray, unaware of the jealousy that had been the source of all my misery, continued to descant on this agreeable state of things, and altogether derived some innocent enjoyment from the part she had acted, and the spice of adventure it had thrown in her monotonous life.
It was a sort of comfort to know that Kate and Cornelius were well, but it passed with time; and at length my ardent entreaties and solemn promises not to betray my presence by word, sign, or look, wrung from Mrs. Gray the favour of being taken one evening to the Grove, so that, in passing by the house, I might perhaps catch a glimpse of the faces I loved. Chance, or rather the kind power that disdains not to indulge our human weakness, favoured me.
The evening was grey and mild, as it often is in the English summer. The Grove was lonely. Mrs. Gray and I kept in the shadow of the trees, on the side of the street facing Kate's house; and walked up and down two or three times. The front parlour was not lit; I could see nothing of what passed within, but in the stillness of that quiet evening I once or twice caught the tones of the voice of Cornelius. I started to hear them.
"My dear," nervously said Mrs. Gray, "had we not better go?"
"Not yet, Ma'am," I entreated; "Deborah will soon bring up the lamp, the window will remain open awhile, and then I shall be able to see them, whilst they, you know, cannot see me."
All happened as I had said; Deborah brought up the lamp, laid it down on the table and left the window open. Now I could see. The lamp burned with a clear and steady flame, that illumined the whole room; the pictures stood forth on the red paper of the walls, and on that sombre yet clear back-ground appeared, vivid and distinct, the figures of Cornelius, Kate, and Miriam. She sat reclining back in her chair, and looking up at him as he stood behind her, laughing and talking pleasantly. I saw less of Kate, who sat a little in the back-ground, bent over her work. They seemed both cheerful and happy, for whilst I stood looking at them, half blinded by tears, Cornelius suddenly turned away from Miriam, went up to the piano, opened it, and sat down to sing the 'Exile of Erin.' What with hearing his voice again, and with standing there listening to him, myself an exile from his home, and, alas! from his heart, I wept. As the song closed with its mournful cadence, Kate rose, shut the window, and drew down the blind, thus excluding me from both sight and sound.
"Don't you think, dear, we had better go now?" whispered Mrs. Gray, gently leading me away from the spot where I still stood looking and listening, though there was no more to see or hear.
I yielded apathetically, and my companion hurried me away, nervously looking behind every now and then, and declaring, "She had never gone through anything to equal this, never!" Indeed by her two friends it was considered quite an adventure, and served to enhance the mystery with which it pleased their imagination to surround me.
I had longed passionately for the favour Mrs. Gray had granted, but to have obtained it only added to my secret torment. I had now been six weeks with the kind lady, but what with the dull monotonous life I led in that dull house and the grief of being severed from those I loved so dearly, I again became languid, if not ill. Mrs. Gray's instructions were to let me want for nothing; she at once called in a physician, who gave me plenty of bitter physic to drink, and ordered me to take more exercise. We lived within half an hour's walk of Kensington Gardens, and every fine day Mrs. Gray conscientiously took me there to spend the interval between dinner and tea. She sat down on one of the benches and read, whilst I wandered away at will.
Those gardens are very beautiful. They have verdure, water, rare fowl, singing birds, flowers wild and cultivated, warm sunshine, deep shade, and brooding over all that solemn charm which lingers around ancient trees and woodland places. I was then studying botany, and my chief pleasure was to look out for wild flowers or linger in some solitary spot. I remember one well,—a solemn grove of elms and beeches, sombre and quiet as a cloister. I often sought its gloom, led by that instinct which makes the stricken deer fly to the shade. When I sat down at the moss-covered base of those venerable trees, something of the soothing calmness of pure nature seemed to fall on my spirit, with their vast shadow. Above me sang the thrush and blackbird, whom I had so often heard in the lanes around my old home. They were happy; to me their song sounded neither gay nor joyful, but wild, sweet, and mournful as that of the enchanted bird heard by bonny Kilmeny in the glen.
One day, in my search for botanical specimens, I wandered further than usual. At length I came to a circular hollow enclosed by fine old trees, of which one lay extended on the earth, uprooted in a recent storm. Its vast boughs were beginning to wither, and its huge roots rose brown and bare, for the first time beholding light; but of these signs, though I noted them as we will note things even when our very hearts are stirred within us. I thought not then; for at once I had seen and recognized Cornelius, who sat on the trunk of the tree sketching.
Absorbed in his task he did not see me, and I stood mute within a few paces of him, looking at him with my flowers in my hand. Through the trees behind me the sun streamed in a few bright rays, that sent my lengthened shadow on the grass. Cornelius saw it and looked up; the pencil dropped from his hand and he turned very pale. Had he moved, or had I? I know not, but the next moment I was locked in his embrace. What I said or did, I cannot tell; he kissed me again and again with many an endearing epithet. For some time neither spoke.
"Oh, my poor lost lamb!" he said, as I lay clasped in his arms too happy for speech, "where have you been all this time?"
"I have been at Mrs. Gray's; how is Kate?"
"She is well, but unhappy about you. Who is Mrs. Gray? Where does she live? Is she kind? Why are you so pale?"
"I am not well; I take physic every morning; Mrs. Gray is very kind; she lives in Auckland Square, number three."
"I know the place; but why, you naughty child, did you not write to let us know where you were?"
"Mrs. Gray would not let me. I wrote to Mr. Thornton, and he never answered; but Mrs. Gray was very kind; once she went to Parkins, and found out that you and Kate were quite well, and another time she took me to the Grove, and I saw you both through the open window; it was in the evening; you sang the 'Exile of Erin;' I stood with Mrs. Gray listening on the other side of the street."
"And you never even came to the door?"
"Mrs. Gray would not have allowed it; besides—"
"Well, what is it?"
"You know," I replied, shunning his look, "what you said to me before I went to Miss Clapperton's."
He did not answer, but when I again looked at him, the glow my words had called up had not left his face.
"You are not here alone?" he observed after an embarrassed pause.
"Oh no! Mrs. Gray is sitting on one of the benches there beyond. Do you want to speak to her?"
"Of course I do," he replied, chucking my chin in his old way.
He took my hand, picked up his sketch-book and drawing materials, and walked with me to where Mrs. Gray sat. She was absorbed in the catastrophe of a third volume, which she nearly dropped, as she saw me appear before her, holding the hand of Cornelius. At first she was quite agitated, but the free and easy manner of the young man soon restored her composure. He did his best to render himself agreeable, and carefully shunned every allusion that could alarm her. I had seen him give her two or three keen looks as if to read her character, before he entered into conversation, after which he went on like one master of his subject. He talked pleasantly for about half an hour, then left us: as I kissed him, my lips opened to ask when we should meet again, but his look checked me. I saw him take the direction that led to the Grove, and my eyes followed him until he was out of sight.
"A very agreeable young man, very," observed Mrs. Gray, giving me shy looks I could not understand; "don't you think so, dear?"
"I don't know, Ma'am. I have known—"
"Yes, yes," she interrupted, "you have known others quite as agreeable; why, so have I. Once I remember, as a girl, that my sister and I often met in our walks a pleasant old gentleman, whom we called—not knowing his name—Dr. Johnson. Suppose we call this young landscape-painter Claude Lorraine."
"Oh, Ma'am! his name is—"
"My dear," impatiently interrupted Mrs. Gray, "how should you know his name? did you ask it, or did he tell you?"
"Oh no, Ma'am!"
"Very well, then, how can you know it?"
I saw that Mrs. Gray wanted to keep on the safe side of truth, and, of course, I was glad enough to indulge her. She perceived that I had at length taken the hint, and talked freely of Claude Lorraine, who appeared to have produced a very favourable impression.
For the remaining part of the day, and on the whole of the following night, I was restless with joy and hope. Something too appeared to be the matter with Mrs. Gray; for we dined half an hour earlier than usual, and went out the very minute the meal was over.
"Where are we going to-day, Ma'am?" I asked.
"I think we had better go to the Gardens," she replied carelessly.
To the Gardens we at once proceeded. Mrs. Gray sat down on her usual bench, drew forth her book, and told me she thought it would do me good to walk about. I eagerly availed myself of the permission, and ran at once to the fallen tree. Yes, there he sat, and with him, as I had expected, was Kate.
She did not say much, but as she took me in her arms and kissed me, I hid my face in her kind bosom, feeling too happy for aught save tears.
"Oh, you naughty child!" she said, giving me two or three reproachful kisses; "how could you do it?"
"Kate, it was Mrs. Gray—"
"Yes, I know; Cornelius has told me all, but I don't care about Mrs.Gray, you are to come with me this very minute."
"But Mrs. Gray—"
"Nonsense! Mrs. Gray won't break her heart about you; and you don't look well at all."
"That is she, coming up to us, Kate."
And so it was. Mrs. Gray had got impatient, or perhaps alarmed, and fancied that Claude had carried me off. She was thrown into another flurry on seeing Miss O'Reilly; but Cornelius undertook to bring her round, and succeeded so well that ere long she sat down by Kate, with whom she chatted pleasantly, whilst I and Cornelius walked about. It seemed to me that but a few minutes had thus passed, when came the parting moment, and Mrs. Gray summoned me with a "My dear, is it not time to go?" The following day was Sunday, and on that day we never walked in the Gardens. With many kisses, caresses, and many a pang of secret regret, and many a look behind, I parted from my two friends. They were scarcely out of sight when Mrs. Gray exclaimed—
"There are very strange things in life—very. Now I should no more have expected to meet in Kensington Gardens an old friend—than—than—really —than anything!"
"An old friend, Mrs. Gray!"
"Why, of course; the lady to whom I spoke."
"Miss O'Reilly!" I exclaimed; then immediately felt dismayed at my own imprudence.
But Mrs. Gray was getting bold, and replied, very calmly—
"Yes, I believe her name is O'Reilly; but I do not see anything wonderful in that; as I believe O'Reilly is a very common Irish name."
"And you know her, Mrs. Gray?" I said, eagerly.
"I may safely say I have known her years. For it is now twenty years since I met her at an evening party; I had forgotten her name, but not her face, and being greatly pleased to see her again, I asked her to come and take tea with me to-morrow evening."
"Did you meet her brother at that party, Ma'am?" I asked eagerly.
"Has she got a brother, my dear?" calmly inquired Mrs. Gray.
"Yes, Ma'am, the gentleman who was with her."
"Ah, indeed! the artist we saw yesterday—peculiar! No, my dear, I cannot say I met him."
I saw with some disappointment that Cornelius was not included in the invitation; but I tried to look to the morrow without ungrateful repining; it came, and brought Kate alone, but not the less welcome.
I have often wondered at Mrs. Gray's motives for acting thus; but her character was an odd mixture of sincerity and craft, of daring and timidity. She was kind-hearted enough to like obliging me and woman enough to cherish a feminine pique against Mr. Thornton for not being more frank and explicit with her; besides her life was so dull that a little gentle excitement and mystery were not things to be rejected lightly; and then, as she was in independent circumstances, and had taken me more for society than for profit, she was naturally less apt to regard the consequences of her conduct.
Kate now came to see me freely, and yet I was not happy. Her brother, who had seemed so pleased, so glad when he met me in the Gardens, came not.
"Oh, Kate!" I said, very sadly, "he does not care for me after all."
"Nonsense, child! I tell you he was miserable when he found that Mr. Thornton had taken you no one knew where; why, he got thin with hunting up and down for you; he had no peace himself and gave none to others. Whereas, on the day he met you, he came in looking as gay as a lark, and exclaiming the first thing, 'I have got her, Kate!'"
"Yes, but he does not come."
"Men are so. He is fond of you, and he neglects you, that is their way, child."
This gave me little comfort, but at length one morning when I least expected him, Cornelius suddenly called to see me, and to give me, with the consent of Mrs. Gray, my long-promised walk. He kissed me carelessly; his face looked worn; his way of speaking was short and dissatisfied. As we left Mrs. Gray's house and turned round the square, he asked where I wished to go, in a way that implied that, on taking me out for this walk, he rather thought to get rid of it than to please either himself or me. I replied timidly, that I did not care where we went.
"Are you getting shy with me?" he asked, giving me a keen and surprised look.
I answered "No," with a consciousness that I should have said yes. Cornelius looked at me again, but did not speak until we had for some time walked on in silence. He then observed abruptly—
"How do you like being at Mrs. Gray's?"
"Pretty well."
"Viz. not much."
"I do not complain, Cornelius, she is very kind."
"And she gives you a very good character, and I have assured her she told me nothing new."
He had laid his hand on my shoulder, and he looked into my face with all the kindness of old times. I replied in a low tone—
"It was very kind of you, Cornelius, to say so."
"I only said what I thought; you need not thank me for it."
He spoke impatiently; I did not reply, and there was another long pause.
"Are you tired?" at length asked Cornelius, who was leading me through streets and bye places of which I knew nothing.
"A little."
"And there is not even a shop where I could make you rest; why did not you say so sooner?"
"I did not like to delay you."
"The next thing will be, that you will call me Mr. O'Reilly. Well, it is your own fault, and you will have to walk further before you rest, for I am taking you into the country."
We walked on until the houses grew thinner and began to skirt green fields. The sun was hot, and I found it pleasant to enter a cool and shady lane. There was a bank on which I could have rested, but Cornelius seemed to have forgotten my fatigue; he walked on, looking so abstracted that I did not dare to address him. At length we reached the corner of the lane, and turned into one so exactly like that leading to our old home, that I stopped short.
"Come on," coolly said Cornelius.
I did go on; every step showed me I had not been deceived; I recognized the hedges, the trees, with a beating heart. At length we came to the door I knew so well. Cornelius opened it with a latch-key, and without giving me a look, led me in. We crossed the garden, passed by the sun- dial, stept in beneath the ivied porch, and entered the front parlour, where, by the window, in the cool shade of green Venetian blinds, Kate sat sewing.
I felt like one in a dream. Cornelius had dropped my hand; I stood at the door silent, motionless, not knowing whether I was to come forward or not, when Kate laid down her work and looked up.
"God bless me!" she exclaimed with a start, and she seemed so much astonished that I saw this was as great a matter of surprise to her as to me.
"Yes," Cornelius carelessly said, throwing himself down on the sofa, "I had long promised Daisy a walk, and not knowing where to take her, I brought her here."
By this I had found my way to Kate, who kissed me with her eyes glistening. I think she was as much pleased as myself; and yet with what an odd mixture of feelings I gazed on my lost home! how strange, how familiar seemed everything! As Kate took off my bonnet she said, decisively—
"You shall stay the whole day, Daisy."
"Then you must answer for it to Mrs. Gray," observed Cornelius.
"To be sure. Are you hungry, Midge?—No? What do you want, then?—Nothing?"
"I am tired; I should like to sit down."
"Sit down by all means, child," she replied gaily.
I drew my old stool by her chair, and laid my head on her lap. She smiled and smoothed back my hair from my hot face: her other hand lay near it: I kissed it with trembling lips. It was kind of Cornelius—if he could no longer afford to be kind himself—to bring me back at least to her whose kindness, less tender and delightful, but more constant than his, had never failed me. Kate, who had put by her work, sat looking at me with a cheerful happy face.
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, and perceiving that my eyes fast filled with tears, "you are not crying, Daisy?"
"And if I do cry," I hastily replied, "it is only because I am so happy to see you again."
She laughed and said—
"Why, child, this is Tuesday, and I saw you on Sunday."
"Well, I did not see you on Monday, did I?"
"Little flatterer!" she answered, yet she looked pleased, for love is to us all the sweetest thing on earth.
We remained thus for awhile; then Kate rose to attend to some domestic concerns. I wanted to follow her, but she told me to remain with Cornelius. I obeyed reluctantly; to be with him and not feel between us the friendly familiarity of old times, was no enjoyment, but a painful pleasure. I did not go near him, I did not speak; I sat on the chair Kate had left, and looked out of the window. He never addressed me; after awhile I heard him rise and leave the room. At once I slipped down to Kate, whom I found in the kitchen deep in pastry.
"Now child, what brings you here?" she asked, turning round, and all covered with flour.
"I want to be with you, Kate."
"I am making a pie."
"Then let me look at you."
"Why did you leave Cornelius?"
"It was he who left the parlour."
She wanted me to go up to the garden; but I begged so hard to remain with her, that she at length consented. I left her but once during the whole of that day, and then it was to knock at the door of the studio and tell Cornelius dinner was ready. When we sat down to the meal, I drew my chair close to hers; my old place was by Cornelius, but unless he told me to sit there again, which he did not, I did not feel as if I dare do so. He scarcely took any notice of me, and immediately after dinner again went up to his labour.
"Go after him," suggested Kate.
"I would rather stay here," I replied, startled at the idea.
"Stay then."
We sat together in the parlour until tea-time. Alas! how swiftly seemed to come round the hour that was to close this happy day; for, sitting below with Kate, conscious that Cornelius was upstairs working, reminded of old times by everything I saw, I did feel very happy.
As we sat at tea, Kate suddenly exclaimed, "Why, it is raining hard!"
"Yes, it is," carelessly replied Cornelius.
"Then the child must spend the night here."
"I suppose so."
I threw my arm around the neck of Kate, and kissed her as I joyfully exclaimed, "I shall sleep in my room again!"
"Which is no reason for spilling my tea, you foolish little thing."
After tea I quite expected that Cornelius would go out or Miriam come in; but he sat reading, and Miss Russell never appeared; her name was not even mentioned. I had taken my place by Kate, and, in the joy of my heart, I could not refrain from indulging in a few caresses. She endured me for some time, but, though kind, she was not exactly affectionate, and she at length said good-humouredly but decisively—
"Daisy, my good child, don't hang about me so. I like you, but I might say something sharp; so just take that kiss, and do with it."
She said this so pleasantly, and kissed me so kindly as she said it, that there was no taking it amiss, nor was there any disobeying it; so I sighed, drew back, and kept in my feelings. To Cornelius I never ventured to speak, unless to hid him good-night.
I woke the next morning with the consciousness that my brief happiness was over. The day was bright with sunshine; the blue sky had not a sign of coming cloud; there was not the faintest hope of a drop of rain to delay my departure. I came down with a somewhat heavy heart. Kate was the first to broach the subject; breakfast was over, her brother was rising from the table; he sat down again as she said, "Cornelius, who is to take the child back?"
He looked at her, at me, hesitated a little, then said, "I know all you can object, Kate, all you can say beforehand, yet do not wonder when I tell you that I have come to the resolve of keeping Daisy at home."
"Here!" exclaimed Kate.
"Yes, here. I went to fetch her yesterday for that purpose. I have written to Mr. Thornton; it is all settled. Daisy is to stay here if she wishes."
"Cornelius," gravely said Kate, "have you reflected on what you are doing?"
"Very seriously; not that it required much reflection."
"Indeed but it did," interrupted his sister.
"Excuse me, Kate, it did not. When I thought it best for Daisy to leave us, it was because I also thought that my marriage would take place this summer; it is now postponed for at least a year or two. I never contemplated banishing Daisy from home for anything like that length of time. When I went for her yesterday, I was confirmed in my resolve by learning from Mrs. Gray that her health is still very uncertain. I found her myself pale and thin. Strangers cannot be supposed to care for her as you and I do, Kate. She is still very weak and delicate; her only place is home; for," he added, giving me a look of reproach, "Ihave never ceased to consider this as her home."
Kate gave him no direct answer, but, looking at him fixedly, she said,"Does Miss Russell know this?"
"No," he replied, looking pained, "she does not, Kate. I see by the question that your old suspicion still survives. On my word Miriam had nothing to do with making me send away Daisy; she even raised several objections to it; she will be truly pleased to learn that the child is come back."
Miss O'Reilly looked incredulous, but, glancing out at the window, she said, "Here is your letter, Cornelius."
He started up; the postman gave that knock which has moved to joy or sorrow so many hearts; a letter was brought in; Cornelius snatched it from Deborah, and eagerly broke the seal; it looked long; he was soon absorbed.
Kate repressed a sigh to turn to me, and say in her most cheerful accents, "What do you say to all this?"
I was standing by her chair; I laid my cheek to hers as I replied, "The week will be made up of Sundays."
"Were the Sundays so pleasant?"
"As pleasant as the Saturdays seemed long."
"Well, they need be neither short nor long now; only, child, don't you remember?"
"What, Kate?"
"If you hang about me I shall scold."
"Then let me deserve the scolding," I replied, covering her brow and hair with kisses, and half laughing, half crying for joy.
She looked at me wistfully, for once letting me do as I liked, and saying "she did not feel as if she could scold me to-day."
"Because you are too good," I answered, in a low, moved tone. "Oh, Kate, shall I ever forget how you never forgot me; how constantly you came to see me Sunday after Sunday!"
Here I stopped short, for I caught the look of Cornelius, who had laid down his letter, and was evidently listening.
"What else had I to do?" asked Kate, cheerfully.
She rose to go downstairs. I wanted to go with her, but she gaily told me she no more fancied being followed than being hung about, so I had to remain behind, but with the blessed consciousness, it is true, that there was to be no second parting. Joy made me restless. I knew not what to do with myself. I went to the window; I looked at the flowers, at the books, and finally at Cornelius, who, to read his letter more comfortably, was sitting on the sofa. I saw that when he had done he began it over again. It was a lady's hand; there was no difficulty in guessing from whom it came. When the second perusal was over he looked up; as our eyes met I came forward rather hesitatingly, and standing before him, I said—
"May I speak to you, Cornelius?"
"Certainly, but do not be too long about it?"
"It will not take long. I only want to thank you for having brought me home to Kate."
"You thank me for that?"
"Yes, Cornelius, it has made me so happy."
"I am glad to hear it, though I did not mean it."
"Did you not?" I replied, rather mortified.
"No," he continued, in an indifferent tone, "not at all. It is true there was once a little girl who used not to be shy and distant with me"—I drew a little nearer—"who would not speak to me standing, but sitting by my side"—I sat down by him—"and whom I used to call my child," continued Cornelius without looking at me; "and it is also true," he added in the same way, "that feeling rather dull, I thought one morning I would go and bring her home; but if there was any kindness in this, I cannot say I meant it all for her or for Kate."
He turned round, smiling as he spoke. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him eagerly. I felt so happy; he laughed.
"Poor Kate!" he said, gaily, "well may she object to being hung on after this fashion; but I am used to it."
"If you had not spoken so, you know I should not," I replied, half offended.
"No, you sulky little thing," he said almost indignantly, "I know you would not: what between obstinacy and pride, you would never give in. But you mistook, Daisy, if you thought you could make me fancy you preferred Kate to me."
"As if I was not sure you knew better!" I answered, with the frank ingratitude of my years.
"Thank you, Daisy," said the somewhat sorrowful voice of Kate.
I looked up. She was standing behind us; she had evidently overheard our last words. I felt myself crimsoning with shame, and hid my face on the shoulder of Cornelius.
"Don't hide your face, child," quietly observed Kate, "I do not prefer you: why should you prefer me? Besides, loving him more is not loving me less, and I was not so foolish as not to know it was thus: so look up."
"Yes, look up," said Cornelius, raising my face. "Kate is not vexed with you."
"But Kate is vexed with you, Cornelius," she remarked, very gravely: "do you mean to spoil that child, to—"
"Yes," interrupted Cornelius.
"Oh! you may make light of it," she continued very seriously; "I am not so blind as not to guess that you brought her home a little for her sake, and a good deal for your own."
"'Faith, then, you only guess the truth, Kate," said Cornelius, impatiently; "it is odd you never seem to understand what, heaven knows, I never seek to hide, nor dream to deny. I am fond of the child, very fond of her. I cared little for her when she came first to us, but she chose to take a fancy to me, and, though it would puzzle me to say how it came to pass, I found out in time that I had taken to her what must have been a very real fancy, for since she left I have never felt as if the house were the same without her. So after a week's hesitation and delay I went off and fetched her yesterday—and I don't repent it, Kate. She has provoked and tormented me—she will do so again, I have no doubt, perverse little creature! and yet I cannot help being glad at having her once more."
He laid his hand on my head and looked me kindly in the face as he said it.
"After that," resignedly replied Kate, "meddling of mine is worse than useless; but what did Mr. Thornton say?"
"Mr. Thornton has had the impertinence to say that if Margaret Burns is such a fool as to wish to stay with me, she is welcome."
Kate smiled, and said, "If I wished to go down with her I might."
"Daisy is not going down, but up," replied Cornelius, taking me by the hand and leading me to the studio; as we entered it he said—
"Daisy, you knocked at the door yesterday, and stood on the threshold: I won't have that again."
"Very well, Cornelius; shall I arrange the portfolios?"
"If you like."
I looked over them for awhile, then could not help observing—
"Cornelius, they look just as I left them."
"Perhaps they are: one cannot be always looking at those old things."
I put by the portfolio and looked around me. In a corner I perceived Medora; I knew enough of painting to see at a glance that it had scarcely been touched since I had left home. Cornelius was very apt to begin pictures, and leave them by for some other fancy: Medora had thus replaced the Stolen Child, but I looked in vain for the successor of Medora.
"Where is it, Cornelius?" I asked at length.
"Where is what, child?" he replied, turning round.
"The other picture."
"What other picture?"
"The one for which you put by Medora."
I was looking at him very earnestly: I saw him redden.
"There is no other picture," he answered; "I have been obliged to work for money; to do such things as this," he added, pointing with a sigh to the painting which he was copying.
"Have you earned much money?" I asked seriously.
"A little," he replied smiling.
"Do you think you will sell the Happy Time?"
"I have hopes of it: why do you ask, child?"
"Because by putting all your money together, you will be able to begin it."
"Begin what?"
"The picture."
"But, child, there is no picture," he answered impatiently.
I looked at him with astonishment that seemed to embarrass him. I knew from Kate that the Happy Time had been received with perfect indifference by the public and critics, and that, under such circumstances, Cornelius should neither be painting a picture nor yet contemplating one, seemed incredible. What ailed his mind, once so full of projects? What had become of our gallery? I could not understand it. For some hours I sat watching him at his copy, until at length he put it by, saying—
"Thank heaven, it is finished!"
"Are you going to begin another?" I inquired.
"Not to-day; I hope to get some work to-morrow though."
"You hope? do you like it, Cornelius?"
"You know well enough I hate it," he answered with evident irritation; "ah! Daisy, when shall I be a free man?"
He looked depressed, but for a moment only; the next he turned to me saying—
"Perhaps you would like to go down to Kate?"
"No, Cornelius, I would rather stay and look on at you painting."
"You are very obstinate. I have told you over and over that I am not going to paint. Paint! what could I paint?"
"Medora."
"I want Miss Russell, who is at Hastings with her aunt; even if she were here, it is ten to one whether she could give me a sitting, the smell of the paint gave her such dreadful headaches, that it is a mercy they did not end in neuralgia. And now, child, go downstairs or stay here just as you like, but do not disturb me any more; I have a letter to write."
He opened his desk and began writing. Once or twice I ventured to speak, but he told me so shortly that he could not attend to me, and it was so plain that painting was nothing to letter-writing, that I at length remained silent. This lasted until dinner-time. After dinner Cornelius went to post his letter—an office he never entrusted to profane hands; I remained alone with Kate; I could not help speaking to her.
"Does not Cornelius paint any more pictures?" I asked, looking up at her.
"Ah! you have found it out, have you?" she replied, a little bitterly; "why, child, he has been losing his time in the most miserable fashion. Not that he did not work, poor fellow; he worked himself to death, all to get married to her; but she changed her mind; suddenly discovered he was too young, that it must be deferred, and, leaving him to enjoy his disappointment, went off to Hastings a fortnight ago. He was quite cut up for the first week; but he is coming round now, only I fancy he is getting rather sick of slop-work, that leads to nothing, not even to marriage. As for her, poor thing, if she is gone with the belief that Cornelius is the man to sit down and make a woman the aim of his life, she will find herself wofully mistaken, I can tell her."
More than this Miss O'Reilly did not say, but everything confirmed her words. When Cornelius came in, he said it was a beautiful afternoon, and that, if I liked, he would take me for a stroll in the lanes. I felt myself reddening for joy; this was, I knew, a great favour, and showed that Cornelius must be quite in the mood for petting and indulging me. He liked me, but he was not fond of walking out with me; his walks were almost always solitary, and extended for miles into the country. I therefore replied with a most eager "Yes," and got ready so promptly, that in less than ten minutes Cornelius and I were again wandering in the lanes hand in hand. When I felt tired we sat down on a fallen tree. I enjoyed the blue sky with its light vapoury clouds; the warm, ardent sunshine; the sharply defined, though ever-waving shadow of the tall tree under whose shelter we rested; the vivid green of the opposite hedge, through whose verdure shone the cool white flowers of the bind-weed; the rich luxuriant grass that rose from the ditch all straight and still in the burning heat of the day; the breeze that now and then passed over and through all this little wilderness; the low hum of insects; the song of birds from distant parks and gardens; everything charmed—enchanted me, but nothing half so much as sitting thus again near Cornelius.
"Daisy," he exclaimed, suddenly perceiving that which had until then escaped his attention, "what on earth are you carrying?"
"Your sketch-book, Cornelius; you had forgotten it."
He looked at me as if he attributed to me some secret motive, of which I was certainly innocent. I had never known Cornelius to go out without his sketch-book, and I dreamt of nothing beyond my words and their simplest meaning.
"Did you not want it?" I asked, surprised at his fixed glance.
"No," was the short reply.
"But there is no harm in having brought it; is there, Cornelius?"
"None, save that you have burdened yourself uselessly: give it to me."
"May I not look at it?"
"You may, but you will find nothing new."
This was not strictly correct; I at once detected and pointed out to Cornelius several sketches new to me, and, though he at first denied it, the dates proved me to be in the right.
"You have a good memory," he said, smiling.
"As if it were likely I should forget any of your drawings or sketches! But why is not that last one of the two boys finished? it looks so pretty."
"It would have been a nice little thing," he replied, looking at it with regret, "and I had bribed them into sitting so quietly, but Miriam said they were tired, and insisted on my releasing them. I had lured them into the garden. She opened the door, and they scampered off."
"What a shame!" I exclaimed, with a degree of indignation that amused Cornelius; but for all that he shut up the sketch-book, which was no more opened that day. Our walk over, we came home; the evening, warm and summer-like, was pleasantly spent in the garden.
Early on the following morning Cornelius went out to look for the promised work. The first thing he did on coming home was to read the letter that lay waiting for him on the breakfast-table; when that was done he condescended to sit down and eat. Kate asked if he had succeeded in accomplishing his errand.
"No, indeed," he replied, with evident irritation. "Mr. Redmond was not even at home. I shall have the pleasure of another journey. Oh! Kate, I am sick of it!"
He sighed profoundly, then took up his letter, and went upstairs.
"Yes, yes, go and write," muttered Kate as the door closed upon him, "lose your time, waste your days, that is just what she wants. Midge, will you never leave off that habit of looking and listening? go upstairs, only do not talk to Cornelius whilst he is writing, or he will fly out: I warn you."
I obeyed. I went up to the studio, entered softly, and closed the door very gently: yet Cornelius heard me, for he looked up at once from his writing.
"My dear," he said, "there will be neither painting nor drawing to-day."
"Am I in the way, Cornelius?"
"No, but you will have to stay quiet, and when I have done writing I shall go to town again."
I accepted the conditions, and obeyed them so scrupulously that I did not once open my lips until Cornelius, turning round and looking at me as I lay on the couch, asked if I did not feel tired. I replied, I did not mind, and was his letter finished?
"I have only a few lines more to add," he answered.
The few lines must have been pages, they took so long to indite. The little studio was burning hot; Cornelius was too much absorbed to be conscious of this, but I felt faint and drowsy. I drew myself up on the couch, laid my head on the cushion, looked at him as he bent with unwearied ardour over his desk, then closed my eyes and fell asleep to the sound of his pen still zealously running along the paper.
I know not how long I slept; I was partly awakened by a sound of whispering voices.
"The dinner will be ruined," said Kate.
"What is a dinner in comparison with a drawing?"
"I don't know—and don't care; a cook has no feelings."
"Another hour."
"Do you want to make yourself and the child ill?"
"I never know what hunger is whilst I am at work; and how can Daisy feel the fasting whilst she sleeps? As soon as she wakens, I leave off."
"Leave off now and finish to-morrow."
"Oh, Kate! is it possible you do not see how very charming that attitude is? I should never have hit on anything half so graceful or so picturesque. The least movement on her part might spoil it."
"I fancy I saw her stir."
"I hope not," he replied hastily. I heard him approach; he bent over me, for I felt his breath on my face, but I kept my eyes closed, and never moved. Cornelius turned away, and whispering to his sister that there never had been a deeper slumber, he begged of her to leave him. She yielded, and I heard him securing himself against further intrusion by locking the door, before he returned to his interrupted task.
It was well for me that I had so long been accustomed to sitting, or I could not have borne the hour that followed. Even as it was, I felt as if Cornelius would never have done. At length he came up to me, took my hand, and called me. I opened my eyes, and saw him standing by the couch, and smiling down at me.
"Why," he said gaily, "you are as bad as the sleeping beauty."
I did not reply, but rose—he little guessed with how much pleasure. He showed me the sketch he had been taking of me, and asked what I thought of it. I could not answer; I felt so giddy and faint.
"You are still half asleep," he observed, impatiently, "or you would see at once I have not done anything half so good this long time."
He held it out at arm's length, looked at it admiringly, then laid it by, and went downstairs. I followed, but kept somewhat in the rear. I feared both the keen eyes and the direct questions of Kate. Her first indignant words, as we sat down to dinner, were—
"I am astonished, Cornelius, at your cruelty; the poor child is pale with fasting."
"Indeed, Kate, I had to waken her."
"Nonsense!"
"Yes, it is peculiar," he quietly replied; "I hope it is not a bad symptom."
"A symptom indeed, as if I could believe in it! Why, she has been imposing on you; look at her—guilty little thing!"
Cornelius laid down his knife and fork to give me an astonished look.
"Deceitful girl!" exclaimed Kate, quite sharply; "how dare you do such a thing—to go and impose on Cornelius!—for shame!"
She lectured me on the text with some severity.
Cornelius never said to me one word of blame or approbation.
"I hope," gravely observed his sister, when the meal was over, "you will not let that pass, Cornelius. She must not be encouraged in deceit."
"Certainly not; and I have already devised a punishment. Come here,Daisy."
I rose and obeyed.
"Do you know," he said, as I stood before him, "that you have been guilty of a very impertinent action—imposed upon me, as Kate says?"
"Don't be too strict, Cornelius," put in Kate, "she meant well."
"I have nothing to do with that: it was an impertinence; consequently, instead of the week's holiday I meant to give her, she shall resume her studies this very evening, and, lest you should prove too lenient, Kate, I shall take care to examine her myself."
I looked at him eagerly; he was smiling. I understood what the punishment meant, and drawing nearer, I stooped to embrace him.
"There never was such a girl!" he said, pretending to avert his face; "she knows how vexed I am with her, and yet—you see it—she insists on kissing me."
"Foolish fellow, foolish fellow!" muttered Kate.
I liked study, and I loved my dear master. I went and fetched a heap of books, which I brought to him, breathlessly asking what I was to learn: he had only to speak, I was ready; I was in a mood not to be frightened at the severe face of Algebra herself. He replied, that we should first see where I had left off with him, and how I had got on since then. The examination was tedious, but Cornelius warmly declared that it did me great credit, and that few girls of my age knew so well what they did know. He appointed my tasks for the next day, then rose to go and smoke a cigar in the garden, which, seen through the back-parlour window, looked cool and grey in evening dusk.
"Did you post your letter?" suddenly asked Kate.
Cornelius looked startled and dismayed; it was plain he had forgotten all about it.
"What will she think?" he exclaimed, reddening: "it was the drawing did it. How provoking!"