I know not whether my native air did me good, or whether, had I even remained in the Grove, a crisis in my health would have taken place, but I know that to Kate's great joy I grew so strong and well, that she declared the change all but miraculous. I felt an altered being. My love of silence and repose vanished; I now rejoiced in motion and out-door exercise with all the unquiet delight of youth, and thirsted, with ever new longing, for air and liberty.
Scarce passed a day but I went down the path that led from our garden to the sands, and I wandered away along the rock-bound coast. This part of the country was both safe and retired; few met or noticed me in my solitary haunts, and I feared harm from none. It was often dusk when I returned to the white cottage, whose light burned like a solitary star on the heights above. I loved these lonely wanderings. I loved that barrier of steep and fantastic rock which ran along the coast, and fenced it in from the outer world; that long line of winding shore, fading in faint mists, until it rested, like a low cloud, on the distant horizon; that sea, whose waves broke at my feet, and yet seemed to extend beyond the power of mortal ken to follow, whilst the hollow sky, bent down from above and enclosing all, gave a sense of limit in the very midst of infinite.
Leigh does not by any means belong to the most romantic and picturesque part of the western coast; but on whatever shore the sea-waves break, there always is a great and dreary beauty. To sit on a lonely rock, to watch the fishing boats as they slowly sailed along the coast, or the ships on their distant track, to feel the solemn vastness of all around me, to note the rapid and almost infinite changes of light ever passing over rock, sea, and sky, to listen to the sounds which varied from the loudest roar of the swelling tide breaking at my feet, down to its lowest receding murmur, but that never ceased to echo, rise, and die away amongst those lonely cliffs, was to me a delight beyond all else.
There were pleasant walks about Leigh, but I soon wearied of them, and ever returned to my barren and much-loved coast. There I learned to know the sea under all her aspects. I saw her in sunshine, spreading peacefully beneath cloudless heavens, like them, an image of serenity and repose, and idly speeding on the light crafts that pursued their way with indolent and careless grace. I saw her in storm, darkness brooding over her heaving waters, her vast, white-crested billows rearing like angry serpents against the lowering sky, her hovering flocks of pale sea-birds rising and sinking to every motion of the waves like evil spirits rejoicing in the tempest, whilst some bold ship, with mainmast broken, with torn sails fluttering like banners on a battle day, sped past amidst the turmoil of wind and wave, riding the waters with a triumphant power that banished fear, and made you feel she would yet reach the port, and weather many another storm. I also found in the ocean other aspects less definite, but to me not less impressive,—the desolate and the bleak, when the wide waters of a dull green hue rolled sluggishly along or heavily beat the sandy beach, whilst fleecy clouds slowly passed over a misty sky where grey melted into paler grey, giving that sense of vague and melancholy infinite which can only be felt on the wild northern shores.
I delighted in this wild and lonely life, and seldom felt the utter solitude of my daily haunts. Sometimes indeed, when I chanced to meet in the sand the mark of my own footprints, which no other steps had crossed since I had passed there, which the wind alone would efface or the tide wash away, a sense of sudden sadness came over me. It seemed as if a friend, whom I never could meet or overtake, had made and left that track for me to see. I felt vaguely that she who had passed there was not quite the same who passed now. Only a few days perhaps had gone by: but of those few days, unseen and unfelt as they speed on, is made up not only the sum, but also the ceaseless change of this our earthly life.
Dearly as I have loved solitude, I hold it no unmixed good. Woe to the communion with nature that is only a brooding over self, and not a mingling of the soul with the Almighty Creator of all we behold; that seeks in her loveliness none save the images of voluptuous indulgence, and leaves by unread her purer teaching! Rightly even in innocent things have we been warned to guard our senses and our hearts. For this I hold ye dangerous, ye sheltered valleys, with quiet rivers gliding through, with green woods and lovely paths leading we know not where, with peaceful dwellings embosomed in the shade, and looking like so many abodes of love and happiness. What though we know that the golden age was all a fable and pastoral bliss the dream of poets, that innocence and peace dwell not here, though here passion and satiety can penetrate as surely as in the crowded city? Yet who, on beholding you, has not for a moment wished to live and die on your quiet bosom? Who has not felt that the thoughts you waken melt and subdue the heart, and haunt it vaguely for many a day, and enervate it with longing dreams and desires that savour too much of earth.
Not these the feelings which thou awakenest, thou austere sea,—austere in thy very beauty, in thy calmest and most unruffled moods. More true and honest are thy promises, which thou at least keepest faithfully,—the long, arduous strife against wind and storm, the tardy return of weatherbeaten mariners,—ay, and often too the wreck,—the wreck which may appal the weak, but never yet dismayed a brave heart;—these are the hopes thou holdest forth—these the promises which life, whom thou imagest, will fulfil, until her waves, calm or troubled, rough or smooth, lead us into that mysterious sea which man has named Eternity.
Our home existence was as quiet and secluded as my outward life. On settling at Leigh, Miss O'Reilly had come to a resolve which she thus imparted to me one evening:—"Daisy, you were too young when you left Leigh to know that because it is a small place it must have the inconvenience of all small places, in which life is a round of back- biting, quarrelling, envying, scandal, and gossip. Now we can't help being backbitten or talked about, but we can help doing it to others: the way, child, is to keep to ourselves and to see no one. We shall be hated, as a matter of course; thought proud, or still worse in England, poor. Never mind, child, those are not the things one cannot endure."
"Papa was thought proud," I said.
"And so he was, child; he had a mind above the paltriness of such a place as this,—of course he had: he never would have been a popular man anywhere, never. Well, as I was saying, child, we must bear with being thought proud and poor, for we shall make no acquaintances. A decent, civil intercourse we must certainly keep up with Miss Murray—she won't trouble us much, poor thing!—but beyond this we do not go. Now, you must not misunderstand me. I do not mean to keep you locked up, and if you can get acquainted with pleasant young people, I do not object. There is a dancing academy, it seems, and since your father wished you to learn how to dance, you must learn it, of course. If you meet there sensible girls whom you would like to see, see them here in liberty; but as to visiting their mammas, or being visited by them, I decline the honour."
Thus it was settled. We lived in our retired way; we were thought proud and poor; we saw Miss Murray every now and then in her own house, for to come near us was an exertion not to be thought of; I went to the academy, and learned how to dance, but I found all the young ladies so little to my taste, that with not one of them did I form an intimate acquaintance, and two years passed away in this quiet, monotonous life, varied by the letters of Cornelius.
Only a few were addressed to "his dear adopted child," but they were so kind, they breathed an affection so true, an interest so heartfelt, that to this day, and spite of all that has passed since then, I cannot look over them without emotion. In all his letters, Cornelius spoke of course of his art and his prospects. He was enchanted with Rome, and ardent with hope; but he did not think it worth while to send home anything before his return. He thought he might just as well wait until he was coming back, and take the public by storm. Miss O'Reilly thought so too, and we accordingly expected her brother in the spring of the second year following his departure. A somewhat enigmatic letter, in which he expressed his great wish of seeing us both again, confirmed this impression.
"Depend upon it, Daisy," said Miss O'Reilly to me, "he means to take us, like the public, by surprise."
The mere thought took away my breath.
"Oh, Kate!" I exclaimed, laying down my work, "if he were to enter the room now, what should I do?"
"I am sure I don't know," replied Kate, looking up from her letter, "you look wild enough for anything. Go and take a walk, child, and calm yourself down with the fresh seabreeze. We are in March, I don't expect him for a fortnight or three weeks yet. Go out, I say; he must find you fresh and healthy."
"You don't think he will come whilst I am out, Kate?"
"Bless the child! no; I tell you not to expect him for three weeks."
I sighed; three weeks seemed an age, and, spite of her assurances, I had a nervous apprehension that Cornelius would arrive precisely whilst I was away; yet I yielded to her behest of going out. I wanted to see William Murray, and tell him the happy tidings; so I just put on my bonnet and cloak, and hastened down to the sands. It was a mild afternoon; the sky was clear, earth was silent, the cliffs rose grey and lonely, the flat beach was yet wet with the retreating tide that had left many a wide shallow pool behind, the far sea lay calm and still, and over sky, earth, cliffs, beach and sea, the setting sun shed a pale, golden glow. I walked fast, looking out for William, whom I at length saw coming towards me. And this reminds me I have neglected to mention how my acquaintance with him was renewed, after so long an interruption.
We had not parted very good friends. He had called me "a sulky little monkey," and if I had not retaliated, I had nevertheless internally considered him a young bear then and ever since. When, shortly after our return to Leigh, I met him at his aunt's house, William, who was nearly two years my senior, was in all the charming roughness of his sex in the teens. He had not yet got over being left to petticoat government, as he termed the rule of his gentle aunt, and accordingly vented the indignation of his injured manliness on her female friends. On seeing us enter the room in which Miss Murray sat in her usual shady state, her amiable nephew thrust his hands into his pockets, and began whistling with all his might. Miss O'Reilly took no notice of this, but in the course of conversation she quietly observed to Miss Murray—
"What a fine boy your nephew is, Ma'am?"
"Ah! if he were only a good boy!" sighed Miss Murray.
William was then turned seventeen; but he looked about fourteen; the observation of Kate was therefore doubly insulting. I know not whether it was to show his resentment, that at tea he shuffled and kicked his feet under the table to such a degree, that his aunt, laying down her cup, solemnly inquired, "If he intended to break her heart, as he was ruining her furniture and endangering the shins of her guests?" To which delicate question, the only reply William deigned to give was a scowl over his tea-cup, and a sarcastic intimation at the close of the meal, that "tea was the greatest slop and most womanish stuffhehad ever tasted."
"Milk and water is decidedly more wholesome for children," mischievously said Kate.
William turned scarlet, stabbed her with a look, rose and left the room, slamming the door after him. Miss Murray produced her handkerchief, and looked pitiful.
"I appeal to you, Ma'am, is not mine a dreadful, a lamentable case! That boy, Ma'am, is the misery of my life; twice he has run away, and has had to be pursued and caught; each time offering the most desperate resistance."
"He is but a boy," good-humouredly observed Kate, "he will grow out of all this."
Miss Murray however, for a reason very different from that of Rachel, would not be comforted, and lamented the length of the holidays. Kate herself changed her opinion when she discovered on the following morning the manner in which the shoes of William had used her light grey silk. She called him a little wretch; and, in her indignation, wondered what could tempt his aunt to have him pursued and brought back, when by absconding he had offered her so easy a method of getting rid of him altogether. I almost concurred in this opinion, and altogether looked upon William as a sort of young Christian savage.
So far as I could see, the gracious youth did not trouble his aunt much with his company. I seldom or ever went down to the sands without meeting him with his dog 'Dash,' a shaggy-coated creature, as rough-looking as his master, who went whistling past me with superb indifference. I had met them thus one day, the youth climbing the cliffs, and the dog bounding on before him, and now and then turning round to utter a short joyous bark at his master, when, on returning homewards, I saw them again under altered circumstances. William sat on a rock at the base of the cliff, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and at his feet Dash lay dead. He had fallen from above, and been killed at once; his young master looked at him silently, and, as I approached, dashed away a furtive tear. I stood, unwilling to go on without having expressed sympathy or attempted consolation, and not knowing how to do either, I knelt on the sands and, caressing the poor dead dog, I hesitatingly observed—
"He was a very good dog, was he not?"
"There never was a better," replied William in a subdued voice.
"He seemed very clever."
"I could make him do anything. He'd dash in the roughest sea at a look, and if I only said 'Dash!' he'd look into my face, prick his ears, and be ready to fly off. Poor old Dash! he'll never do the bidding of his master again."
And he stooped over him to hide his tears.
"Was he old?" I asked.
"Just turned five; the prime age, you know; at four they are too young, and at six they are aging: five is the age for a dog. That was why he was such a beauty; see what a coat he had, what a deep broad chest, and such a back! I'll take a bet with any one, you can hear that dog's bark for miles along the coast; that is to say, one could have heard it, for Dash's barking is all ended and over now."
Thus poor William sat lamenting over his lost favourite, recording his virtues and some of his many exploits, when I said—
"I suppose you will bury him in Miss Murray's garden?"
"No, that I shan't," he replied indignantly, "he shall be buried where he fell, as they bury soldiers after battle."
So saying, he drew forth his knife, and began digging a deep and narrow grave at the base of the sea-washed cliff; he lined it softly with his handkerchief, saying as he did so—
"Won't Abby have a precious hunt for it?"
Then he took Dash, gave him a last caress, gently laid him in his grave, covered him over with sand and earth, and marked the spot with a fragment of rock, on which he carved the day of the month and year.
"Won't you put his name?" I asked.
"No. Dash answered and obeyed no one but me; his name is nothing to any one else, and I don't want to know it."
We walked on. As a projecting rock was going to hide the spot from our view, William turned round to give it one last glance, then he looked at me wishfully, and said, "I had him from a pup, and I taught him all his tricks."
From that day William and I were friends. We met to talk of Dash at first, and afterwards of other things, for even the best of dogs must expect to be forgotten. William generously forgave me my sex, and confided to me his troubles. His aunt, it seems, kindly intended him as a present to the Church, but William vowed no mortal power should induce him to turn a parson, and boldly declared for the sea, in a midshipman's berth, against which his aunt, whose ideas of nautical life were summed up in grog and biscuit, entered a solemn protest.
As we very seldom visited Miss Murray, and as she never visited us, I only saw William when I met him out, and that was often, for we loved the same solitary haunts and wild scenes. In parting we told one another what places we were to visit on the morrow, and William no more knew he had asked me for a meeting, than I knew I had granted him one. We followed the retreating tide to gather shells and sea-weeds, or ran hand in hand along the sands, laughing, because the keen breeze took away our breath, and the waves came dashing to our feet, covering us with spray. We climbed together the steepest cliffs for the mere love of danger, and risked our necks, ten times for one, by running down the same perilous path. When we felt tired, we sat down on some rock to rest, and William, drawing forth from his pocket 'The Dangers of the Deep,' made me low- spirited with dismal stories of lost or shipwrecked mariners. Friendships grow rapidly in youth, and by the close of William's holidays we were as free and intimate as if we had been in familiar intercourse for years.
I had told Miss O'Reilly of Dash's death and burial, and was beginning to state that William Murray was not quite so bad as he had appeared on our first interview, when she interrupted me with—
"Nonsense, child, the boy may have liked his dog; but what about it?"
Later, when I imparted to her the grievances of my friend, she treated them in the same careless, slighting way.
"Pooh! pooh!" she said, "does the little fellow think he knows his own mind? A midshipman! why the first breeze would whip him off the deck. He'll do a great deal better in the pulpit, so far as physical strength goes, but what sort of a preacher he will make is more than I can tell."
I was too much mortified by her tone and manner to renew the subject; but at the same time, and with the spirit of opposition of my years, I liked William all the better for being rather persecuted. Indeed, the aversion Kate had taken to my friend proved somewhat unfortunate, for, without intending any mystery, I forbore to mention his name to her; consequently she knew little or nothing of an intimacy which I have reason to believe she would have opposed from many motives, and to which her opposition would in the beginning have been a sufficient bar.
In spite of the ridicule with which Miss O'Reilly treated his pretensions to the sea, William Murray conquered his aunt's opposition, and, in the course of the ensuing spring, went forth on his first voyage. He remained a year away, and came back about a week before we received the letter which led us to expect the return of Cornelius. Our joy on seeing one another again was great; absence had not cooled our friendship; not a day passed but we met on the sands, and took long walks down the coast. I thought nothing of this until Miss O'Reilly said to me—
"William Murray is come back."
"Yes, I know," I replied, feeling that I turned crimson.
"And how do you know?" she asked, giving me an attentive look.
"I met him on the sands."
She did not ask me why I had not mentioned it to her sooner, but said quietly—
"That boy has grown very much."
The word "boy" relieved me greatly. Since William was only a boy, there could be no sort of harm or indiscretion in being so much with him, nor was there either any absolute necessity to mention the matter to Miss O'Reilly. So when, to quiet my anticipations, she sent me out for a walk, I did not inform her that one of my motives for complying with her request was to impart the tidings to William Murray. As I saw him advancing towards me, I eagerly ran to meet him.
"Oh, William," I cried joyfully, "I am so glad, so happy."
"Then Mr. O'Reilly is come back?" he said, stopping short to look at me.
"No; but he is coming soon, quite soon. Is it not delightful?"
"Indeed it is," he replied cordially; "tell me all about it, Daisy."
We sat down on a ledge of rock facing the sea, and I told him all there was to tell. He heard me with a pleased smile on his kind, handsome face, which he kept turned towards mine, as he sat there in a listening attitude. William was then between eighteen and nineteen. He was slight in figure, but above the middle height, and of a spirited bearing. His complexion, once too fair, had become embrowned by constant exposure, and spite of his light hair and blue eyes he looked sufficiently manly; his midshipman's attire became him well, and the consciousness of having entered active life had freed his manner from much of its ungracious roughness. Of these changes I was conscious, but other change I saw not: William was to me what he had been since we had become friends—frank, ingenuous, and boyish in his kindness. I had often spoken to him of Cornelius, and I now closed my brief recital with the remark—
"Oh, William! I am so happy that I scarcely know what to do with myself."
He looked at me silently, began tracing figures in the sand with a slender wand which he held, then suddenly looked up again, and said, very earnestly—
"He is quite like a father to you, Daisy."
"More than a father," I replied, ardently, "for a father is bound to do for his child what, of his own free-will, Cornelius did for me. And then so kind! always giving me new playthings, or books, or things I liked."
"And you were quite like a daughter to him."
"I was, and am. Look, here is his last letter, beginning with 'my dear child,' and signed, 'your old friend, Cornelius;' but I have another at home, in which he actually calls me 'his dear, adopted daughter.' I am quite proud of it, for he is to be very celebrated, you know, and it is a great honour."
William again traced figures in the sand, but he did not speak.
"Well," I said, bending down to look at him, "what are you thinking of?"
"That I should like you to be proud of being my friend," he replied, with an earnest look.
"I am proud of it, so you have your wish."
"Yes, but I should like you to have cause, and also, Daisy, I should like to do something to please you. I wish I could."
"And so do I," 1 answered, laughing, "for you would bring him back at once."
"Indeed I would: in the first place, because your heart is set upon it; in the second, because I very much wish to know Mr. O'Reilly. I like him for your sake, and all he has done for you; and then, from what you tell me, I am sure he is a thoroughly good man."
I could not help laying my hand on the arm of William, and replying earnestly—
"Indeed, William, he is a good man, and when you see and know him, you will find that you were not mistaken, though good is not, I dare say, the word most people would apply to Cornelius O'Reilly."
William took this as a compliment to his penetration, and was rather gratified. The sun had set, grey evening was closing in; we rose, and walking together along the silent beach, we talked of Cornelius, and laid down plans of pleasant excursions up the coast, and far down the inland valleys, to be undertaken after his return. But, to our mutual mortification, William's leave of absence expired, nay the Academy opened, and Cornelius came not back to take us and the public by surprise. In her indignation, Miss O'Reilly declared that there could be but one interpretation given to such extraordinary conduct—"Cornelius has got entangled."
"How so, Kate?" I asked.
"Why, he is either married or going to be married to some Italian lady; that is it."
"Do you think so?" I asked quietly.
"Bless the child, how coolly she takes it!" exclaimed Kate, half angrily.
"I have no right to take it otherwise, Kate; besides, provided Cornelius comes back to us, what matter?"
"What matter! suppose he has been married all this time, and has a family about him!"
"I don't think Cornelius would marry as if he were ashamed of himself," I replied, rather indignantly; "then how can he have a family in two years? and even if he had—"
"Nonsense, child!" interrupted Kate, impatiently, "I don't speak of it as a fact, and there you go, coolly dissecting every hasty word I utter, as if I were giving evidence before judge and jury!"
"Well, Kate, all I mean to say is this—if Cornelius has a wife and children, where is the harm, provided he does not settle in Italy?"
Miss O'Reilly was of a very different opinion, and, as she seemed inclined to be vexed with me for disagreeing with her, I dropped the subject and proposed a walk. She shortly replied that with an Italian sister-in-law in prospect she did not feel disposed for walking; but that, as the matter did not touch me, I was quite right in not taking it to heart. I did not answer; I did not wish to add to her annoyance by letting her see how bitter was my disappointment at the prolonged absence of Cornelius, and the voluntary obscurity under which he lingered.
The thought kept me awake in bed beyond my usual hour; but at length I slept. I awoke with a sudden start, I myself knew not why; I thought I had heard something in my sleep, what I could not tell. I sat up and listened; yes, there was a sound of voices below in the parlour. I rose and opened my door softly. One of the voices was that of Kate: the other—unheard for two years, but not forgotten?-was that so well known and so dear, of her brother. I did not give myself time for joy; I dressed hurriedly and slipped down. The parlour door stood ajar; I looked in; he sat by Kate, bending over her and embracing her with a fondness which, as I felt, a little jealously, she had not called me down to share. He sat with his back turned to me, and saw me not; the floor was carpeted, my step was always light; I stood by his side ere he was conscious of my presence. I wished to speak, but the words died unuttered on my lips; I remained standing there, mute, motionless, and trembling from head to foot.
"Daisy!" he exclaimed, starting up. His arms were around me—I was gathered to his heart.
"Well!" he said, "what is the matter with you? You do not even give me a kiss. Have I grown strange?"
I did not answer; a singular feeling was coming over me; a mist fell on my eyes; the room seemed, with all it contained, to swim before my sight, then suddenly vanished in utter darkness. I had fainted for the first time in my life.
When I recovered I was lying on the sofa. Cornelius was bending over me, and helping his sister, armed with a formidable bottle, to rub my face and hands with vinegar.
"I am so glad," I cried, starting up.
"Why, there, she is all alive again!" exclaimed Miss O'Reilly.
"I am so glad," I continued, joyfully, "I thought I had dreamt it."
I sat up, and twining my arms around the neck of Cornelius, I kissed him, whilst my tears flowed fast. He sat down by me, and anxiously asked how I felt.
"Why, very well," I replied, laughing, in the gladness of my heart.
"Ay, ay," said Kate, smiling, "we may cork up the bottle, and lock it up, may we not, Daisy?"
"Are you sure you are quite well?" urged Cornelius; "you fainted, you know."
"Did I?" I had scarcely heeded the remark. Seated by him, with my arm locked in his, his hand clasping mine, I looked at him eagerly, delighting every sense with the consciousness of his dear presence. He asked me if the room did not feel too close, if I did not want air, and I could give him no answer, so charmed was I to listen to his voice again.
"Let her alone," said Kate, gaily; "she is well enough now; she fainted because she was glad to see you, and she got well at once for the same reason precisely. All she wants is to look at your face."
He turned it towards me; it was as kind and handsome as ever, not in the least altered. I could not take my eyes from it, and in the overflowing joy of my heart I exclaimed—
"Oh, Kate! Kate! I shall be too happy now, shall I not?"
"You see the poor child is as mad as ever," said Kate.
"I hope she has been a good girl in my absence," he observed, rather gravely.
"Of course she has."
"Learnt her lessons well?"
"Bless the boy!" exclaimed Kate, "does he think she is still a little girl? Don't you find her altered?"
"Oh yes, she has grown."
"Grown! grown!" impatiently said his sister, "of course she has! do you not think she has improved?"
"She seems much stronger."
Miss O'Reilly looked disappointed. Cornelius questioned me concerning my studies; I answered to his satisfaction; he stroked my hair and called me a good child.
"It is very odd you will persist in calling Daisy a child," drily saidMiss O'Reilly.
"Well, am I not his child?" I asked.
"Nonsense!" she replied, looking provoked.
"Indeed, I am his adopted daughter," I said eagerly.
"I never yet heard that a man of twenty-six or so had a daughter near seventeen," was her ironical reply.
Cornelius smiled; but I warmly vindicated our relationship.
"I am very glad he is so young," I observed. "Most girls have old fathers; mine is not old; he will live the longer."
Cornelius laughed; his sister said "Pish!" and Jane, by bringing in the supper-tray, closed the conversation. Indeed our discourse was of the most desultory kind. Although Cornelius protested that he was not in the least fatigued, having rested in London before coming to us, Kate would not hear of our sitting up. She made me leave him just as I was beginning to talk to him of his painting. To comfort me she confidently informed me as we went upstairs, that a large wooden case in the back parlour contained his pictures; to this intelligence she added, with a significant look—
"He has not got entangled after all."
We were not prepared for the sudden return of Cornelius; his room was neither aired nor ready; Miss O'Reilly accordingly gave him up her own apartment, and slept with me. She complained of my restlessness; well she might! tossed on a sea of unquiet joy, I scarcely slept. I woke and rose early. The morning was bright and gay, and my little room overflowed with sunshine.
"Now, Daisy," said Kate, in a tone of remonstrance, "you need not be in such a hurry: he is not awake yet, child!"
I was opening the window as she spoke. I drew back quickly, for it looked on the garden; I was but half-dressed, and, though I saw no one, the fresh breeze brought me the scent of a cigar. My heart leaped with joy, and something seemed to say within me, "Yes, yes, he is come back."
"Not awake!" I exclaimed aloud, "why he is already in the garden! Oh!Kate, do help me to fasten on my dress."
"Not that dingy, everyday grey thing!" decisively said Miss O'Reilly, "he hates dull colours."
She went to my drawers, and drew forth a light blue muslin.
"But it has short sleeves!" I observed, a little uneasily, "and it looks so dressy!"
"Never mind the short sleeves or the dressiness either—the chief thing is, not to annoy him with an ugly colour he cannot endure."
I yielded against my own wish and judgment; partly to gratify her, and still more to lose no time. I gained nothing by the ready compliance. Miss O'Reilly dressed me as she had never dressed me before; she suggested or rejected improvements with unusual and irritating fastidiousness. Now a snow-white habit-shirt "would look so nice, or if my hair were braided, instead of being in plain bands, it would become me so much better."
I could not help crying.
"Oh, Kate, if you would only let me go! What will Cornelius care about all this?"
"But I care," replied Miss O'Reilly. "I thought Cornelius would find you so much improved; but all he noticed was that you had grown."
"Because that is all!" I said, laughing.
"It is not. But last night you were pale and wild-looking; besides, you had that ugly grey thing on; but now, Midge, let me tell you there is a difference."
She was holding me out at arm's length, with a satisfied look and smile.
"There!" she said, dropping my hand, and releasing me, "you may go now."
I waited for no second bidding. I ran down the stairs, then up the gravel path that led to the pine-trees. The scent of the cigar had not deceived me: he stood leaning against the trunk of the farthest pine, looking at the fresh sparkling sea that spread beneath, and went far away to meet a white line of horizon arched over by a sky of brightest blue. He turned round as I reached him all out of breath, and welcomed me with a smile. I stood by him, looking at him with the delighted eyes with which we gaze at those we love. He laid his hand on my shoulder, and looked at me too, silently at first, then all at once he said—
"God bless your pleasant face!" and stooping, kissed my brow.
My heart beat a little; I could not help being glad. There was nothing in me beyond what there is in every girl from fifteen to twenty; but then this is the golden age of woman, when the youthful grace of the outlines makes the gazer forget their irregularity, and seeing the cheek so fresh and clear, he asks not whether it be dark or fair—when he is charmed by the sense of a being who has not dwelt on earth too long, and gives pleasant welcome to this late arrived guest.
Our first greeting over, Cornelius and I sat down on the wooden bench. The wind came from the west. It blew fresh in our faces, and bowed over us the pine-trees and their rustling branches, through which the slanting rays of the sun behind came warm and pleasant. Our glance rested on a sweep of winding shore, half veiled in light sparkling mists; on that sea which looked so serene, and yet seemed so living and so free in its very repose. Our ear was greeted by the low dash of waves on the beach below, by the murmurs of a breeze that died away far inland amongst low hills and lonely places, and looking up at one another with a smile, we both said what a lovely morning it was. I passed my arm within that of Cornelius, and clasping both my hands over it, I looked up into his face and began a series of questions.
"Tell me all about your pictures and your painting."
A light cloud passed over his brow, as he replied—
"Never mind about the pictures just now, Daisy."
"Well, then," I said, though a little disappointed, "tell me all aboutItaly."
"All about it—there's a modest request!"
"Well, then, tell me something. Are the Italian women so handsome?"
"Some are, some are not."
His tone and manner were abstracted. I could not but notice that he was surveying me from head to foot.
"What else?" I asked, a little impatiently.
"What else?" he echoed, still looking at me.
"Yes, what else?"
"Nothing else; save that I am thinking of something else just now."
"I knew you would notice it," I exclaimed, feeling myself reddening; "I told Kate so."
"Indeed?"
"Yes; it was her doing, not mine. She said you hated grey, and made me put on this blue muslin, though it looks so gay for the morning."
"Well," replied Cornelius, with a smile, "blue is as charming a colour as grey is cold and dull to the eye. But to tell you the truth, I was not thinking about your dress."
"Ah!" I said, rather abashed.
"No,—I was thinking of the change two years have wrought, and wondering I never noticed it last night. The other one was a pale, sickly little thing, a poor wee Daisy, coming up weak and stunted on the outskirts of the town; this one is fresh and fair as any wild flower that grows. Why, where did she, once so wan and sallow, get that clear, rosy freshness? What kind fairy has changed the pale yellow hair I still remember, into those heavy tresses of rich brown, tinged with gold—a hue both exquisite and rare, which I shall assuredly transfer to my next picture. As for the eyes, she could not improve them,—so she left them what they still are— the finest I have ever seen."
I opened them a little on hearing him speak so. He quietly took out my comb; my hair rolled down in waves below my waist; he surveyed it admiringly, with a glance in which blended the fondness of a father for his pet child and the ever-observant eye of the artist.
"A pretty little effect, so," he added, "especially with your startled look, reminding one of Cervantes' Dorothea."
"So she does!" said Miss O'Reilly, coming up from behind.
She kissed her brother, and looking at me as I rose to do up my hair, "It is like her father's," she added with a subdued sigh, "but not quite so bright."
"Why did you never write to me that Daisy was so much improved?" askedCornelius, perhaps to divert her thoughts.
"Because I knew you had eyes of your own to find it out," answered his sister smiling. "And now don't sit looking at the girl, as if she were a beauty; she has grown tall and has good health, that is all."
"All! is not that a great deal?"
"Of course it is; but I came to tell you breakfast is waiting, and not to talk about Daisy's looks."
We went in to breakfast; I sat opposite Cornelius and could scarcely take my eyes off his face; he could not help smiling now and then, but Miss O'Reilly chose to be in a pet about it.
"Don't be foolish, Midge! I wish, Cornelius, you would mind what I say, instead of paying so much attention to that silly girl. When do you mean to have that case opened?"
"In a day or two."
"Nonsense! you don't think I am going to wait a day or two to see your pictures? After breakfast you mean?"
She carried the point as usual, and after breakfast it accordingly was. As Cornelius drew back the last covering which stood between us and his picture, I felt my heart beat with expectation; as for Kate, from the moment it became visible, she was lost in wonder and admiration. The picture, though not very large, was an elaborate historical performance; it represented the death of Mary Stuart, with mourning ladies-in-waiting, knights, pages, executioner and all.
"How beautiful, how very beautiful!" exclaimed Kate with tears in her eyes; "what a subject, and how you treated it! But what a pity, what a mortal pity it was not finished in time for the academy, Cornelius!"
There was a pause, he stooped and brushed away some dust from MaryStuart's face, but never answered. His sister resumed—
"Who is that dark-looking fellow in front?"
"The Earl of Salisbury."
"Ah! I remember, I knew he could not be good; it is in his face, I assure you. And who is that girl in the corner?"
"A looker-on."
"I knew it!" triumphantly exclaimed Miss O'Reilly, "I knew it by her unconcerned air. Cornelius, there is wonderful character in it all."
He did not reply: he was untying the strings of a large portfolio, and looking over the sketches and drawings it contained. His sister called him to her side with an air of concern. "Was he sure Mary Stuart had a velvet robe on? She hoped it was not a mistake. Critics are such harpies, you know," she added with a sigh, "they would pounce on a mistake directly."
He laid his hand on her shoulder, and, with a kind smile, looked down at her upraised face.
"Make your mind easy, Kate; Mary Stuart died in a velvet robe, which, poor thing, she kept for solemn occasions."
Miss O'Reilly's face brightened.
"Indeed I am glad to hear it; the imitation is perfect; real velvet could not have more depth and softness. How much pains you must have taken with it!"
"Yes, it gave me some trouble."
"But how sorry I am, the other pictures are sold!"
"It could not be helped! I wanted the money."
"Yes, but it has kept you in the shade all this time. What a pity MaryStuart was not finished for this year's Academy!"
She looked at him so earnestly that he reddened.
"Cornelius," she continued rather seriously, "why was it not finished for this year's Academy?"
Jane spared him the trouble of answering, by looking in, and conveying the intimation that more luggage had come, and that there was a bill of one pound ten and elevenpence halfpenny to pay.
"I wish they may get it!" hotly said Miss O'Reilly; "it is perfectly shameful; let me manage them, Cornelius, only just come to see whether they have not changed your luggage for that of some one else. My opinion is," she added, raising her voice, "that people who charge one pound ten shillings and elevenpence halfpenny for carriage are capable of anything."
He smiled; they went out together, closed the door, and left me alone with Mary Stuart and my bitter disappointment. I could not understand it; it was strange, incredible, and yet it was so, I looked and did not admire. I could have cried with vexation to feel that this stately Mary Stuart did not touch me; that her sorrowful beauty, the grief of her weeping women, the insolent scorn of the English nobles, the impassiveness of the headsman, the commonplace pity of the lookers-on, actually left me cold and unmoved. And yet thus it was, and the longer I looked, the worse it grew; so I gave it up in despair, and turned to the portfolio.
Sketch after sketch I turned over with a pleasure that gradually grew into delight. All Italy, in her sunshine and beauty, seemed to pass before me. Here a dark-eyed girl danced the Tarantella; there swarthy boys with eager faces played at the morra; beggars held out their hand for alms with the look and mien of princes; and village women, of a beauty as calm and pure as that of the image above them, knelt and prayed before the shrine of some lowly Madonna. Nor was I less charmed by the glimpses of landscape and out-door life. I felt the warmth of that blue sky which looked as if the very heavens were opening; the sunshine on the steps of the white church dazzled me with its brightness; there were depths of coolness in the dark shade of those old trees beneath which the women sat reposing; there was life and dewy freshness in the waters of the stone fountain by which the children played. Charmed and absorbed, I never heard Cornelius enter, and knew not he was by me until he said in a careless tone behind me—
"Oh! you are looking at these odds and ends."
"I like them so much," I replied, carefully abstaining from looking towards Mary Stuart.
"Do you?"
"Indeed I do; they are beautiful, and then they remind me of ourGallery—you remember our Gallery, Cornelius?"
"Yes, I think I remember something of the kind,—you were an odd little girl, Daisy."
"I wish you would explain these sketches to me."
He sat down by me; leaned one arm on the back of my chair, and, with the hand that was free, turned over the sketches, giving a few words of brief but graphic explanation to each. He allowed me to admire them, but made no comment of his own. At length the pleasant task was ended; Cornelius rose and put away the portfolio; I was thinking with inward self- gratulation that he had forgotten all about the picture, when to my dismay he said very quietly—
"Daisy, you have not told me what you think of my Mary Stuart."
"Have I not?"
"No, indeed. Whilst Kate was here you looked at it, but never opened your lips; when I came back, I found you sitting with your back to it, intent over these sketches, mere foolish trifles, Daisy, with which I relaxed my mind from graver labours; so pray forget them, look at Mary Stuart, and give me, without flattery of course, your candid opinion."
Here was a predicament! I came out with—
"A picture of yours cannot but be good, Cornelius."
"Thank you, Daisy, but that is stating a fact, not giving me your opinion."
"I dare not give an opinion."
"Very modest; but you know whether you like a thing or not;ergo, do you or do you not like Mary Stuart?"
Oh for a good genius to suggest some reply that might please him and not violate truth! All I could find was a foolish "Of course not," which prolonged, but did not elude the difficulty.
"Do you like it or not?" he repeated.
I did not reply.
"A plain yes or no, Daisy."
"Well, then,—no," I exclaimed, desperately.
Cornelius whistled.
"She is grown up," he said; "not like my picture! decidedly she is grown up! Why, the other one would have admired any daub I painted!"
Tears of vexation rose to my eyes; he stooped, and smiled in my face.
"Why should you be annoyed when I am not?" he asked, very kindly.
"I am mortified at my bad taste, Cornelius."
"Then since you are conscious of bad taste, why don't you like MaryStuart?"
"I can't help it; I am afraid I have no feeling, for when I look at MaryStuart I feel as if I did not care whether they put her to death or not."
"How hard-hearted you must be! but go on; what else?"
"Nothing else, Cornelius, save that I fear I don't care about Mary Stuart at all."
I looked at him rather shyly; he was laughing.
"You are as odd a girl as you were an odd child," he said, with his look bent on my face; "why, Daisy, that is just my case; I did not care about Mary Stuart whilst I painted her, and, poor thing! I don't care much about her now."
"Don't you, Cornelius?" I asked, astonished.
"No, history may be a fine, grand thing, but give me lowly beings and quiet feelings. Oh! Daisy, I wonder now that disappointed ambition ever made me bend the knee to the false goddess, success, who moreover always leaves me in the lurch; but our life is made up of mistakes; we stumble at every step, and the last thing we learn is to be true to ourselves."
"Were your other pictures like this, Cornelius?"
"Oh, Daisy, they were such charming things." he replied, sighing; "but Count Morsikoff wanted them, I wanted his rubles; but, never mind, I shall repeat them, and show Kate that my journey to Italy has not been quite lost."
"Why did you let her admire Mary Stuart?"
"How could I undeceive her? I had brought the unfortunate thing as a proof of my industry, not to encumber the walls of the Academy, or for her to admire; but when she looked at it with tears of admiration, what was I to do?"
"To show her the sketches."
"She won't care about them, Daisy."
"Try her."
I opened the door, and called her in eagerly. But the event proved the correctness of her brother's conjecture. Miss O'Reilly thought the sketches very pretty things, but she hoped Cornelius had not lost too much time with them. It would be such a pity, considering how admirably fitted he was for historical compositions. He winced, but did not contradict. She proceeded—
"I have been thinking of such a series of subjects: what do you say to the battle of Clontarf, or to Bannockburn? something to make one feel as if that grand lyric of Burns were being sung in the distance."
Cornelius stroked his chin and looked puzzled.
She resumed: "Perhaps you would like a subject more pathetic,—TheChildren in the Tower, eh, Cornelius?"
"I have been thinking of something more domestic."
Kate's face expressed the deepest disappointment.
"History is a grand thing, Cornelius."
"And Home is lovely."
She said he knew best, but that he would never surpass Mary Stuart.
Cornelius did not reply, and put away the portfolio with a smile at me. Then we all three went out into the garden, where we lingered until the noon-day heat sent us in: that is to say, Kate and I, for Cornelius, accustomed to an Italian sun, remained out, walking up and down the gravel path, and every now and then making long pauses of rest by the back parlour window, near which we sat sewing. Once Kate, called away by some domestic concern, left us; he stood on the side facing me, his elbow resting on the low window; he looked long, then smiled.
"Well!" I said.
"Well," he replied, "it would make a pretty picture; you sitting there sewing by the window, with the cool shady back-ground of the room, a glimpse of the bright sunny garden beyond."
"And you standing there looking in, leaning on the window-sill, and the warm sunshine upon you, Cornelius."
"Yes," said the pleasant voice of Kate, now coming in, "that would complete the picture." Then she suddenly added, "Cornelius, are you not tired?"
"Not at all; I rested in London, you know."
"Go and take a walk then."
"What for, Kate?"
"Go out sketching."
"I feel very comfortable here."
"Go, I tell you; Daisy will show you the way; she knows Leigh by heart, and, for England, it is pretty enough."
Cornelius looked at me and I looked at Kate. She smoothed my hair and answered the look: "No, child, I can't go; bless you, my hands are full of domestic concerns, so make haste and get ready. Stay, I shall go with you."
She accompanied me to my room, opened my drawers and drew forth a white muslin frock.
"Put that on," she said; "do not open your eyes, but do as I bid you."
"If we walk in the grass—" I began.
"You will soil it,—what matter?"
"But why put it on? it is my best."
"Bless the child! don't you see that I tell you to put it on because it is your best, or rather because you look best in it? Don't be dull, Midge, I want Cornelius to like you and your looks too."
There was no resisting an argument so plainly stated. Still when Kate went down on some mysterious errand into the kitchen, and I hastened to the parlour with my scarf on my arm and my bonnet in my hand, in order not to keep Cornelius waiting, I was under a nervous apprehension that he would think me very vain and fond of dress. He did look at me, and very fixedly too. I exclaimed, deprecatingly—
"I knew you would think it odd to go and put on a white dress for a walk in the country, but Kate would have it so."
He laughed, and gave me an amused look.
"What a strange girl you are, Daisy! I never noticed your dress. I was studying the effect of that bright sunlight on your hair, and thinking how it made it look more rich and deep than the hues Titian loved to paint."
It was my turn to laugh.
"How like an artist, to be always thinking of effects!"
"Now don't stand giggling and chatting there," said Miss O'Reilly, appearing with an ample provision of sandwiches neatly packed up, "but go out whilst the day is still pleasant. Cornelius, take these; you are to stay out the whole day. Daisy, why don't you take his arm? you are tall enough for that now."
He held out his arm for me with a smile, and as I took it and looked up into his face, I felt a proud and happy girl. The time had been when the hand of Cornelius was as much as I could claim, and I longed in vain for the present privilege and honour.
We left Rock Cottage by the garden gate. As we walked arm in arm down the path that led to the beach, I saw Miss O'Reilly stand on the door-step, and, shading her eyes with her hand, look after us, until the winding of the path concealed us from her sight.
We went down to the beach. A deep line of shade still extended at the foot of the cliffs; the sky had not a cloud; the sea lay calm beneath; it looked one of Nature's happy days. I said so to Cornelius, adding, in the fulness of my joy, "How kind of Kate to tell you to take me!"
"Yes," he replied, wilfully misunderstanding me, "she always was a good sister."
"Now, Cornelius, you know very well she did it to please me."
He smiled without looking at me.
"One to please you, Daisy, and a great deal more to please me. You will ascertain it thus: state that D is to C in K's estimation, what 1 is toxin figures: then multiply by C (that's me) and divide by D (that's you), and you will know all about it."
"I don't want to multiply by you and to divide by myself, to know whyKate told you to take me."
"She's as obstinate as the other one," said Cornelius, stopping short to look at me.
I replied, "Is she?" and we went on, until a promontory of steep rock barred our passage.
"We must cross that," I said.
"Humph! Can you manage it, Daisy?"
"Can you, Cornelius?"
He told me I was very saucy. I laughed and ran up the rocks so fast, he could scarcely overtake me. When we reached the highest peak, we stood still, and thence looked down on a wild narrow spot below, shut in between cliff and wave. Long ridges of sharp rocks, stretching out far into the sea, and impassable when the tide was full, enclosed it on either side. The cliffs at the back stood steep and perpendicular within a few yards of the breaking surf, but the strata of earth that ran through them in slant and undulating lines, gave them a distant and receding aspect, which, like the glamour of enchantment, vanished with a closer view; then they suddenly rose on the eye, near, stern, and threatening. Undermined by the high spring tides, rocks had fallen from above, and now lay thickly strewn about the beach, as if tossed there by the sea in angry or sportive mood. From the deep gap thus made in the cliff descended a narrow stream, which spread on a flat advancing ledge of rock, fell again a wide and clear stream of sparkling water, into a basin which itself had made, and thence glided away with a low splash and faint murmur, through worn-out old stones green with slime, until it lost itself for ever in the great rush of the wide waters.
We descended silently; when we stood within the enclosed space, Cornelius said—
"Of all wild and barren spots this is the gem."
"It is sterile, Cornelius, and that is its beauty."
It was indeed a desolate place. Shell-fish in serried ranks, and weeds in dark and slippery masses, clung to the sea-washed rocks. A few crabs and shrimps had remained captive in the shallow pools of water, where they waited the returning tide. Long algae, all wet and tangled, and light feathery sprigs, delicate enough to be wreathed in the green hair of pale mermaids, were strewn on the beach, but other tokens of life and vegetation there were none. The sea breeze, which moaned along that wall of rock and cliff, fanned and stirred not one blade of yellowish grass on its way. Here ceased the freshness and verdure of earth; here began a nature other than that of the poets, yet not without its own beauty, contrasts, and harmonies.
"It is grand, but wonderfully dreary," said Cornelius, "let us go back,Daisy."
"Not yet. Do you see that hollow nook perched up there between earth and sky, close by the fountain?"
"Well, what about it?"
"There is a very fine prospect from it."
"How do you know?"
"I often go there."
"You!" he exclaimed, with an astonished look that amused me, "and pray how do you get there?"
"Look!"
I sprang up a steep path in the rock; every step of it was familiar to me; I had reached the hollow, and was laughing down at Cornelius, before he recovered from his amazement. He followed me lightly, but chid me all the way.
"What could tempt you to do such a mad thing and to come to such an eyrie as this?" he asked as he stood by me in the wide hollow and under the broad shelter of an overhanging rock.
"Look at that glorious prospect, Cornelius," I replied, sitting down and making him sit down by me.
I remember well both the day and the spot. The blue sky, the sea of a blue still more deep, the yellow beach, the brown wall of rock, gave back the same ardent glow; the place seemed enchanted into the quietness of noon, save when some solitary raven suddenly left a cleft in the rock and, descending with a swoop, hovered a black speck over the beach in search of prey. We sat pleasantly within reach of the cool spray of the spring; a breeze from above brought us the sweet scent of unseen fields of gorse in bloom; below us the sea boiled in white and angry surf amongst the rocks, and thence spread away in seemingly unbroken smoothness, until it met and mingled with the distant horizon.
"What do you think of my eyrie, Cornelius?" I said, after a long pause.
"So you come here often?" was his reply.
"Yes, very often."
"What can attract you to such a wild spot?"
"Its wildness."
He looked me in the face and smiled. I resumed—
"I was born by the sea, Cornelius, and I love it, ay, very dearly; this barren spot seems pleasanter to me than any sunny landscape. I could listen for hours to the wind sweeping down the coast and the dash of the heaving waves. Could not you?"
"No," he answered, frankly, "sea-side is to me the grand historic style of nature. I like the calm, homely woodlands and quiet valleys."
"Yes, but you are going to sketch that little fall of water?"
"Am I?"
"For what else did I bring you to see it? Let me go down first, and take my hand."
I held it out to him; he tossed it back to me with a laugh.
"Do you imagine I want it?" he asked, looking piqued; "I have gone sketching in mountain-passes where there were paths more steep than in any English Leigh, let me tell you."
He insisted on preceding me. It amazed me to see how he kept looking back, looking to my steps. He reached the bottom first, and stood still to receive me. Spite of his remonstrative "Daisy!" I ran down the rest of the way. I paused on reaching the last ledge, and standing a little above him, I uttered a triumphant "There!" then lightly stepped down to where he stood.
"Yes," he replied admiringly, "I see: your head is steady, your foot as light and sure as that of any mountain maid. Ah! if I had but had you for a companion, when I was sketching alone in the Alps!"
"Will you have me now, and though these are not the Alps, sketch."
He sat down on one of the fallen rocks, opened his sketch-book, and began to draw the little fountain and the stern crags around. I sat by him to watch his progress; he made little; he was ever looking round at me, and breaking off into speech that had nothing to do with sketching.
"How old are you?" he once asked.
"Seventeen; ten years younger than you are."
He resumed his task, but his pencil was soon idle again; his eyes once more sought my face.
"Am I too near?" said I, "shall I sit behind?"
"No, indeed."
"What are you thinking of?"
"I am thinking that it is getting very hot."
His look sought the downs above. I said, I knew green nooks such as he would like. So we wound our way up the heights, and were soon in the open country. The scenery around Leigh was soft, woodland, pastoral, and no more. Yet Cornelius seemed to like those green slopes, fertile fields, and wide pastures; those shallow valleys, white homesteads, and fragrant orchards looking down from above, with now and then, in the open space between the dark outskirt of low woodland, and the golden green of sunlit scope opposite, a glimpse of azure hills melting soft and indistinct on the far horizon. But though he confessed it was very pretty, he found nothing to sketch.
"Let me take you to an old ruin further on," I said, zealously, "it is so picturesque!"
"How much further on, Daisy?"
"Only three or four miles."
"A mere trifle! but suppose we stay here?"
We stood in a hollow, sheltered by a few stunted trees.
"There is nothing to sketch here," I said.
"So much the better; I want rest."
"Then I know of a better resting-place close by."
He submitted to my guidance, and I led him into an open plain, exposed to all the heat of a burning sun.
"Why, Daisy," said Cornelius, looking round, "what made you come here? There is not a hedge: no, not so much as a poor little bush. Let us go back."
I pointed to a group of trees, partly hidden by a rising of the ground.
"It is there," I said.
He gave a look of regret to the shady hollow we were leaving behind us, and followed me over the scorching plain. At length the group of trees was reached. I entered it first; then, as he followed, I turned round and looked to enjoy his surprise, for we now stood on the grassy banks of the clear little stream which passed through Leigh; trees flung their shadow above; waters flowed beneath; silence and freshness filled the whole place.
"Well!" I said triumphantly.
"Well," he replied, "it is a pleasant place, that is true enough."
And he threw himself down on the grass with evident delight. It was a pleasant place. Many a day has passed since I beheld it; yet if I but close my eyes with my hand over them, I seem to see it again as I saw it then on that summer noon, when I went out walking with Cornelius.
It had the first charm which such a spot need have—perfect solitude. You might sit or linger for hours, unheeded and undisturbed in that green nook, shut in between the dark mass of trees which separated it from the open country, and the stream on which their heavy shadow ever fell. Beyond extended a wide and ancient park, a wild-looking desert of dark heath and high green fern, with sombre groups of trees that seemed the vanguards of aged forests, and paths deepening down like Alpine dells and ravines. I took off my bonnet and scarf, and fastening them to the bending branch of an old, hoary willow, I sat down by Cornelius. The sandwiches were produced, and done full justice to; but when the repast was over, Cornelius exclaimed—
"Kate might as well have given us a stone or osier bottle of some sort.We have nothing to drink."
"Nothing! why there is a whole river."
"Water!" he replied with a slight grimace; "but how are we to get at even that?"
I did not answer, but clasping the trunk of the willow with one arm, I bent over the stream to dip my other hand into it. With a start of alarm Cornelius held me back.
"That river, as you call it, is deep and swift, Daisy. How can you be so imprudent?"
"There is no danger where there is no fear. Unless that willow-tree breaks I am safe."
He persisted however in holding me fast with his arm passed around me, as I stooped again, and brought forth my hand full of water, as clear and sparkling as crystal.