"The mistake into which I fell, was to think that we understood one another tacitly, Daisy. I do not love you now because I have reared you, but on your own merits, for the sake of that which you have become. And thus I thought that you too liked me, with a higher feeling than gratitude. In short, as I like you myself—as a very dear friend."
He spoke simply and naturally. I breathed freely.
"Oh! how good, how generous you are!" I exclaimed, moved to the heart by so much delicacy of affection. "You want to raise me to an equality with you. God bless you, Cornelius."
I pressed his two hands in mine, with much emotion.
"Are you happy?" he asked, looking down at me.
"So very happy!" I replied, with a joyous smile.
"I am glad of it," he said, trying to smile too.
"Shall we resume the sitting?" I asked.
"Not to-day. 1 am in no mood to work; I think I shall go out for a walk."
I felt somewhat surprised that Cornelius did not ask me to join him; and so was Kate, when she learned from me—she had been in her room all this time—that he was gone out alone.
"Why did you not go with him?" she asked, frowning slightly.
"He did not ask me, Kate."
"You have not quarrelled?"
"Oh, no! we are very good friends."
The cloud passed away from her brow. She kissed me and said "Of course you are."
Cornelius did not come in until late in the evening; he had walked miles, and was so tired that he could scarcely speak.
I awoke the next morning with a severe headache; I rose and came down as usual, thinking to hide it; scarcely, however, had I entered the front parlour, when Cornelius asked what ailed me. "Only a headache," I replied, carelessly; but he seemed filled with concern. He made me return to my room where I slept for a few hours, but without feeling any better; I then again went down to the parlour and lay on the sofa. Cornelius, who according to his sister had gone up to listen at my door every ten minutes—sat by me holding my hand.
"How feverish she is!" he said to Kate.
"There is twice as much fever in your blood as in that of Daisy," decisively replied Miss O'Reilly.
"Don't be alarmed, Cornelius," I said quietly, "I do not feel as if I should realize the prediction of Dr. Mixton just yet."
"Don't talk of that madman," exclaimed Cornelius, with a troubled face, "he was mad; only fit for Bedlam."
"It came into my head by chance, and, as one thought leads to another, I thought, if I were going to die, I should ask two things of Cornelius. That if he married and had daughters, he should call one of them Daisy. Thus there would ever be something in his home to remind him of me; also to bury me here at Leigh—"
"Daisy, Daisy!" almost angrily interrupted Cornelius, "what do you mean? I am not going to marry and have daughters; and to think of you as pale and inanimate with the cold earth above you, is a sickening thought."
He looked quite pale. I saw there was a deep and secret fear at his heart, and indeed he showed it sufficiently; for as the day advanced and my headache still continued to trouble me, he insisted, spite of my entreaties and those of Kate, on going himself for a physician who resided several miles off. I was touched to the heart by this proof of a love so vigilant.
"How kind he is," I said to Kate.
"Kind! why surely child, you can see that he doats on you! Is he not making a fool of himself, just because your head aches? Would he not go distracted if anything were to happen to you? Oh, Midge! Midge!" she added, with a half-stifled sigh, "don't you see you are the apple of his eye?"
As the heat of the day subsided, I felt suddenly better. The fresh sea- breeze could only do me good, so I went and sat on the bench at the end of the garden, there to watch for the return of Cornelius whose road home lay along the wide sweep of beach beneath me. For a long time I watched in vain; at length I perceived a man's form slowly descending the cliffs; I hastened in for my bonnet and scarf, and merely saying to Kate:
"I see him coming," as I passed the parlour door, I was gone before she could open her lips to object. When I reached the sands, I looked in vain for Cornelius. I walked on, thinking he had seen me coming and stood concealed in a cleft of the rocks, but my look searched every one of their dark recesses, and nowhere could discover a token of his presence. It was late, though the singular clearness of the air which prevails by the sea-side, gave more light than belonged to the hour. I resolved to go no further, but to give one more look and return. I climbed up a heap of fallen rocks, and slowly began to scan the whole coast; it looked silent and lonely in the pale light of a rising moon. I was preparing to descend from my post of observation, when I started to perceive a shadow near mine. I looked up and saw William Murray.
"William!" I exclaimed, delighted, "William Murray! Oh, how glad I am to see you again."
He did not speak, but he took and held both my hands in his, and pressed them warmly, looking down at me with a happy, smiling face.
"God bless you!" he said, "God bless you, Daisy! I thought I should never see you again."
"Why so, William?" I asked, sitting down on a rock and making him sit down by me.
He hesitated as he replied:
"Don't you know?"
"O, William, what is it? You make my heart beat."
"Why we have been wrecked in the Mediterranean. I am sorry to tell you so abruptly; I thought you knew."
He was safe before me; but we feel even the past perils of those we love. I felt myself turning faint and pale. William seemed much moved; he assured me that the danger had not been so very great, though in the hour of peril he had indeed thought of me as of one he should see no more.
"Oh, William!" I said, looking up, and allowing him again to take my hands in his, "will you not leave that perilous life, and that dangerous sea?"
"I cannot, Daisy; why I am only here for two days; I shall not see much of you before I am off again."
"For long?"
"A year," he replied, sighing.
"How long have you been back?"
"Two hours."
"Why did you not come to me at once?"
"Why did I wander up and down here, but to get a sight of you?"
"Then it was you I took for Cornelius. You know he is come back. Oh,William! you must call on us and see him. How much you will like him!"
"And how fond you are of him, Daisy, said William, in a low tone.
"Why, of course, I am; and he deserves it."
"Ay, that he does," he warmly replied. "You know, Daisy, I always said he was a good man."
"He is a good man, for he does good actions, and never seems to know it. He is a great man—for he has genius, which is a great gift; and," I added, with a smile, "he is a handsome man, too, William."
"There are some very fine men amongst those Irish," gravely replied William; "and they wear well too. There's our captain—Captain MacMahon— who is upwards of fifty, but the most splendid fellow I ever saw—six foot six: then such shoulders and such lungs. He does not roar like Johnstone, or scream like Philipps; but he just opens his mouth, and lets his voice out as it were. Then his fists—you should see his fists, Daisy!"
I was much amused, and replied:
"I fear Cornelius is not quite equal to Captain MacMahon, yet I think you will like him, William."
"This is the second time you say so."
"Because I know it—just as I know that he will be delighted with you."
William gave me a look, half shy, half pleased, and muttered something that sounded very like:
"DidIcare for him?"
"No," I replied, amused at the question, "not at all. How can I care for a friend who leaves me to go and get wrecked?"
"Not at all, Daisy," he echoed; "not at all."
He stooped, and looked very eagerly into my face. I drew back with a laugh that was checked by a voice observing behind me:
"Daisy, what are you doing here at this hour?"
I turned round—it was Cornelius. The moonlight fell full on his pale and angry face. I rose, without answering; 1 felt—and, no doubt, I looked— like a culprit. He gave me a glance in which sadness and severity blended: then, as it taking pity on my confusion, he silently held out his arm to me. As I took it, I attempted a justification, and said:
"I took William for you, Cornelius, and came out to meet you. He is Miss Murray's nephew, you know, and I had not seen him for months. Did you come for me from home? I am sorry—very sorry, Cornelius."
I sought his look, but vainly; it was fastened on William, who had risen, and now stood before us. Cornelius eyed him from head to foot, with a keen and scrutinising gaze, which the young man returned. Neither spoke— there was an evident want of cordiality in the silent glances they exchanged. I began to feel uncomfortable; my sense of uneasiness increased when Cornelius turned towards me, and said coldly:
"I am sorry to hurry you away, Daisy, but Kate is very anxious."
And without taking the least notice of William, or seeming to think that I could have another word to say to him, he made me turn homewards. I felt so disconcerted at his displeasure, that I neither opened my lips, nor attempted to resist; but, when we had walked on together for a few minute, I gathered courage to say:
"I must go back to bid him good evening, Cornelius."
I disengaged my arm from his, and lightly ran back to the spot where we had left William, and where he still stood looking after us with folded arms.
"Good night, William," I said, holding out my hand.
He did not take it, but replied in a tone overflowing with reproach:
"Why did you deceive me, Daisy?"
"Deceive you, William!"
"Why did you pretend to care for me when you are so wrapped up in another, that, from the moment he comes up, you have neither speech nor look for me?"
"I have left him to come and bid you good night, and by way of thanks, you accuse me of deceiving you. How, and about what?"
"What do you call speaking of him as if he were your grandfather, when I don't believe he is a bit older than I am?"
"He is twenty-seven. But what about his age?"
"I don't care about his age, nor about his looks either," repliedWilliam, with a scornful laugh. "You may think him handsome if you like—I do not."
I felt offended, and replied, shortly:
"I never told you Cornelius was old. It was you chose to compare an elegant young man, of twenty-seven, to a coarse sea-captain of fifty, not I. I might add that your remarks are very childish, but I do not want to speak unkindly. Good night, William. I trust that when I come here to- morrow morning, I shall find you in a better temper."
I turned away; he followed me.
"Will you really come?" he asked, submissively.
I replied,
"Yes," and hastened away to join Cornelius, who was coming to meet me with a face so overcast, that I saw I was again at fault.
"I am so sorry to have brought you back!" I said, forestalling accusation. "I thought you would go on."
Cornelius stopped short—we were once more walking homewards—to give me an amazed look, and say in a half indignant tone:
"Go on, and leave you alone at this hour with a strange young man!"
"He is not strange," I replied, feeling the blush he could not see; "I have known him since we were both children; and Kate can tell you he is only a boy."
"A boy scarcely younger than I am," pointedly replied Cornelius.
I thought it odd that both he and William should come to conclusions so similar with regard to their respective ages, but I did not venture to reply. Not another word was spoken until we reached the foot of the cliff on which rose our home; then, from the garden above was heard the anxious voice of Kate, exclaiming:
"Have you found her, Cornelius?"
"Yes," he replied, "she is quite safe."
I was dismayed at this proof of the uneasiness I had made them feel. Kate received me very sharply. "I am astonished at you," she said, "to choose the very moment when you are troubled with a headache, and Cornelius is gone for the physician, to run down to the sands!"
"You know, Kate, I was better; besides I thought I saw him coming, and went to meet him; but it proved to be William Murray."
"The young bear—what brought him back?"
"He has been wrecked."
"Nonsense! wrecked! he has been spinning a yarn to you, Daisy."
"I never yet knew William to tell an untruth," I replied, a little indignantly.
"Truth or not, were you to make us anxious just to listen to the stories of that boy. Cornelius has come back from Italy with banditti notions; and he would have it that some ill-looking fellows, whom he met as he was going, had lingered on the beach until dusk to waylay you. So off he ran like a madman. Look at him. See how pale he is still!"
Cornelius, who had lingered behind, entered the parlour as his sister spoke; my heart smote me to see that he was deadly pale. He sat down by the table, leaned his elbow upon it, and rested his brow on the palm of his hand, so that his face was shaded from the light.
"Cornelius, what ails you?" asked Kate.
"I am tired," he answered, without looking up.
"Dr. Reeves was out, so I went for Dr. Simpson."
"Why that is three miles further off."
"Just so, that is what tired me. He too was out."
Kate gave me a reproachful look; but indeed there was no need; my conscience troubled me sorely for the heedlessness which had added unnecessary fatigue and alarm to that his ardent affection had already caused him to undergo for my sake. I longed to make some atonement; to offer some explanation; but he gave me no opportunity; he left early, and it was only by his not coming down again, that we knew he had left us for the evening.
In appointing to meet William on the sands the following morning, I had not reflected how difficult it would be for me to do so. I turned the subject over and over, and at length resolved to speak to Cornelius. He behaved to me at breakfast as if nothing had occurred; and when we both entered the little studio as usual, his face, though more serious than in the presence of Kate, expressed nothing like displeasure. In whose kindness and indulgence could I confide, if not in his? I hoped he would open the conversation, but, as he did not, I resolved to speak. I went up to his chair, and leaning upon it, said in a low tone:
"Cornelius."
"Well, Daisy," he replied, looking round.
"May I say something to you? But pray," I quickly added, "pray, do not be vexed; promise that you will not."
"Daisy!" exclaimed Cornelius, giving me a troubled look.
"Well, then, promise nothing. I will trust to your indulgence. I can bear that you should reprove me, but I could not bear to deceive you."
He took my hand in his, and, bending on me a look so keen that I began to feel disconcerted, he said slowly:
"What do you mean?"
I did not answer.
"What do you mean?" he said, his voice rising.
"Well then!" I exclaimed a little desperately, "I mean that I have made an appointment with William, and that I want your permission to keep it."
Cornelius dropped my hand, and looked petrified.
"You have made an appointment with that young man!" he said at length.
"Yes, Cornelius."
"And you come and tell it to me."
"Oh, Cornelius, would you have me keep it a secret?"
"But to tell it tome."
"To whom else should I tell it?"
"But to askmeto let you keep it."
"Of whom else should I ask it?"
He seemed unable to reply. He looked at me; but no words passed his trembling lips. I began to feel hurt and dismayed at the manner in which he received my confidence. At length, he said, with forced calmness:—
"This is some mistake of mine; I have misunderstood you, Daisy. You cannot have meant to say that you had appointed a meeting with the young man I saw with you last night."
"That was my meaning, Cornelius," I replied, firmly.
"You confirm it," he replied, turning pale; "and I, who, after a night of tormenting thought, came down this morning, not knowing how to question you. Oh, Daisy!"
There was agitation in his look and in his voice.
"Cornelius," I said, with some emotion, "if I have made an appointment with William, where is the harm? It is not the first time I have done so."
"Not the first time!"
"No, nor the second, nor the third. We have been attached since Kate brought me to Leigh; and before William went to sea, there scarcely passed a day but we met somewhere."
"And I have been away two years!" said Cornelius, in a low tone. "Not a day but you met somewhere!"
"Yes, on the downs, or on the beach, where you found me last night, and where I had promised to meet him this morning."
Cornelius turned on me with flashing eyes.
"Unhappy child!" he exclaimed, "what do you mean by telling me all this? What have you been doing in my absence? What sort of a watch has Kate kept over the young girl I left to her care? What sense of honour has he who took so shameless an advantage of your ignorance, but who shall account to me for it yet?"
He rose; his brow was stern; his face was pale. Half wild with terror, I threw my arms around his neck, and detained him.
"It was my fault!" I exclaimed, eagerly; "all my fault—resent it upon me."
"And what can I do to you?" answered Cornelius, looking down at me with strange anger and tenderness in his gaze; "what can I do to you?"
"Hear me," I entreated, weeping.
He sat down again, subdued at once by the sight of my tears, and said he would listen patiently.
"William," I began.
"Why speak of him?" he interrupted, with a clouded brow.
"You have accused him; I must justify him, or bear my share of the blame."
"Blame!" sorrowfully echoed Cornelius; "why should I blame you? I was away, and Kate was negligent, and another was there; it was natural, very natural."
Encouraged by the gentleness of his tone, I stooped, and pressing my lips to his cheek, I said, in my most persuasive accents:—
"May I keep my appointment, Cornelius?"
He turned upon me a flushed and troubled face.
"I have heard of strange, tormenting things," he said, between his set teeth; "but I vow I never heard of anything to equal this. My God!" he added, pressing me to him with strange and sudden passion, "what can you want with that young man?"
His look felt like fire; I bowed my face before its wrath. When I spoke, it was to say, in a faltering tone:—
"Cornelius, you are angry again; yet all I want is not to make William wait."
"But what do you want with him?—What can you want with him?" desperately asked Cornelius.
"He was so unreasonable; he said I did not care for him; and indeed, Cornelius, that was a great mistake of his. All I want is to speak to him a few minutes, and make him hear sense."
"Oh, Daisy!" exclaimed Cornelius, with ill repressed anger, "is it possible you do not understand that it is not becoming for a young girl to go and meet a young man in a lonely place?"
"Then forbid me to go!" I exclaimed, eagerly; "forbid me, that I may assure William if I broke my word to him, it was to obey you."
Cornelius turned very pale; he rose, and said, in a moved and broken tone:—
"I am no tyrant. I do not forbid you to go. I claim no control over your feelings or actions. Go, and stay at your pleasure."
Without giving me another look, he turned to his easel. I sat down in the attitude of the young girl reading; but, though every now and then I stole up a look from the open book on mv lap, I never could catch his eye. I felt this keenly; for if there was a thing which Cornelius had of late done more than another, it was to look into my face; and, oh! how kindly he ever looked! At length, I could bear it no longer. I rose, and went up to where he stood painting. He never even glanced around. The calm expostulation with which I had thought to address him, faded from my memory. With involuntary emotion, I sank down at his feet, and, seizing his hand, I exclaimed, with something like passion:—
"Blame me! but look at me, Cornelius; say what you will, but look at me."
"Are you mad?" he cried reddening indignantly and forcibly raising me from the ground. "What do you, what can you mean by kneeling to me? Oh, Daisy!" he added with keen reproach, "I would rather you had struck me than you had done that."
I stood by him silent and ashamed.
"To kneel to me!" he resumed, as if he could not get over it. "For man to kneel to woman may be folly, but at least it is the voluntary submission of strength; but for woman to kneel to man—what is it—save the painful submission of weakness. If you have any regard for me, if you care for me, never do that again."
I promised I would not, then added:
"Have you forgiven me, Cornelius?"
"What have I to forgive?"
"You know—I do not."
He looked around as I still stood by him in the attitude of an unforgiven child, and he sighed.
"You wish for an explanation," he said in a troubled tone, "so do I, and yet I dread it."
"Cornelius, I will do all I can not to annoy you. Question me and I will answer you in all the sincerity of my heart. If I have done wrong, it is by mistake, and indeed William too. We are both very young and ignorant, Cornelius?"
"Both! What is that young man to you that his name cannot be severed from yours?"
"He is my friend, Cornelius."
"Why did you never mention his name since my return?"
"It must have been because I was so much more absorbed in thinking of what concerned you, than of what concerned myself. I could not otherwise have failed mentioning the name of William, the only companion and friend I have had during your absence."
"The only one, Daisy?"
"Yes, Cornelius."
"I suppose you were a good deal together?"
"Yes, a great deal."
"Here or at Miss Murray's?"
"Neither at one nor at the other," I answered smiling. "We seldom went to Miss Murray's, and as Kate did not like William, nor he her, he never came here. I met him on the sands."
"How did you spend your time?"
"We played together."
"Played!"
"Yes, you know we were both quite young then; but as we grew older we left off playing."
"And what did you do then?" he asked uneasily.
"We walked on the beach, climbed up the cliffs, ran down again, sat when we felt tired and talked."
"Of what?"
"Of the sea; of anything."
There was a pause, then Cornelius said:
"He is your friend, you say."
"Yes, Cornelius; and though often rude to others, he is ever kind and gentle to me; he likes me, you know."
"Do you like him?"
"Very much."
He laid his hand on my head, and bent down on me a glance that seemed as if it longed to read my very heart.
"You like him?" he said in a low tone.
"Yes, Cornelius, I like him."
More he did not ask; more I did not dare to say, much as I longed to tell; I only ventured to observe:
"Do you not want to ask me anything else, Cornelius?"
"Nothing else," he replied with a sharp glance that made mine sink down abashed; "but I have a piece of advice to give you: appoint no more meetings with your friend. I do not mean that there was harm in those accidental interviews, in which of course there never passed anything but what you have told."
"Oh no, never."
"But discretion is needed by a young girl."
"Have I been indiscreet?"
"A little; but do not think I make much of it. It is a mere childish matter."
"You do not think anything else?"
"Nothing else," he said, with a look that again disconcerted me, "I have indeed advised—"
"Oh! speak not of advice," I interrupted eagerly. "You know that my pleasure is to please you, that I do my own will when I do yours, Cornelius."
"You believe that," he replied, "but can I, Daisy?"
"Put me to the test then!"
We stood side by side. He passed his arm around me, and drew me towards him.
"You bid me put you to the test," he said.
"Yes," I replied, but my heart beat fast.
"There was a time," he resumed with a look of jealous reproach, "when I was, I will not say the only friend you had, but the only friend you thought of or cared for."
I felt a sharp and sudden pang of pain, but I said nothing.
"Well!" he impatiently exclaimed.
"May I not write to him?" I replied, feeling that my colour came and went beneath his gaze.
He did not reply. It was plain he would have an entire sacrifice or none. He clasped me so close, that I was obliged to rest my head on his shoulder. As he bent over me, my look met his, and from the gaze I seemed to drink in all the strange and dangerous sweetness of sacrifice.
"Well!" he said again.
"Yes," I answered, "all—anything you like, Cornelius."
I trembled—for my blood rushed to my heart with something like pain and gladness blending in its rapid flow; but he only saw the tears which covered my face, and he exclaimed, with reproachful tenderness:
"You weep because I ask you to give up a childish past, which, childish as it is, I would give anything to annihilate. Oh! Daisy, Daisy!"
At once I checked my tears. He saw the effort, and, stooping, he pressed a long and lingering kiss on my brow.
"Oh! my darling!" he said, ardently, "do not regret it so much. If I will share your friendship with none, is it not because I mean to take on myself the exclusive care of your happiness? Trust in me—in that feeling be a child again. Alas! I sometimes fear that the calmness and serenity of childhood are not merely in your years, but also in your nature. Oh! if, without adding one day to your existence—one dark page to your experience—I could change this!"
I tried to smile, but I could not—I felt languid and wretched. My heart ached at what I had done—at William, given up so utterly, with scarcely a cause assigned. I wondered if Cornelius, knowing all, would have exacted the same sacrifice. Once or twice I tried to bring the discourse round to the point I wished; but he shunned this so carefully, that at length my eyes opened: Cornelius wished to know nothing. From that moment I was silent and resigned.
If endearing language, and every proof of an ardent affection, could have consoled me, I need not have grieved: but even sitting by Cornelius—- even listening to him—I was haunted by the image of William vainly waiting for me at the old meeting-place. I heard his voice reproachfully exclaiming—now, alas! with how much truth—"You have deceived me!"
In the course of the day, we received an invitation to take tea with Miss Murray, in honour of her nephew's return. I said I could not go, and Kate, with a smile, replied she would sacrifice herself, and allow Cornelius to remain and keep me company. We spent a quiet evening together. My head again ached slightly; I was glad of the pretence to lie on the sofa with closed eyes. Cornelius sat by me, holding my hand in his, and thus his sister found us on her return. She looked at us with a pleased face, and said it was well to be a spoiled child like me.
"By the bye," she carelessly added, "William Murray is as great a bear as ever. He had been out all day, and looked, when he came in, as if he longed to knock me down."
I think I replied, "Indeed." I know that soon after this I went up to my room, there to learn what new pangs can give to grief, and what new bitterness to tears—the sense of an affection betrayed.
I sat to Cornelius as usual on the following day, but not a word did we exchange concerning what had passed. In the course of the afternoon he said he no longer wanted me; I left him, glad of a little solitude and liberty. He joined me in the garden as dusk was falling. He found me sitting on the bench studying Tasso. He asked me if we should not read together. I assented, but twice my tears fell on the page: he closed the book, and said sadly:
"Daisy, you need not weep; I release you from your promise."
I started slightly: he continued:
"I did not think your feelings were so deeply engaged, or I should never have put you to such a test. Come, do not weep; your time for tears is past; see your friend as much as you like, and let your pale, unhappy face reproach me no more that, unable to render you happy myself, I would not let another do it."
I could bear no more; every word he uttered pierced mo with a sharper pang. I hid my face in my hand and exclaimed:
"Cornelius, you are too good; I do not deserve this; I have seen William; he has but just left me."
I looked up, he turned rather pale; but never spoke one word.
"You are angry with me," I said.
"Angry with you!" he repeated, smiling sadly, but so kindly, that, impelled by the same sense of refuge which I had so often felt in my childish troubles, I threw my arms around his neck, and exclaimed in a voice broken by tears:
"Oh, Cornelius, I am so wretched."
"I am not angry, indeed I am not," he replied, sighing deeply.
"Oh! it is not that, Cornelius; William is again gone away, and if you knew all—Oh, what shall I do!"
I cried bitterly on his shoulder. He half rose as if to put me away; but he sat down again with fixed brow and compressed lips.
"What shall you do?" he echoed, "what others have done—you shall bear it."
I looked up, amazed at the stern bitterness of his tone, at the cold and inexorable meaning of his face, which had turned of a sallow paleness.
"But Cornelius," I exclaimed, much hurt, "I like him—"
"I don't believe it," he interrupted, biting his lip. "It is a dream—a fancy—the dream of a girl, of a mere child; all girls think they are in love; you have done like the rest."
I felt a burning blush overspread my face; my look sank beneath his; the hand which he had taken and still held, trembled in his; he dropped it and said:
"And is this the end of it all, Daisy? and do you really like that rough sailor, a mere boy too? Oh, Daisy!"
I conquered my scruples and my shame.
"Cornelius." I said, looking up at him, "I must speak to you openly once for all. I wanted to do so yesterday; you would not hear me then; pray hear me now."
"Why so?" he replied, with evident pain, "I know enough, more than enough."
"You do not know all."
"Then I can guess."
"No, I do not think you can."
"Well then, speak, Daisy, and do not linger."
"William, as I told you, has not long left me; he came to bid me good- bye, and also—but I must begin from the beginning."
"What else was it that he came for?" asked Cornelius.
"Let me first tell you the rest."
"Never mind the rest. What else did he call for?"
"I must go on my own way. I want you to judge of my conduct, as well as to know the issue. Do you remember yesterday all I told you concerning my acquaintance with William?"
"Every word."
"You are sure you have forgotten nothing?"
"Daisy," he exclaimed vehemently, "will you never tell me what he came for?"
His look, his tone, commanded a reply.
"To ask me whether I would not promise to marry him some day," I replied in a low tone.
There was a pause, during which I could hear the beating of my own heart.
"Well," at length said Cornelius, "did you give him that promise?"
"Guess!" I answered, and that he might not read the truth in my face, I averted it from his gaze.
"Guess!" he echoed, with a groan, "imprudent girl, I guess but too easily. Oh, Daisy! how could you pledge yourself, how could you promise that which may be the misery of your whole life."
"Cornelius, I did not promise."
"But you love him!" he exclaimed with a sort of despair, "and love is surer than vows."
In the reply which I then should have made, there was no cause for shame, yet my eyes sought the ground, my face burned, and I hesitated and paused. When I at length looked up, dreading to meet the glance of Cornelius, I perceived that his eyes were riveted on William Murray, who had come up the steep path unheard, and now stood leaning on the low wooden gate, looking at us sadly and gravely. I was the first to break the awkward pause that followed.
"I thought you were gone. William," I said, rising, and taking a step towards him.
"I could not make up my mind to it," he replied, giving me a look of half reproach. "I could not go without bidding you once more good-bye."
He held out his hand to me; I gave him mine across the gate. He took it, and keeping it clasped in his, he turned to Cornelius, and said with repressed emotion:
"I don't know why I should be ashamed of it—I am not ashamed of it—Mr. O'Reilly, I love her with my whole heart. I don't think there is another girl like her; at least I am very sure there is not another one for me. I think she likes me; but, hard as I begged, she would promise me nothing— she could not she said without your knowledge or consent; I said I wanted nobody's knowledge or consent, to like her. We parted rather angrily; but I thought better of it, and came back to speak to you, since she wished it. And look! even here in your presence, she takes her hand from me, lest you should not like it."
I did, indeed, withdraw my hand from his, as he spoke, partly because from friendship William had gone to love, partly because I had met the look of Cornelius, which disturbed me.
"Mr. O'Reilly," said William, looking at him very fixedly, "do you object?"
"No," coldly answered Cornelius.
William opened the gate, and stepped in with a triumphant look.
"Do you hear that, Daisy?" he exclaimed.
"Do not misunderstand me," quietly said Cornelius. "I do not object; but if Daisy wishes for my advice, I certainly advise her not to enter at seventeen into an engagement destined to last her whole life. The human heart changes; it will often loathe the very object of its former wishes, and often, too, learn to long too late for that which it once dreaded as utter misery."
"Ishall not change!" exclaimed William, giving him an impatient look: "but of course if you advise Daisy against promises, there will be none. I need none to bind me to her; and if she will only promise to try and like me—"
"And why should she?" sharply interrupted Cornelius; "what have you done for her to deserve such a promise? What proof has she that you will always deserve it, even as much as you do now?"
"I'll tell you what, Mr. O'Reilly," said William, with sparkling eyes, "my opinion is, that though you make a fair show, like most of your countrymen, it is all a humbug, and that you want to keep Daisy for yourself!"
Cornelius laughed scornfully, as if disdaining to resent the petulant jealousy of a boy; but I saw his colour rise, and his brow knit slightly. I hastened to interfere; I stepped up to William; I looked up in his face; I took his hands in mine, and pressed them to my heart.
"William," I said sadly, "why did you come back? I wish I had spoken more plainly: I love you, but not, indeed, as you mean; I love you as my friend, as a brother, but not otherwise."
"Not otherwise!" he said, seeking aw look; "that is hard, Daisy, not otherwise."
I turned my head away.
"And yet we have been such good friends!"
"And are still, William."
"Then be my best friend."
"Gladly."
"Well! what is to marry but to be best friends? Do I not like you more than any other creature? Would I not know you among a thousand? Have I a thought I would not tell you? Not one. And, indeed, I think you, too, like me more than you think now."
"No, William, I do not."
"Do not be in such a hurry to reply," he answered, with a wishful look; "it may take you longer to find out, than it did me."
In his earnestness he had forgotten all about the presence of Cornelius.His importunity wrung the truth from me.
"William," I said, "this cannot be; I might promise to try to like you as you wish; but I could not keep that promise. There is a power and a charm that binds me to home, a tie that links me to Cornelius and to Kate, and which I cannot break even for your sake. Believe me, whilst I remain with them, I can love you very dearly; but if I were with you I should be too home-sick and too heart-sick to think of you, William. If we went out together, I know that even with my arm within yours, or your hand in mine, my eyes would ever be seeking out for them, my feet leading me to their dwelling. I like you, William, I like you dearly, but I cannot give you my whole heart."
William gave me one look; the tears rushed in his eyes; he dropped my hands.
"God bless you, Daisy," he said, and turned away. The gate closed on him; he slowly descended the path. I did not call him back, but sitting down on the bench, I hid my face in my hands and wept bitterly. I felt and felt truly that we had parted to meet no more; that my faithful companion and friend was lost to me, and the pleasant tie of my childhood and youth broken for ever.
For awhile Cornelius let me weep; then he did his best to soothe and console me. The very sound of his voice brought comfort to my heart; my tears lost their bitterness, at length they ceased to flow, and I could hear and speak with calmness.
"And so," said Cornelius, bending over me, his right hand clasping mine, his left resting on the back of the bench behind me, "and so it was only friendship after all which you felt for William Murray."
"You seem surprised, Cornelius."
"There was every appearance and every chance against it."
"I don't grant the chance."
"Because you have lived an isolated life, and know not that the first thing a youth and maiden, situated as you and William were, think of, is to get engaged as fast as they can."
"Was that what you thought yesterday, Cornelius?"
"Why did you not undeceive me?"
"Why did you not ask?"
"I did not like to put the question."
"Nor I to speak unquestioned. I had never dreamed that William, with whom I was so free, so friendly, with whom I played, picked up shells, and ran about, could think of such a thing. How could you, Cornelius?"
"Why not? he was your friend, and a fine young man, too."
"Yes," I replied, "and as good-looking as a very fair man can be. But his looks have nothing to do with what I mean, Cornelius."
"What is it you mean?"
"That he is a mere boy; Kate always called him a boy, and I always thought him one. You do not think I could have been so free with a young man. Indeed, no, Cornelius. And then he is a sailor!"
"Do you object to that?"
"Most decidedly."
"Why, what would you like, Daisy?"
"I don't know; but I know what I do not like, and a Lord Admiral himself would not tempt me."
"I had no idea you had so many good reasons for rejecting him," said Cornelius, smiling; "he is fair, a boy, and a sailor—have you anything else?"
"Yes, Cornelius," I replied, looking up into his face, "I have known him too long—almost as long as you."
"Indeed!" he said, abstractedly, "is old acquaintance so great a sin in your opinion, Daisy?"
"Not a sin, Cornelius; but I have liked William like a brother, and I cannot like him otherwise."
"Daisy, it seems to me that an old and known friend is in general much preferable to the stranger."
"That is a good reason, Cornelius, and I am talking of a feeling. Mine is so strong that, much as I like William, I feel a sort of relief in thinking we shall not meet in haste."
"Oh! Daisy," sadly said Cornelius, "do you impute that poor boy's affection for you, as a crime to him."
"Heaven forbid; but can I help feeling that the charm of our friendship is gone? He liked me one way, I liked him another; after that, what can there be between us? Could I again be free with him? I could not; and to be cold and constrained when I was once so trusting and so frank, would be worse than utter separation. I would rather never see him more, than feel my friendship for him breaking miserably away, Cornelius."
I spoke as I felt, with a warmth and earnestness that again made my eyes overflow. Cornelius heard me with an attentive look, then placing his hand on my arm, said, quietly—
"Oh, Daisy, what a lesson!"
"A lesson, Cornelius?"
"Yes, a lesson, which I, for one, shall not forget. If ever I find myself circumstanced as was your friend, Daisy, I shall have the wisdom not to cast away friendship before I am sure of love."
"Cornelius," I said, earnestly, "do you blame me?"
"No, no," he quickly replied.
"Because if you thought I should—"
"No," he interrupted; "not at all. Oh, Daisy! do you not see I am too selfish to wish to make a present of you to the first boy or man who chooses to take a fancy to you?"
"And I hope I know better than to leave you and Kate," I replied, confidently. "Oh, Cornelius!" I added, with sudden emotion, "how can daughters leave their father's house for that of a stranger?"
He was bending over me with the look and attitude which, even more than act or speech, imply the fond and caressing mood; but, on hearing this, he reddened, drew back, and said, in a short, vexed tone:—
"Don't be filial, Daisy."
"Don't be alarmed," I replied, smiling, "I have not forgotten that you called me your friend the other day, and I am going to avail myself of the privilege."
"Are you?" he answered, pacified at once.
"Yes, I am going to be very bold."
He smiled.
"To ask a great favour."
He looked delighted and inquisitive.
"You know," I continued, in my most persuasive accents, and passing my arm within his, "you know it is settled that I am always to remain with you and Kate; but—"
"But," he echoed.
"But is it settled that you are to remain with us?"
"Why not?" he replied, looking astonished.
"You spoke of Spain the other evening. What should you want to go toSpain for? I think it would be a great loss of time; besides—"
"Besides, Daisy?" he repeated, smoothing my hair.
"Besides, I want you to remain with us."
"For how long, Daisy?"
"For ever."
I said it, smiling, for I dreamt not he would consent.
"For ever," he repeated, with quiet assent.
I looked at him with breathless joy. He smiled.
"Ask me for something else," he said.
"I dare not," I replied, drawing in a long breath, "lest you should take back the first gift to punish my presumption."
"Your presumption! Oh, Daisy!"
I gave him a quick look; as our eyes met, I read in his the dangerous and intoxicating knowledge, that he who for seven years had been my master, now voluntarily abdicated that throne of authority where two so seldom sit in peace, and was calling me to something more than equality. My heart beat, my face flushed; I looked at him proudly.
"And so," I said, a little agitatedly, "I am really to be your friend. How good!—how kind! But I am not to obey you now?" I asked, breaking off.
"Don't name the word," he replied, impatiently.
"How odd!" I observed, both startled and amused. "How odd that I, who used to feel so much afraid of you, when you used to chide, punish, turn out of the room—"
"I fear," interrupted Cornelius, looking uneasy, "I was rather rude then."
"You were not always civil. You once called me a little monkey. Another time—"
"Pray don't!" he hastily observed, looking annoyed and disconcerted."Tell me rather what I am to give you. Are there not shops at Ryde?"
"As if I should fancy anything out of a shop."
"And what is there that does not come out of a shop?"
"What a question for an artist!"
"Have I anything you would really fancy?" eagerly inquired Cornelius.
"Would you give me your picture, if I were to ask you for it?"
"Would you ask me for it?"
"No, for I want you to sell it."
"And will you not always want me to sell my pictures?"
"And is there nothing you will not sell?"
I alluded to his Italian drawings, from which Cornelius had often declared nothing should induce him to part. He understood me, for he smiled; but eluded the subject by asking if we should not go in. I assented. We entered the house, and spent, as usual, a quiet evening.
When I woke the next morning, the first object that met my eyes was the portfolio of Italian drawings, lying on the table by me. Never had I been so quick in dressing as I was then. I hastened downstairs to the parlour. Cornelius sat reading the newspaper by the table. I went up to him, and standing behind him, gently took it from his hand.
"Why so?" he said, demurring.
"Oh! you know. But I cannot thank you. All I can say is. I shall never forget that what you would not have given for money, when you wanted money, you gave to me for pure love and friendship. I shall never forget, Cornelius, when you are a rich man and a great man, that when you were but a poor, obscure artist, you gave me all a poor, obscure artist has to give."
He did not reply. I stood behind him, with my two hands leaning on the back of his chair. He took them, and gently clasped them around his neck. I stooped, and touching with my lips his bold and handsome brow, I could not help saying:
"Oh, my friend! shall I ever have another friend like you?"
"Indeed, I hope not," he replied, laughing: and in the glass opposite us, I saw Kate smiling, as she stood looking on in the half gloom of the open door.
The heart of youth is light. I liked William. I was sorry for him, but I did not let my remembrance of him press on me too sadly. Had I wished it, it would scarcely have been in my power to be unhappy, when I saw and felt that he who was dearest to me of God's creatures, now loved me as blindly and as devotedly as ever I had loved him.
At the end of a fortnight, Kate spoke of returning to our old home in the Grove, which had been vacant for some time. She resolved to go first with Jane and set all to rights, and to leave Cornelius and me to the care of a deaf and half-blind old dame. It was no use, she said, to bring us in the mess. When all was ready, she would write to us; and, as the furniture was not particularly valuable, we could just lock up Rock Cottage, and thus the labours of Cornelius need not be interrupted. He was then working hard at his Young Girl Reading, and entered quite into the spirit of this arrangement.
When Kate had been gone above ten days, she wrote to say we might leave whenever we pleased. I felt delighted, but noticed, with concern, that the prospect of our return affected Cornelius very differently. For several days he looked pale and unwell, yet there appeared about him no sign of physical ailment. He seemed in a strange state of restlessness and fever, and wandered about the house like an uneasy spirit. Two or three times he took long lonely walks, from which he came in so worn and languid-looking, that I once asked uneasily:
"What ails you, Cornelius?"
"Nothing. How flushed you look. Is anything the matter with you?"
"I have been stooping packing up—that is all."
I returned to the task. He moved away, then came back several times, as if to address me, but never spoke. At tea time, I noticed, with concern, that he touched nothing. I said I was sure he was ill. He denied it; but when our aged servant bad removed the tray, he came and sat by me, made me put by my work, and, taking my two hands in his, began looking at my face with a strange troubled gaze—like one who beholds things in a dream—far and dim.
"What is it?" I asked, a little uneasily.
"How pale you look!" was his only reply.
"I feel tired. Sewing there after tea, my eyes seemed to close involuntarily."
"They are closing now. You need sleep, poor child. Go up to your room."
"Have you nothing to say to me?"
"It will do to-morrow. Go! a long night's rest will do you so much good.Sleep well and long."
I said it was too early yet, but even as I spoke, a heaviness not to be conquered by will, pressed down my eyelids. He urged the point and I yielded. How soon I slept that night; how long, deep and peaceful were my slumbers! how light and happy I felt when the morning sun awoke me, and opening my window, I drank in with delight the air still cool with the dews of night. I came down in a happy mood, and ran out to join Cornelius in the garden. He stood by the pine tree, smoking and looking at the sea in a fit of abstraction so deep, that he never heard me, until I passed my arm within his, and said:
"How are you to-day?"
"Quite well, child."
"Then let us have a good, long walk," I said eagerly. "Let us visit once more our old haunts, and take a few green images to smoky London. Shall we?"
"As you please, Daisy."
"I do please. I have a pastoral longing for breezy freshness, lanes, dells, and streams flowing in the shade. So let as go in to breakfast."
He yielded, but with little sympathy for my impatience, he lingered at the meal for an hour and more. When I sought to hurry him, he invariably replied:
"There is time enough."
I went up to dress; when I came down again, I found him in the garden, walking up and down the path. I joined him, and said "I was quite ready."
"Are you?" he quietly answered and continued his walk.
I followed him, impatient at his dilatoriness; but he seemed in no haste, for as he might have spoken on any other morning, he said:
"I like this garden, Daisy. Spite of the sea air, flowers seem to thrive here. I never saw a finer rose than this. Take it."
He gathered it, and gave it to me as he spoke. I murmured a little. This rose was to have been the pride of the bouquet I meant to take to Kate.
"There are plenty left," he replied, gathering a few more; then, looking at his watch, carelessly said:
"It was time to go."
I asked if we should take the path that led to the beach.
"Why not go by Leigh, you were wishing for green fields!"
"True; besides we can come back by the sands."
He did not reply. I took his arm; we traversed the house, and went down the steep path, which had seen some of our first walks in the pleasant lanes and meadows of Leigh.
"Only think," I observed after a while, "I have brought the flowers you gave me. They will be quite withered by the time we are home again."
Cornelius stopped abruptly, and held me back.
"Mind that stone," he said, "you might have hurt yourself. Why did you not look before you?"
"Because I feel as if I trod on air," I replied gaily, "and when one feels so, it seems quite ridiculous to trouble one's self with stones, &c. I don't know when I have been in a mood so light and happy. I feel as if this green lane need have no end or turning, and this pleasant day no sunset."
He did not answer. My flights of fancy won no response from his graver mood; the dazzling brightness of the deep blue sky, the green freshness of the fields, seemed lost upon him, lost the charm and sweetness of the day. But even his unusual seriousness could not subdue the buoyancy and life which I felt rising within me. My blood flowed, as it only flows in youth or in spring, light, warm and rapid, making of every sensation a brief delight, of every aspect and change of nature an exquisite enjoyment, tempered with that under-current of subtle pain which runs through over-wrought emotions, and subdues at their very highest pitch the sweetest and purest joys of mortal sense. I walked on, like one in a dream, scarcely heeding where we went. At length Cornelius stopped, and said:
"Shall we not rest here awhile?"
We stood in that green and lonely nook, by the banks of the quiet stream where we had once lingered through the hours of a summer noon. It so chanced that though we had since then often passed by the spot, we had never made it our resting-place. The thought of once more spending here an hour or two was pleasant. I took off my bonnet and suspended it from the branches of the willow; I sat again beneath it; Cornelius unconsciously took the very attitude in which I remembered him—half reclining on the bank, with his brow resting on the palm of his hand. The same bending trees above, with their glimpses of blue sky; the same clear stream flowing on, with its silent world below, and its green wilderness beyond; the same murmur of low and broken sounds around us; the same sweet sense of freshness and solitude made past weeks seem like one unbroken summer day. I felt that sitting there, I could forget how quickly pass on hours, how rapid is the course of time.
"Daisy!" suddenly said Cornelius, looking up, "how is it you do not ask me what I had to tell you last night?"
"I had forgotten all about it," I answered, smiling, "What is it,Cornelius?"
He did not reply at once, but again taking my hands in his, he looked at me so sadly, that my heart sank within me.
"Cornelius," I exclaimed, "you have not news—of—Kate?"
"No," he quickly replied, "I have sad news for you, my poor child; butKate is well."
"What is it then? What is it, Cornelius? Has she lost her money? Is the house burned down? What is it?"
"Nothing like this, Daisy; you would never guess—1 must tell you. God alone knows how hard I find it. Daisy, we are going to part."
My arms fell down powerless; I did not speak; I did not weep; I was stunned with the blow. An expression full of trouble and remorse passed over his face.
"What have I done?" he exclaimed in an agitated tone, "I wished to spare you until the last moment. Oh! Daisy, for God's sake do not look so."
I felt, and I dare say I looked, almost inanimate. He took me in his arms and bending over me, eagerly begged me to forgive him.
"It was to spare you, my darling," he said, "I was going to tell you last night, but I thought I would let you sleep in peace, and I kept the weary secret to myself, as I have done these three days."
I heard him drearily. It was true then, an actual, dread reality. I summoned strength to ask—
"Why must we part, Cornelius?"
"Why?" he echoed sadly.
"You must not go, I will not let you," I exclaimed passionately, "or if you go, you must take me with you. I have money of my own; I will be no cost to you, but I will not leave you."
He wanted to speak; I laid my hand on his lips.
"I tell you that you must either stay at home or take me with you," I said wilfully, "I too want to see Spain."
"Daisy, I am not going to Spain."
"Where then? To Italy? What for? Who have you left there that is so very dear? Oh! I see! I see! Go, Cornelius, go." And I disengaged myself with wounded pride from the embrace he could find it in his heart to bestow, with that heart full—as I thought in the jealousy of the moment—of another.
"That's right, Daisy!" he replied bitterly, "that's right! Make me feel to the end the fever and torment of the last two months."
"Are you or are you not going away to marry?" I said, confronting him.
"Marry!" he echoed in an impatient and irritated tone, "Marry! I don't think of it."
A load was raised from my heart. I breathed. I again. His marriage was the only evil to which I could see no remedy.
By the fright it had given me, I perceived how much I had dreaded it; but a vague instinct forbade me to show him this. I quickly changed the subject.
"Take me with you," I said entreatingly, "I will give you no trouble."
"Trouble! Oh, that indeed I were going away and you with me," he half groaned. "Blessed would be that trouble; too sweet, too delightful the task of bearing you away, alone with me, to some far land."
"Cornelius," I said, "tell me all at once. Since you are not going away— what is it?"
"I suppose," he answered after a brief pause, "you know, though you have never alluded to it, that this park before us is your grandfather's; that the house of which we can discern the roof through this grove of elm and beech, is Thornton House. I am taking you there now."
"But I shall go back to Rock Cottage with you?" I exclaimed eagerly. "I shall go to London with you, and live there in the house of Kate. Shall I not?"
He did not answer; but he half averted his troubled face; his gaze shunned mine.
"Cornelius," I said, clinging to him, "I will not go and live with Mr. Thornton, I will not. I don't love him, and I love you and Kate as my life. He treated me unkindly, and you took me and reared me. Unless you turn me out of your home, I will not leave it for his."
I spoke with passion and vehemence; holding fast to him, as if to brave the power that would seek to divide us.
"Do not speak so wildly," he replied in a soothing tone; "God knows I wish not to compel you—you are free. Daisy."