"You don't believe it?" he said.
"No," was my frank reply.
"Now, Miss Burns, what should I care for?"
"Politics?"
"I am sick of them. Standing for a certain borough, and being pelted with eggs and apples, gave me a surfeit."
"Pleasure?"
"It is too hard work for me."
"Money?"
"I have got it, and therefore do not care for it."
"Horses?"
"Over years ago."
"Years ago!" I thought, "and you have not come into the Wyndham property more than a year, cousin. Travelling?" I suggested aloud.
"Over too. Do you confess yourself mistaken, and acknowledge that I am tired of the world?"
"No, Sir!"
"No!"
"No; you read the newspaper."
My cousin opened his fine blue eyes, and looked amused, and seemed to expect more; but I looked at my drawings, and remained mute; he raised his head from the back of the high arm-chair on which it was cushioned. I took no notice of this; he coughed; I never looked up. He took his paper, laid it down, took it up again, and at length feeling either piqued or inquisitive, rose and came round to the back of my chair. I allowed him to stand there, and look over my shoulder, as long as he pleased.
"I wonder where Bertha got these!" he said at length in a tone of surprise.
"They are mine," I replied quietly, "Mr. O'Reilly gave them to me."
"Are they by him?"
I assented with some pride. My cousin looked astonished, and pronounced the sketches masterly. He sat down by my side, and looked over the contents of the portfolio; his remarks showed me that he was an excellent judge. We looked slowly; and had not done, when Mrs. Brand and Mrs. Langton returned from their laborious duties.
"Have you seen these, Bertha?" said Edward Thornton to his sister.
"Yes, lovely things," she replied, carelessly.
"Have you?" he asked of Edith, who sat apart, gathered up in her own loveliness, like a self-admiring rose.
She answered in the negative, and taking up the portfolio, he seemed inclined to show them to her; but his sister playfully interfered, told him that as he had already seen them, it was not fair; that she was passionately fond of drawings, and would look over these with her dear Edith by whom she accordingly sat most pertinaciously until dinner-time. Her brother remained by me, and talked of Cornelius, whom he emphatically pronounced a man of genius. My ear opened to hear him speak so.
"He is more than a man of genius," I replied with some emotion; "he is so good. At least he has always been so to me; he adopted and reared me quite as if I had been his own child, and that was very kind."
Mr. Thornton smiled, and spoke of good deeds that brought their own reward. I hinted that if I was a reward, it seemed hard he should be deprived of me. He evidently thought this hard, too; and though he did not say so, I saw he intended influencing Mr. Thornton in my favour. A fact on which I did not place much hope, for I knew enough of my grandfather to guess he was not easily governed.
He kept me with him transcribing for several hours the next day; but he never spoke until I was leaving the room, then he said very coolly:
"You can do the rest after dinner, whilst I go on with that little business to the wishing-well."
My hand was on the door; I turned round to give him a terrified look. He laughed as if he enjoyed my fright. I dare say I looked dismayed enough, for as I left the study, I met my cousin entering, and he gave me an astonished glance. I passed by him swiftly, and ran up to my room, there to write a few words, with which I hastened down again. Not suspecting that my grandfather would see me, or seeing me guess my intention, I went down the beech-tree avenue; but I had not gone ten steps, when the arched casement was thrown open, and Mr. Thornton appeared in the aperture, grim and forbidding.
"Miss Burns," he said, sternly, "will you come back, if you please. I want you. Sir, I shall thank you not to interfere."
The latter remark was addressed to my cousin, who, standing by him, seemed to plead or urge something. He bowed stiffly and drew back, looking offended. I obeyed the summons I had received, and returned to the study, my eyes overflowing with indignant tears which pride could scarcely restrain. Edward Thornton gave me a look of sympathy, and left as I entered. Mr. Thornton eyed me severely.
"You may as well give it up," he said, "for I won't allow it."
I sank down on a chair without replying. He continued:
"If you ever saw a moth singe its wings at a candle, you know the fate of your friend. Every one knows that though I don't care a farthing for game, I allow no poaching. We were three of us at the wishing-well the other evening. Since he would brave me, why I shall just show him that I have him so," he added expressively uniting his forefinger and thumb, "and that no later than this evening."
I gave him a beseeching look; he laughed; I began a supplication; he interrupted with a stern: "I never retract."
I steeled my heart, and took a desperate resolve.
"Mr. Thornton," I said rising and going up to him, "I will submit to anything, if you will but let Mr. O'Reilly alone. It is because he knows I am so fond of him that he does all this."
"That's not true, and you know it," roundly interrupted Mr. Thornton. "It's because he is so fond of you that he can't take his eyes off of you."
"Well then, yes," I exclaimed, feeling that perfect sincerity was after all the best policy. "It is because ho likes me. Has he not a right to be fond of me, just as I of him and his sister? I love them both with my whole heart; I long to be with them back again, and I hate being here— and yet I yield—I submit to anything you may exact; but, to the grief of my loss, I entreat you do not add the torment of a persecution endured for my sake. If you will but disregard this and any other attempt he may make to see me, I will pass my word not to see him without your permission. He has taught me that one's word is a sacred thing; if I give mine I will keep it, though Grod alone knows how much it will cost me."
My voice faltered and sank, for, as I thought of the pledge I was offering, I felt scarcely able to speak, and yet I dreaded lest Mr. Thornton should say no, and persist in seeking out Cornelius. He cogitated for a while, then said abruptly:
"To spare the time I cannot afford to lose, and for no other reason—I consent; but mind: as you keep your word, I keep mine."
I made no answer to this remark, but asked if I might not write to Cornelius to tell him what had passed, and bid him the farewell I was not to utter. He said yes. I wrote at once, and gave him the letter which he promised to forward without delay.
Until then, I had not felt my parting from Cornelius. His promise, my own hopes, the light spirit of youth, had sustained me. But now that I was pledged beyond recall, hope forsook me like a faithless friend in the hour of need, and left me to taste in all its bitterness the misery of absence and separation.
Years give us strength to suffer. I was no longer a weak and sickly child. I grieved, but my sorrow was not more than I could bear. I was young, and hope soon returned to me, and whispered that, after all, this trial, though bitter, could not last for ever; that I might succeed in conciliating my grandfather; and, should I fail in the attempt, that a few more years would make me my own mistress.
My cousin Edward sympathised with me, wondered what could be Mr. Thornton's motives for such strange severity, and what sort of a heart he had thus rudely to break the tender and filial tie which bound me to my adopted father. I thought him very kind; and my only comfort was to look with him over the sketches of Cornelius.
Next to seeing him, it was pleasant to hear him spoken of. I seldom uttered his name myself, but I could sit for hours, listening patiently, just for the chance of its being mentioned now and then. This was the charm which lay for me, in the presence of Edward Thornton, which made me regret his absence and welcome his return. He seemed flattered by my evident preference, his sister looked on approvingly, and Mrs. Langton brushed past me haughty and disdainful.
At the end of a week, Mr. Edward Thornton announced to me, one evening that we chanced to be alone, his intention of leaving Thornton House early the next day. He was going to London; he promised to call on Cornelius and Kate, tell them he had seen me, and write to me how he had found them. Then he rose, and bade me farewell.
"When do you come back?" I asked, with a sigh.
"I do not come back," he said, gently.
"Oh! but what shall I do?" I exclaimed, dismayed at the prospect of having no one to talk to me of Cornelius, and my eyes filled with involuntary tears.
Mr. Edward Thornton looked embarrassed and hinted that his sister remained behind. I did not answer—a pause followed. Then my cousin hoped that, if my grandfather permitted it, I would accompany Mrs. Brand when she left Thornton House for Poplar Lodge. I knew the place well: it stood within a comparatively short distance of the Grove. My heart beat, and my face flushed, at the thought of catching a stray glimpse of Cornelius and Kate.
"Oh, I shall be so glad—so happy!" I exclaimed, eagerly.
My cousin protested that the joy and happiness would be his; and, respectfully kissing my hand, he bade me a tender adieu. On the very day of his arrival in town, he called at the Grove, and, with a promptitude that touched me, wrote to me, by the same day's post, that he had seen Miss O'Reilly, who seemed quite well, and sent her love to me; but that he had missed her brother. More he did not say, and with this much, I had, perforce, to content myself.
His absence made me feel very lonely. We were a strange household, and led a strange life. My grandfather did not think it necessary to trouble himself about his uninvited guests. He never sought our society, or appeared at our table. Mrs. Marks tacitly resented our intrusion by retiring to the stronghold of her high room, whence she occasionally amused herself with ringing her alarum-bell, and now and then emerged to make a descent upon Charlotte below. She saw that Mr. Thornton wanted for nothing, and allowed us to shift as we liked. We went on very well. Mrs. Brand's servant daily foraged for our support, and Mrs. Langton's French maid, with Charlotte as a subordinate, condescended to cook us the exquisite soups and ragouts of her country. Thus we lived most luxuriously in that old wainscotted parlour, where there were scarcely three chairs fit to sit upon.
Mrs. Brand and Mrs. Langton did not feel the inconvenience; both before and after the departure of Edward Thornton, they lived in a round of visits and country gaieties. People, I believe, must not have known that I existed, for I was never included in the invitations they received; and the peculiar life my grandfather led, had so thoroughly estranged him from his neighbours, that not one of them ever crossed the threshold of his dwelling. What kept two such gay ladies in so gloomy an abode, was, for some time, more than I could tell, or find out, spite of the mysterious hints which Mrs. Brand dropped now and then.
My cousin had been gone a week, when Mr. Thornton was suddenly called away on business. He placed his study under my care, with the strict, but, as it seemed to me, unnecessary prohibition of allowing any one to enter this sacred place. He still employed me as reader and amanuensis, and had left me plenty of manuscripts to transcribe. I sat writing by the open window, when the sound of the opening door made me look up. I saw Mrs. Brand. She came in with a mysterious air, and locked the door after her. I rose, and with some embarrassment, informed her of my grandfather's orders.
"I am not at all astonished," she replied, calmly.
"I am sorry to be the bearer of such a message," I said, with some emphasis.
"True," she sighed, sitting down as she spoke, and her eye wandering keenly over the whole room. I reminded her that Mr. Thornton's orders admitted of no exception. She shook her head, raised her handkerchief to her eyes, withdrew it after a decent pause, and observed, mournfully:—
"Bound as I am to Mr. Thornton by the ties of blood—bound, I may say, by the ties of affection—it is melancholy—My dear, is he to be long out?"
"I don't know, ma'am; but he said—"
"Yes, dear, I know. Bound by the ties of affection, it is melancholy even to allude to the mysterious calamity which has befallen him. I have with pleasure noticed your reserve."
"Indeed, Ma'am, I am ignorant—"
"Quite right, dear, quite proper. Of course you have noticed peculiarities of thought, speech, and conduct. No one, indeed, has had so good an opportunity as you have possessed; but you have discreetly abstained from comment. You had heard of dungeons, chains, whips, strait- waistcoats, and keepers; you did not know that there are places where the afflicted are happier far than when allowed the indulgence of their own wayward wills; indeed, where they are only restricted in one or two trifling matters, for their own good of course."
She sighed as she concluded.
"Excuse me, Ma'am," I said, much astonished, "you mistake; I never thought anything of the sort, and never for a moment connected the places you mention with Mr. Thornton."
"I see; you thought of keeping it quiet in the family; very amiable, but impracticable."
"No, Ma'am, I did not think of that either."
"But, my dear, you must have noticed so many things; indeed you have had rare opportunities, for instance, the change from amiability to moroseness."
"I don't think Mr. Thornton ever was amiable, Ma'am."
"My dear! the most amiable of men."
"Then not in my time, Ma'am."
Mrs. Brand gave me a perplexed look, then observed—
"Do you really think, my dear, Mr. Thornton is of sound mind?"
"I am sure of it."
"My dear, you take a weight from my mind. Edith would have it that he did such strange things when she was here—write such oddities. I wonder what there is in those papers."
She stretched forth her hand; I drew away the papers from her reach, and said, quietly—
"There is nothing odd in these papers, Ma'am. They are merely about mineralogy."
"Mineralogy!" she exclaimed, eagerly, "my dear, if a lawyer were to see them he might detect what you cannot of course perceive—the scientific madness."
"The what, Ma'am?"
"'The scientific madness,' you deaf little fool," said the sarcastic voice of my grandfather.
Mrs. Brand jumped and I started. We looked round, he was nowhere in the room. He laughed ironically; we turned round and saw his head rising above the window-sill, on which his chin just rested.
"So," he said, addressing his cousin, "you are kind enough to trouble yourself about me in my absence. Eh!"
Mrs. Brand, the first moment over, was too thorough a woman of the world to allow herself to be disconcerted.
"Yes, Mr. Thornton," she said, rising with sorrowful dignity, "your ill- used relatives think of schemes for your benefit; they know their duty to you, and though they should be misunderstood, they will persist in that duty. Good-bye, my dear child, I leave you with regret to the fatal consequences of your blindness."
She walked out of the room as she spoke. The head of my grandfather sank down and vanished, and in a few minutes his whole person appeared at the door of the study; he stood there eyeing me from head to foot.
"Why did you let her in?" he asked sternly.
"I could not help it, Sir."
"You should have turned her out."
"Sir."
"Turned her out. Are you getting deaf?"
He seemed in a very bad temper, sat down with his hat on, and hunted for something amongst the books and papers on his table, grumbling all the time. A knock at the door disturbed him; he opened it himself.
"Miss Burns is engaged," he said sharply, in reply to something, then re- entered the room, slamming the door and muttering to himself.
In a few minutes, there was a sound of carriage wheels rolling down the avenue.
"A happy riddance!" grumbled Mr. Thornton. "Will you soon have done that transcribing?"
"By dinner-time, Sir."
He glanced over my shoulder at what I had done, signified his approbation, and told me, as the others had taken themselves off, I might stay and dine with him. Accordingly, in an hour's time, we had a frugal and silent meal on an end of the table cleared away for that purpose. When the repast was over, Mr. Thornton went to a cupboard, opened it, and brought forth a bottle of old-looking wine, then laid it down and glanced at me significantly. I shook my head, and said I never took wine.
"Then you are a little fool," he replied good-humouredly, "for there is nothing better; and this is glorious old port, too."
He sat down, poured himself out a tumbler full, and, reclining back in his deep arm-chair, began enjoying slowly the only indulgence he granted to his solitary life. The genial influence of the generous vintage soon became apparent. The sternness of his mouth relaxed; his brow smoothed down; his piercing eyes softened into a sort of careless and jovial good- humour; and when he laid down his glass, it was to thrust his hands in his pockets, and chuckle to himself at the discomfiture of Mrs. Brand.
"Scientific madness, eh—and wanted to hook you into it, and that little bit of mineralogy, too—much the lawyers would have made of it! I am a lucky man; every creature I have to do with tries to cheat or outwit me; that Irish friend of yours, you—"
"Excuse me, Sir," I interrupted, reddening; "cheating implies trust, and you did not trust us. Mr. O'Reilly is the slave to his word. He kept his to you; I had none to keep. You never asked him if he liked to give me up; you never asked me if I liked being here. Do not wonder he did his best to get me back, and I to get away."
I spoke warmly; Mr. Thornton projected his nether lip, and shrugged his shoulders impassionately.
"You ridiculous little creature," he said, "why should I ask you if you liked the medicine which I your physician knew to be good for you? Don't you see that Irishman would have got tired of the young girl, as he once did of the little girl, and sent her off somewhere? I spared him the trouble."
"Indeed," I replied indignantly, "he would not have got tired of me! If I were his own child, Cornelius could not be fonder of me than he is."
Mr. Thornton looked deep into me, and at first said nothing.
"If you were his own child—eh!" he at length echoed. "Fudge!"
"Fudge, Sir! And why should he not like me? He reared me, he taught me, he watched by me when I was ill; he did everything for me. Why then should he not like me?"
I sat within a few paces of my grandfather; he stretched out bis arm, placed his hand under my chin, raised my face so as to meet his bended gaze, and again seemed to read me through.
"Silly thing!" he said, a little contemptuously, and dropped his hand, which I immediately caught, and imprisoned in both mine.
"Oh, Sir!" I exclaimed, "I have kept my word; I will keep it still; but pray let me go and see them—pray do. Where can the harm be in that? Oh! pray, do let me!"
In my eagerness, I could scarcely speak, and the words trembled on my lips.
"So," he said, "that is what you have been getting pale about, is it?— and fretting, eh?"
I could not deny the imputation. He took his hand from me, frowned, and looked displeased.
"Margaret Burns," he observed, sharply, "you are a fool, and I am a still greater fool not to let you rush on your fate. However, I am not going to do it; so just make up your mind to stay here."
With that he rose, took the paper for which he had come back, and left me, bidding me not to forget that "Chaos and Creation."
He did not come back for three days, which I spent alone in ThorntonHouse. It rained from morning until night, and I felt dull and miserable.I passed the best part of my time in the study, reading; and there mygrandfather found me on his return.
The afternoon was not far gone, and the weather seemed inclined to improve. The rain had ceased; yellow streaks of sunlight pierced the gray sky, and lit up the wet park. I sat by the window, through which streamed in a doubtful light; a book lay on my lap unread, and with my two hands clasped upon it, and my head low bent, I was absorbed in a waking dream, when the sound of the opening door roused me. I looked up, and saw Mr. Thornton, in his travelling dress, standing on the threshold, his two hands resting on the head of his cane, his eyes attentively fixed upon me. I said something about his return, and rose. He did not answer, but came in slowly, and began taking off his great coat; then suddenly pausing in the operation, he turned to me, and said abruptly:
"What is it about?"
"What, Sir?" I asked, astonished.
"That you are crying for?"
I hung down my head, and did not reply.
"Has anything or any one annoyed you, whilst I was away?" he asked, in the same short way.
"No. Sir."
"Then what are you crying for?"
"Oh, Sir, you know!" 1 said, with involuntary emotion.
"The old story, eh?" He walked up and down the room with his coat hanging half off from one arm; then suddenly stopping before me, he said: "Since you will be a fool, why be one and have your way. That friend of yours has not yet left Leigh; if he will come here, and comply with a condition that I shall exact, he may take you with him when and for as long as he likes."
I could scarcely believe my senses. I gazed incredulously at Mr. Thornton, who told me not to be bewildered, but see about it. I needed no second bidding, and ran out of the room at once. I met Charlotte on the staircase.
"Charlotte," I said, breathlessly, "can you take a letter for me to Leigh immediately?"
Before the girl could answer, Mrs. Marks, standing on the landing where I had first seen her, chose to interfere.
"Charlotte must get Mr Thornton's dinner ready," she said, majestically.
"Very well," I replied more quietly; "Richard can do it."
"Richard is out," she observed with evident satisfaction.
"Then I can do it myself," I said impatiently.
I ran up-stairs, got ready, and went off at once. It was only when I had passed the lodge, that it occurred to me Mr. Thornton had not perhaps intended me to be my own messenger; but it was too late to retreat; besides I could not resist the temptation of seeing Cornelius again, so I cast thought behind me, and went on.
My heart beat fast as I reached Rock Cottage. The garden-gate stood ajar; the door was open too; I entered and looked into both the parlours, then passed on to the garden, hurried along the gravel path, and caught a glimpse of him going down to the beach. I thought to call him back, but changed my mind, and followed him silently. The path wound away to the sands, sunk between sharp and rugged rocks. Down these, the gate and garden left behind me, I ran lightly. I soon outstripped him, and stood awaiting his approach on a point of rock that projected over the path. He walked with folded arms and eyes bent on the earth. When he was within a few paces of me, I dropped lightly down before him. If I had fallen from the sky, he could scarcely have looked more astonished. He did not speak, but took my hands in his, as if to make sure of my identity.
"I am no spirit," I said, "but real flesh and blood."
The blood rushed up to his brow.
"You are come—come back to me after all!" he exclaimed ardently. "I knew you would." And stooping, he pressed me to his heart with a passionate fondness that made me forget all save the joy of seeing him again. I know not what we said in that first moment. I felt one with him then, and his words of endearment and gladness are irrevocably blended with mine in memory. All I distinctly remember, is finding myself sitting with him in the back-parlour of Rock Cottage, my two bands clasped on his shoulder, my eyes raised up to his, and my ears drinking in with delight every word that fell from his lips. He called me by every fond name he could think of; blessed me over and over, and ended by saying eagerly: "Had we not better go at once, my darling?"
I started and woke from my dream.
"Cornelius," I replied, hesitatingly, "I have not run away—I am come to see you."
He looked transfixed.
"To see me!" he said at length; "and do you think I will let you leave me? No, Daisy, you have placed in my way a temptation mortal man could not resist. I tell you that I have you, and that I will keep you."
He took my two hands in his. I tried to disengage them; but though his grasp was so gentle I scarcely felt it, it held me completely captive. He smiled at my useless efforts; then said with some reproach:
"Oh, Daisy! the little girl whom I carried in my arms seven years ago, was willing enough. I had not, even in jest, to hold her hands. She clasped them around my neck lovingly and trustingly, laid her hand on my shoulder, and had but one fear—lest I should leave her behind."
He released me, and added, in his most fervent and beseeching accents:
"Come with me, Daisy; come with me. If you ever cared for me, show it now—come with me. Don't drive me to do something desperate—I tell you that I will never leave Leigh without you. Come with me!"
He had again clasped his arms around me, and held me within a circle more potent than that of any magic spell. I laid my two hands on his shoulders, and smiled up at him, as I replied:
"I should have told you at once, but I was so glad, that I forgot it; and you are so impatient that you won't hear me out. Mr. Thornton has changed his mind—he says I may be with you and Kate again—all on a condition."
"What condition?" he promptly asked.
"I don't know—he will tell it to you himself, and you will agree to it— won't you, Cornelius?"
"No," he replied, impatiently; "this is a snare. Besides, why submit to a condition when I have you here without one? Oh, Daisy! now is the moment. Fate, or rather Providence, has made us meet—we must not have the madness to part again. I have missed one opportunity—I will not miss another. Trust to me. Cast by all thought, all fear—look not behind or before you. Come, Daisy, not to-morrow—not to-night—but now! Come with me—come!"
He rose, as if to lead me away that very moment; but he still held me fast, and that clasp which the passion of the moment only rendered more secure, his flushed face, eager looks, and feverish accents, all breathed the most vehement and ardent entreaty.
Subdued by his resolute tenderness, I yielded, but for a moment only; the next, I rallied and resisted. I made a desperate effort, and, both bodily and mentally, asserted my freedom.
"No, no, Cornelius," I cried, agitatedly, "I cannot go with you. I, too, have passed my word, and I must keep it—I must keep it; and you must not ask or tempt me to break it—indeed, Cornelius, you must not."
I spoke as I felt, with much distress. Cornelius calmed down at once, and entreated me to be pacified.
"I had forgotten your promise;" he said, "seeing you here, I had but one thought [] to possess and secure that which I had lost. I will submit to Mr. Thornton's conditions, and take you back to him this moment. What more would you have?"
In his earnestness, he again took my hand. My lips parted to thank him, but the entrance of our old servant checked the words. She muttered indistinctly, as was her wont, then kept the door open, and admitted—Mr. Thornton.
For a moment, he stood still on the threshold, and looked confounded.Neither Cornelius nor I spoke.
"So," he said at length, "I fancy I leave you safe at home writing a letter, and give myself the trouble of coming here to have some private talk with Mr. O'Reilly; and you are actually here before-hand with me."
"I could find no one to send the letter by, Sir," I replied, quite dismayed. "I am sorry if I have done wrong."
"Wrong!" echoed Cornelius, looking displeased, and drawing me towards him as he spoke.
I saw his proud and hasty temper would ruin all; I hastened to interfere.
"I have been speaking to Mr. O'Reilly," I said, quickly, "and he has promised to abide by the conditions. You know, Cornelius, you have promised," I added, turning towards him.
He could not deny it, but reddened, and bit his lip. Mr. Thornton said nothing, but sat down, and looked at us with a keen and attentive gaze, which Cornelius did not seem to relish.
"You wished to speak to me, Sir," he said, at length.
"Yes, Sir," composedly answered my grandfather, "I came here for that purpose, just as you came to me on the same errand seven years ago. Sir, I am a plain man, and I shall speak plainly. I think it is a strange thing that since you in some manner forced this young girl upon me, you are ever doing all you can to get her back—ay, and a very strange thing."
He looked at him fixedly. Cornelius returned the gaze, and the question:
"Is it a stranger thing, Sir, than that you, who accepted this young girl so reluctantly, should since always show yourself so anxious to keep her?"
"Perhaps not," drily replied Mr. Thornton; "but I meant to be brief. What I have to say is this: When I placed her with Mrs. Gray, I never intended, Sir, that you should see her face again. I had my motives. The physician having, however, pronounced her consumptive, I thought, if she was to die, she might as well be humoured. But when I returned, a few weeks ago, I learned that the little thing was alive and well; that you, too, had returned from your travels, and had turned out a most vigilant and attentive guardian; and it occurred to me that I might as well remind you of your promise. For this, too, I had my motives. You redeemed your word honourably, without taking advantage of your position or influence; but it was the old story all over—no sooner was she out of your hands, than you were half mad to have her back again. She, too, wanted to be off; and, to show me what a tyrant I was, and what a victim I made of her, she got thin and sallow with all her might. Sir, I give in; on the condition I shall name presently—she may dispose of herself as she thinks fit. But this time, as well as before, you owe me no thanks. It is to gratify her I do it."
"And this time, as before, it is to please her I submit to a condition," haughtily replied Cornelius.
I still stood by him and gave his arm a warning and entreating pressure.My grandfather calmly resumed:
"She is young, and much under your influence. I wish her to remain quite free, and shall be satisfied if you will promise not to make a present of her to any bosom friend of yours that might take a fancy to her, you understand."
"Yes, Sir, I understand." replied Cornelius, with subdued irritation, "but I decline pledging myself for her."
"I do not require it," said Mr. Thornton, a little ironically, "I care not a rush on whom the silly thing bestows herself, but I like fair play, and want her to give herself, and not to be given—or taken either. If she runs away without your knowledge, depend upon it I shall not accuse you. I ask you to pledge yourself for yourself—do you object?"
"No, no," I replied eagerly for him, "Cornelius does not object. Bless you, Mr. Thornton,hedoes not want to give me away. Of course he does not. You don't, Cornelius, do you?" I added, looking up in his face, and passing my arm within his.
My grandfather laughed sarcastically. Cornelius looked exasperated. He seemed to be undergoing a sharp, inward struggle; at length he yielded.
"For her sake, Sir," he said, addressing Mr. Thornton, "and hers alone, I yield; I give you the promise you require. Allow me to add that you either trust me a great deal too much, or far too little."
He spoke with such defiant pride, that I looked half frightened at my grandfather; but he only smiled and rose. I saw he was going, and left Cornelius to bid him adieu.
"Good-bye!" he said, roughly; yet when I passed my arm around his neck, and, for the first time touched his cheek with my lips, he looked more astonished than displeased; but he had so long broken with the charities of life, that to return the embrace probably did not occur to him. All he did was to look from me to Cornelius, and say, with a careless nod:
"She's a pretty little thing," having delivered which opinion, he turned away and left us.
Scarcely had the door closed on him, when Cornelius broke out.
"Oh, Daisy!" he exclaimed, "what have you made me do! And why must I, who hate the mere thought of interference and subjection, thus hold you on the good-will and pleasure of another."
He paced the room with agitated steps. I saw his pride suffered, and following him, I did my best to soothe him; at length I succeeded; he stopped short before me, looked down at me with a smile, and said:
"I almost forgive your perverse old grandfather everything, for the sake of his last words. You are a pretty little thing—and better than you are pretty," he added fondly.
"Then mind you appreciate me," I replied.
He said there was no fear that he should not.
We left Leigh the next day, and Cornelius, according to the philosophic injunction of Kate, locked up the house and brought the key in his pocket.
Our journey was short and pleasant. Cornelius seemed quite gay again. In order to surprise Kate, we stepped down from the cab at the end of the lane, talking of that evening seven years before, when he had brought me along the same path to the same dwelling.
"Oh, Cornelius," I exclaimed, looking up at him, "was it not kind of MrThornton to let me come back?"
He looked down at me, and smiled as he replied:
"I don't know that he meant it as any particular kindness to me; but that he could do me none greater, I mean to show him yet."
The lane was long; we walked slowly; the evening was one of early autumn's most lovely ones, brown and mellow, our path was strewn with fallen leaves, but the beauty of summer was still in the sky, and its warmth in the glorious setting sun. As we approached the well-known door, we saw Kate in her hair, standing on the threshold and talking to two little Irish beggars, whom she was scolding and stuffing at the same time. As she turned round, she saw us, and looked at us with incredulous astonishment. I ran up to her, and threw my arm around her neck.
"I am come back," I cried, "indeed I am."
"I see and feel it; but is it for good?"
"To be sure."
She kissed me heartily, then pushed me away and said, "there was no getting rid of that girl, but that she knew well enough Cornelius would not come back without her," then she turned to the two petitioners, bade them be off and never show their faces again, and ended by telling them to call for some cold meat on Monday. This matter dispatched, she shut the door and followed us in. As we passed through the garden, I saw with surprise that it was no longer separated from its neighbour.
"No," said Kate, with some pride, "it is now one garden and one dwelling, Daisy. No more tenants, you know. I like room. Are you too tired to come and see the changes I have made?"
We both said "No," and Miss O'Reilly took us over the whole house at once. It was much larger, and much improved; we had parlours to spare now; drawing-rooms elegantly furnished, bed-rooms more than we needed; so that, as Kate said, if any old friend came from Ireland—though she was afraid they must be all dead, for they never came—or if those two good friends of Cornelius, Schwab and Armari, should leave fair Italy for smoky London, they could be accommodated easily. Thus talking carelessly, Miss O'Reilly took us to the top of the house, where we found the old dream of Cornelius fairly realised: several rooms thrown into one, with a skylight. She laughed at his surprise; pushed him away, and told him to keep his distance when he kissed her, then suddenly flung her arms around his neck and embraced him ardently.
We returned to our old life on the very next day, as if it had known no interruption. I sat to Cornelius, who painted with renewed ardour; towards dusk he took me out walking; when evening had fairly set in, he gave me my Italian lesson, and when that was over, he sang and played or read aloud. He never seemed to think of going out; one evening, when his sister insisted on making him leave us, he returned at the end of ten minutes. "He had not been able," he said, "to get beyond the end of the grove. There was, after all, no place like home."
"Domestic man!" observed Kate, smiling as he sat down by me on my sofa.
Without seeming to hear her, he took up Shakespeare from the table, and began reading aloud the most fervent and beautiful passages from Romeo and Juliet. Then he suddenly closed the book and turning on me, asked how I liked the story of the two Italian lovers.
"Were they not a little crazy, Cornelius?" I replied; "but I suppose love always makes people more or less ridiculous."
On hearing this heretic sentiment, Cornelius looked orthodox and shocked.
"Ridiculous!" he said, "who has put such ideas into your head?" He glanced suspiciously at Kate who hastily observed:
"I had nothing to do with it."
"Do you think I could not find that out alone?" I asked, laughing.
But Cornelius remained quite grave. Did I not know love was a most exalted feeling? That angels loved in Heaven, and that poor mortals could not do better than imitate them on earth? That love was the attribute of the female mind, its charm and its power? On these high moral grounds, he proceeded to give me an eloquent description of the universal passion. It was pure, it was noble, tender and enduring; it was light and very joyous; it had sweetness and great strength; it refined the mind; it purified the heart; and, though seemingly so exclusive, it filled to overflowing with the sense of universal charity. It was a chain of subtle and mysterious sympathies.
Here I rapidly passed my forefinger along his profile, and resting it on the tip of his nose, I said gravely:
"Kate! is it aquiline or Roman? Aquiline, I think."
On feeling and hearing this piece of impertinence, Cornelius turned round on me with such a start of vexation and wrath, that I jumped up, and ran off to the chair of Kate. She only laughed at her brother's discomfiture. He said nothing, but sat fuming alone on the sofa.
"Serve you right," she said, "why will you explain love philosophically to a girl of seventeen? Don't you see her hour is not come, and that if it were, she would know more than you could tell her?"
Cornelius sharply replied "that was not at all the question, but that when he spoke, he thought he might be listened to."
"I did listen to you," I said, "your last words were: 'a chain of subtle and mysterious sympathies.'"
He did not answer, but took up Shakespeare, and looked tragic over it.
"He's vexed," I whispered audibly to Kate. "He looks like Othello, the Moor of Venice. What shall I do? I am afraid of the sofa-pillow, if I go near him! He looked a while ago as if he longed to throw it at me; just because I said his nose was aquiline, and broke his chain of subtle and mysterious sympathies."
"Kate!" said Cornelius, looking up from his book, "can't you make that girl hold her tongue?"
Kate declined the office, and sent me back to him. He pretended to be very angry, but when I deliberately took Shakespeare from him and shut it, he smiled, smoothed my hair, and called me by two or three of the fondest of the many fond and endearing names in Irish, English, and Italian, which it was now his habit to bestow upon me, and thus our little quarrels always ended.
I was very happy; yet here as well as at Leigh, the restless spirit of youth was stirring within me. Kate had suffered much, she liked repose; Cornelius had travelled, home sufficed him. My sorrows had been few, and Leigh was the extent of my peregrinations. Of home, of the daily comedies and dramas, which can be enacted in a human dwelling, I knew something; but of life, busy, active, outward life I knew less than most girls of my age, and they—poor things—knew little enough. Kate seldom went beyond her garden; when Cornelius took me out in the evening, it was for a quiet walk in the lanes. I said nothing, but I never passed by the landing window on my way to or from the studio, without stopping to look with a secret longing at the cloud of smoke hanging above London. Cornelius found me there on the afternoon which followed his Shakspearian reading, and he said with some curiosity:
"Daisy, what attraction is there in that prospect of brick and smoke?"
"What part of London lies next to us?" I asked, instead of answering.
"Oxford Street; you surely know Oxford Street?"
"I remember having been there two or three times."
"Two or three times! You do not mean to say you have never been in OxfordStreet more than two or three times!"
"Indeed I do, Cornelius. I was ten when I came here, always weak and sickly; then we went to Leigh, and we have been back about a fortnight. It is not so wonderful, you see."
Cornelius smiled, smoothed my hair, and said something about "violets in the shade, and birds in their nests."
"Yes, but birds leave their nests sometimes, don't they, Cornelius?" I asked a little impatiently.
"You want to go to town," he exclaimed, astonished.
I smiled.
"Oh!" he said, reproachfully, "have you really a wish, and will you not give me the pleasure of gratifying it? Do tell me what you wish for, Daisy—pray do."
He spoke warmly, and looked eagerly into my face.
"Well, then," I replied, "take me some day to Oxford Street. I know thePantheon is there, and I remember it as a sort of fairy-palace."
"Some day!—to-day, Daisy—this very day. Though this is not the season, there must be places worth seeing; museums, exhibitions—"
"The streets with the shops, the people, and the great current of life running through them, will entertain me far more than museums or made-up exhibitions."
"Why did you not say so sooner?"
"Kate dislikes long walks."
"But do I?—do I dislike long walks with you, Daisy, in town or country, in lanes or in streets? Is there anything I like better than to please or amuse you?"
Without allowing me to thank him, he told me to make haste and get ready.I obeyed, and within an hour, Cornelius and I were walking down OxfordStreet.
London, according to a figurative mode of speech, was quite empty; that is to say, a few all-important hundreds had taken flight, and left the insignificant thousands behind, just to mind the place in their absence. To me, after the long quietness of Leigh, it looked as gay and crowded as a fair. At once I flew to the shops, like a moth to the light, and Cornelius, with a good humour rare in his sex, not only stood patiently whilst I admired, but kept a sharp look out for every milliner's and linendraper's establishment, saying, eagerly:—
"There's another one, Daisy."
But, after a while, I was dazzled with all I saw, deafened with the sound of rolling carriages, bewildered with the unusual aspect of so many people, and glad to take refuge in the Pantheon, with its flowers, its birds, its statues, its pictures, its fanciful stalls, and its profusion of those graceful knick-knacks which have ever been, and ever will be, the delights of a truly feminine heart.
We had entered this pretty place by Great Marlborough Street. Cornelius began by buying me a beautiful, but most extravagant bouquet, which I had been imprudent enough to admire, and did not like to refuse. As we loitered about, I looked at one of the birds in the cages around the little fountain, and praised its glowing plumage.
"Have it," eagerly said Cornelius, and his purse was out directly.
"No, indeed," I quickly replied, "I do not like birds in cages."
"Well, then, have one of those squirrels."
"I will have nothing alive. And I will not have a plant either," I added, detecting the look he cast at the expensive flowers around us. I compelled him to put back his purse; but as we went on, and inspected the stalls, I bad to entreat add argue him out of buying me, first a vase of magnificent wax flowers; then apapier-mach?table, and thirdly, some costly china. No sooner did my eye chance to light with pleasure on anything, than he insisted on giving it to me. At length, I told him he spoiled all my enjoyment. He asked, with a dissatisfied air, if I was too proud to accept anything from him. I assured him I had no such feeling, and that he might buy me something before we went home, if such was his fancy.
"What?" he asked, with a look of mistrust.
"Anything you like; but for the present, pray let me look about."
He yielded; but I wished afterwards I had let him have his own way; for as we were leaving the Pantheon, with all its temptations, and I thought all right, Cornelius suddenly took me into a shop, and before I could remonstrate, he had bought me a light blue silk dress, as dear as it was pretty. I left the place much mortified; he saw it, and laughed at me, telling me to take this as a lesson, for that he would not be thwarted.
We took a cab and rode home; yet it was dusk when we reached the Grove. A light burned in the drawing-room window. We wondered what company Kate was entertaining; and on going up-stairs, found her sitting with our old friend, Mr. Smalley. We had not seen him since his marriage with Miriam Russell. He was now a widower. He looked paler and thinner than formerly; but as good and gentle as ever. He and Cornelius exchanged a greeting friendly, though rather calm and reserved. With me, Mr. Smalley was more open; but as he held my hand in his, he looked at me, and, smiling, turned to Cornelius.
"I should never have known in her the sickly child whom I still remember," he said; "indeed, my friend, your adopted daughter has thriven under your paternal care. Hush, darling!"
He was addressing a child of two or three, who clung to him, casting shy looks around the room, and seeming very ready to cry. To pacify her, he sat down again, and took her on his knee. She nestled close to him, and was hushed at once. Mr. Smalley made a little paternal apology. Darling had insisted on coming with him, and as she would not stay with his sister Mary, he had to take her with him wherever he went.
"Those young creatures," he added, looking at Cornelius, "twine themselves around our very heart-strings. I know what a truly paternal heart yours is for your adopted daughter."
"Ay, ay!" interrupted Cornelius, looking fidgetty, "how is Trim?"
"He died a year ago," gravely replied Mr. Smalley. "Ah! my friend, my heart smote me when I heard the tidings. I had always been harsh to Trim, you know."
"You harsh to any one!" said Cornelius, smiling.
But Mr. Smalley assured him his nature was harsh; though, with the grace of God, he had been able to subdue it a little. Darling, he might add, had been the means of softening many an asperity. He kissed her kindly as he spoke. She was a pale, fair-haired little creature, very like him, and evidently indulged to excess. He was wrapped in her, and when of her own accord, she left him to come to me, he felt so much astonished, that he could speak of nothing else. In her two years' life, Darling had never done such a thing before. Indeed her shyness, he plainly hinted, was alone an insuperable obstacle to a second union.
"Mr. Smalley," I said, "Darling has just agreed to stay with me, if you will leave her."
"You have bewitched her," he replied, giving me a grateful look; but he confessed it would be a great weight off his mind; and with many thanks and evident regret, he left me the treasure of his heart.
Darling soon fell asleep in my arms. One of her little hands was clasped around my neck, the other held mine; her fair head rested on my bosom, and her calm, sleeping face lay upraised and unconscious with closed eyes and parted lips. I stooped, and with some emotion, softly kissed the child of my persecutor. Cornelius, who sat by me, whispered the two concluding lines of Wordsworth's sonnet, with a slight modification:
"How much is mixed and reconciled in thee,Of mother's love, with maiden purity."
Then bending over me, he attempted to embrace Darling; but his beard woke her; she screamed, kicked, burst into a new fit of crying every time he attempted to sit near me, and said "her papa should take me to Rugby."
"And be your mamma. No, indeed, Miss Smalley," replied Cornelius, tartly."She is mine, and I keep her."
To teaze her, he passed his arm around me, and caressed me, upon which Darling got into such a passion, that he asked impatiently "if I would not put the sulky little thing to bed?"
She succeeded on this and on subsequent occasions in keeping him at a safe distance from me. At first her childish jealousy amused him, but as she was in other respects a very endearing little thing, and engrossed me like a new toy, Cornelius did not relish it at all. He looked especially uncomfortable during Mr. Smalley's daily visits, and to my amusement, for I know well enough what he was afraid of, he did not seem easy, until both Darling and her papa were fairly gone.
I always made my own dresses, and I made the blue silk one with great care. It was finished one afternoon before dusk. I put it on in my room, and came down to show it to Kate; she was not in the parlour. I felt anxious to see how it fitted, and got up on a chair to look at myself in the glass over the fire-place. At that very moment Cornelius entered. I jumped down, rather ashamed at being caught. He came up to me, and without saying a word, took a white rose from a vase of flowers, and put it in my hair. I took another, and fastened it to the front of my dress. Then he took my hand in his, and drawing a little back from me, he smiled. I sighed, and asked:
"What shall I do with it, Cornelius?"
"Look pretty in it, as you do now."
"But where shall I wear it?"
"Here, of course."
"It is only fit for a party. Why have we no party to go to?"
"Because people don't ask us," was his frank reply.
"I wish they would."
"To be seen and admired by others besides Cornelius O'Reilly, you vain little creature."
"It is not for that; but I should like a party or so."
"Well, when we get invited, I shall take you," he replied, with a smile that provoked me.
"Yes," I said, colouring, "but you know no one will ask us. We go nowhere; we see no one, not even artists. I wish you would see artists."
"I don't care about English artists," he replied, drily.
"Well then, Irish."
"Still less. The three kingdoms and the principality do not yield one with whom I would care to spend an hour."
"But I want to see artists."
"And am I not an artist?"
"Oh! I know you so well! What is your friend Armari like?"
"A good-looking Italian," replied Cornelius, whistling carelessly, with his hands in his pockets, "rather given to be in love with every woman he sees."
"And Mr. Schwab?"
"A good-looking German, and a professed woman-hater."
"I wish they would come."
"But they won't," he said, with evident satisfaction.
"You are glad of it!" I exclaimed a little indignantly. "You are glad that I have no parties to go to; that I see no one."
I turned away half angrily; he caught me back, ardently entreating me not to be vexed with him; "He could not bear it," he said. Astonished and mute, I looked up into his bending face. The time had been when I had trembled before a look and a frown, and now a petulant speech of mine distressed him thus.
"Forgive me," he earnestly continued, "for not having forestalled your wishes; but I cared so little for other society than yours, that I forgot mine might not be to you so delightful and engrossing. A party, I cannot command, but I shall take you to the play this very evening."
I wanted to refuse, but he would hear of no objection, though I told him plainly he had not the money to spare.
"And if it is my pleasure to spend on you the little I have—what about it, Daisy?"
At length I yielded; and, on his request, went up to ask Kate to join us. She refused peremptorily, and said she liked home best. As she helped me to finish my toilet, she gave me sundry instructions concerning my behaviour. I was to let Cornelius be civil to me, it was his turn now, and if he picked up my glove, carried my shawl or put it on, I was to take it as a matter of course.
"Very well, Kate," I said, "but it is odd."
"Why so!"
"I don't know, but it is odd."
We were entering the parlour where Cornelius stood waiting for me. I gave him the shawl I had brought down on my arm.
"You are to put that on me," I said, "for Kate says you are to be civil to me; so I hope you will, and not disgrace me in the face of the whole house by any want of proper attention due to the sex. I cannot go and tell the people 'you need not wonder at his being so rude; it is all because he knew me when I was a little girl.'"
"Impertinent little thing," observed Kate, "I only told her not to be civil to you."
"Well, am I? I spoke as impertinently as I could. Did I not, Cornelius?"
"Indeed you did," he replied, smiling, and helping me to pin my shawl on."Have you any more commands for me?"
"Only just to hold my fan, my gloves, my scent-bottle, my handkerchief, and to give me your arm."
He managed to obey me; Kate smiled approvingly, and we entered the cab which was waiting for us at the door. Cornelius took me to a house which had not long been open, but where both performances and actors were said to be good. We occupied the front seats of a centre box, and commanded a full view of the stage and audience. I was young, unaccustomed to pleasure, and easily amused. I felt interested in the play, and when the second act was over, I turned to Cornelius and said—
"Do you think Lady Ada will marry her cousin?"
"I suppose so," he replied, without looking at me.
"Oh! Cornelius, I hope not; he is not the right one, you know."
"Is he not?"
"Oh! dear, no; what can you have been thinking of?"
"That there never was a more insolent fellow than that man in the pit," replied Cornelius, who looked much irritated, "for the whole of the last act he has kept his opera-glass fully bent upon you."
"Then his neck must ache by this."
"How coolly you take it!"
"What am I to do?"
"Nothing, of course; but surely you will grant that sort of admiration is very insolent."
"How do I know it is admiration? He may be thinking 'poor girl, what a pity she is so shockingly dressed, or has such a bad figure, or has not better features!'"
"Do you think a man loses a whole act to find out that a girl is plain?" sceptically asked Cornelius.
I did not answer. He very unreasonably construed this into being pleased with being looked at. Wishing to get rid of the subject, I asked him to change places with me; he accepted at once, and took my seat, whilst I sat partly behind him. At first this produced nothing; the gentleman with the opera-glass really seemed to enjoy the face of Cornelius quite as much as mine.
"He has not found it out yet," I said. But even as I spoke, the individual I alluded to rose and left the pit.
"Oh! he has found it out, has he?" ironically inquired Cornelius.
The third act was beginning when the door of our box opened, and a foreign-looking man, dark and handsome, entered. I felt sure it was Armari, it was; but it also was the gentleman with the opera-glass, a fact that gave rather an odd character to the greeting of Cornelius.
Most foreigners are self-possessed. Signor Armari was pre-eminently so. He looked at me as if he knew not the use of the opera-glass, which he still held, and even had the assurance to offer it to me. I did not know Italian sufficiently to understand the whole of his discourse; but it seemed to me that its chief purport was an enthusiastic, intense admiration of the golden hair, blue eyes, and dazzling complexions of English ladies—a theme that, by no means, appeared to delight Cornelius. Signor Armari remained with us until the play was over. We then parted from him, and never once mentioned his name, until we reached the Grove.
Kate was sitting up for us. She received us with a pleased smile, asked how we had been entertained, and what the play was about. I told her as well as I could, but, after the second act, my memory was rather at fault.
Cornelius said, pointedly:
"You must not wonder if she does not remember it better. I was talking toArmari."
"What, your old friend Armari?" interrupted Kate.
"Yes, he is in England."
He spoke with a calmness that astonished her.
"Are you not delighted to see him?" she asked.
"I am very glad to see Armari," he replied, in a tone of ice. "I have asked him to dine with us next Thursday. He has promised to bring Schwab."
"Schwab, too!—was he there?"
"No; he was kept at home by a cold."
"They shall have a good dinner," warmly said Kate. "Midge, is Armari as handsome as Cornelius described him in his letters?"
"He is good-looking," I replied, awkwardly.
"Pleasant?"
"Yes—I don't know—I think so."
"Armari," gravely said Cornelius, "resembles the celebrated portraits of Raffaelle. He is something more than good-looking—he is a delightful companion, and something more than pleasant."
"I am sure he is not the common-place fellow you made him out, Daisy," observed Kate.
"I did not make him out anything; I don't think about him at all," I replied, half vexed.
"Well, you need not colour up so," she said, looking surprised; "and you need not look so glum about it, Cornelius. Tastes differ."
Neither replied. Miss O'Reilly, whose whole thoughts were absorbed in hospitality, did not notice this, but added, with a start:
"How long are they to stay?"
"Two or three weeks."
"Then ask them to spend those two or three weeks here," she rejoined, triumphantly. "I have bed-rooms to spare, you know."
"Here—in the house?" exclaimed Cornelius.
"Where else should I have bed-rooms?"
"Thank you," was his short reply.
"Does thank you, mean yes?"
"No, indeed. What should they do here?"
He seemed impatient and provoked. His sister asked if he would not feel glad to have his friends near him? He replied "Certainly," but that they came to see London, and not to coop themselves up in a suburb. Miss O'Reilly said she would at least make the offer. Her brother looked quite irritated.
"Schwab will smoke you to death," he said.
"As if I were not used to smoking."
"My cigars are nothing to his Turkish pipe. Besides, he swears awfully."
"In German," philosophically replied Kate. "Let him, Cornelius: I shall not understand him; and it will only be the worse for his own soul, poor heathenish fellow."
"He is a confirmed woman-hater."
"Unhappy man, not to know better!—but there is a comfort in it, too. I shall not be afraid of his making love to Daisy."
"He will eat you out of house and home."
"I am astonished at such a mean, paltry objection," replied MissO'Reilly, waxing indignant.
"Well, then," he said, impatiently, "take it for granted that I do not want Schwab."
"I suppose you could not ask Armari alone?"
"No," was the prompt reply. "To tell you the truth, Kate, I want to work hard, and their presence in the house would interfere with it."
"Could you not say so at once, instead of abusing that unfortunateSchwab? Well, your friends shall at least have a good dinner."
Miss O'Reilly was learned in many a dainty dish, and had imparted to me some of her art. Our united skill and efforts produced as luxurious a little dinner for five as one need wish to see. The guests were punctual to the very minute; there was no delay, no spoiling of dishes and chafing of tempers, and all would have gone on admirably, but for an unlucky circumstance. Kate and I did not speak Italian, and the friends of Cornelius did not speak English; bad French was therefore the medium of our conversation. Kate liked talking, and she sat with a provoked air between her two guests whom I watched with silent amusement. With his dark hair, his classical features, ivory throat, and collar turned down ? la Byron, Signor Armari looked very interesting; but all his vivacity seemed gone. He hung his handsome head with dismal grace, like a wounded bird, smiled at the untouched food on his plate, and gave us looks that seemed to say: "Eat away—eat away."
The injunction was religiously obeyed by his friend Schwab. He belonged to the handsome Germanic type, and was very like an illustrious personage. He had an honest, hearty northern appetite, and marched into the dishes, and tossed off the claret with a careless vigour that edified Kate. It was pleasant to see him dispatch the choicest dainties of the dessert without even a smile. When he came indeed to some tarts, in which I think I may say I had distinguished myself, his countenance relaxed a little; and when Cornelius informed him that they owed their existence to me, Mr. Schwab looked at me with an uplifting of the eye-brow expressive of wonder and admiration.