I had expected a dull evening, and I spent a very pleasant one. The two friends of Cornelius sang and played admirably, and treated us to the most exquisite music I had ever heard. Both Kate and I were delighted, and when they were gone, said how much we had been pleased.
"I like that Schwab," observed Kate, "he is very good-looking, and not the bear you made him out, Cornelius. He has a good appetite, but your great eaters are the men after all. The little eaters are only half-and- half sort of people; and then he sings so well, and so does Armari. How handsome he is; but how melancholy he looks! Is he in love?"
Cornelius looked on thorns, and replied: "he did not know."
To our surprise and vexation, his friends came no more near us. He said they found the distance too great, and spent his evenings with them. I did not like that at all, and one evening spared no coaxing to keep him at home. I passed my arms around his neck, and caressed him, and entreated him to stay with me and Kate. He returned the caresses, called me by every dear name he could think of, protested that he would much rather stay than go, but left me all the same. I had taken the habit—it is one easily taken—of being humoured. I now cried with vexation and grief. Kate said nothing, but privately invited her brother's friends to come and stay with us. They accepted. I shall never forget the face of Cornelius, when she quietly informed him they were coming the next day.
"Coming to stay?" he said looking at her incredulously.
"Yes, coming to stay," she composedly replied, "you did not think I was going to stand that much longer—such a mean way of receiving one's friends. Why, what would be thought of us in Ireland, if it were known! For shame, Cornelius, you look quite dismayed."
So he did, and repeated the word "coming!" with ill-repressed irritation.
"Yes, coming!" persisted Kate, "don't trouble yourself about them. I shall so stuff Mr. Schwab's mouth, as to leave no room even for German swearing, and I shall turn up Signor Armari into the drawing room where he may sing Italian to Daisy. So there's a division of tasks."
"Nice division, indeed," said Cornelius, seeming much provoked. "You forget that I want Daisy."
Our dwelling was honoured the following day by receiving the two strangers. They had made some progress in English; and though Signor Armari was still rather melancholy, we got on much better; but to my annoyance and chagrin, I could scarcely see anything of him or his friend. In the daytime, Cornelius kept me in his studio, which they never entered but twice in my absence; in the evening he either went out with them, or got me in a corner of the sofa, and sat most pertinaciously by me. Once, however, he was late, and accordingly found me between his two friends, hearing them through the universal verb, to love, which one pronounced, "I loaf," and the other, "I loove." They laughed good- humouredly at their own mistakes, and I laughed too; but Cornelius seemed to think it no joke, and looked on with a face of tragic gloom.
He took care this should happen no more. At the end of a fortnight our guests left us. Cornelius saw them off, and came back with a pleased and relieved aspect that did not escape his sister. I was sitting with her in the parlour by the fire, for the cold weather was beginning. He sat down by me, smoked a cigar with evident enjoyment, and declared those were the two best fellows he had ever met with—Schwab especially. Something in my face betrayed me; he took out his cigar, and hastily said:
"What is it, Daisy?"
"What is what, Cornelius?"
"What did Armari do to annoy you?"
"He did nothing."
"Why do you look so odd, then?"
I did not answer.
"Why, you foolish fellow," said Kate, laughing, and not heeding my entreating look, "it was Schwab, that best of good fellows."
"Was he rude or bearish?" asked Cornelius, reddening.
"Rude!" she replied, impatiently, "he was too civil!"
"Schwab!" echoed Cornelius, in the tone of Caesar's 'Et tu Brute'—"Schwab, too!"
"Cornelius," I said, a little indignantly, "it was Schwab alone, if you please."
He did not heed me; he was lost in his indignation and astonishment.
"Schwab!" he said again—"Schwab, the woman-hater?"
"There are no women-haters," observed his sister; "her tarts softened his obdurate heart from the first day, and Cupid did the rest. Now you need not look so desperately gloomy, Cornelius; he was not more civil than he had a right to be; and when she let him see quietly she did not like it, he, sensible man, thought there were girls as good and as pretty in Germany, and did not break his heart about her. He kept his own counsel, so did we; and but for me, you would be none the wiser."
"Thank you," shortly said Cornelius, "but as I know this much, and as I am sure there is more, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me all about Armari now."
"Ah! poor fellow," sighed Kate, "he is in a very bad way; I noticed he could scarcely eat, and Schwab said he had not slept a wink since that night at the play."
"He will get over it," impatiently interrupted Cornelius. "I have known him seven times in the same way."
"Then he must lead rather an agitated life; but, as I was saying, or rather, as Mr. Schwab told me, he has lost rest and appetite since that night at the play, when he saw the beautiful Mrs. Gleaver in the box next yours."
She knew all about the opera-glass, and glanced mischievously at her brother. He reddened, looked disconcerted, and exclaimed hastily:
"I don't believe a bit of that."
"Yes, you do," she replied quietly, "and now, Cornelius, mind my words: that sort of thing is not in the girl's way, and will not be for a good time yet; perhaps never, for she has a very flinty heart."
"Don't I know it?" he replied composedly, "and was it not Christian charity made me uneasy about poor Armari? I feared lest that brown, golden hair of hers," he added, smoothing it as he spoke, "might prove such a web as even his heart could not break. Lest her eyebrow, so dark and fine, might be the very bow of Cupid. Lest—"
"Spare us the rest," interrupted Kate, "it must be an arrow shot from the eye at the very least. Don't you see, besides, the girl has sense enough to laugh at it all; though I don't mean to say that if Signor Armari loses his heart and gets it back again so easily, he might not have paid her that little compliment. However, he did not, and it is as well, for she does not chance to be one of those soft girls, who, poor things, must be in love to exist; and her jealous grandpapa, who does not care about her himself, and yet won't let another have her, is, if he but knew it, perfectly safe."
"Is he?" said Cornelius, throwing back his head in his old way.
"Indeed he is," replied his sister, poking the fire in her old way, too; "another piece of advice, Cornelius: don't make the girl vain by talking and acting, as if she were the only decent-looking one in existence."
"There grows but one flower in my garden," he said, looking at me with a fond smile, "and so I fancy that every one casts on it a longing eye; as if elsewhere there grew no flowers."
His flower laid her head upon his shoulder, and looking up in his face, laughed at him for his pains.
"Laugh away!" he observed philosophically, "you have opened in the shade, and you know nothing of the sun; but the sun, my little Daisy, will shine on you yet."
I have often tried to remember how passed the autumn and winter—but in vain. No striking events marked that time; and its subtle changes I was then too heedless and too ignorant to note or understand. Two things I have not forgotten.
One is that, next to his painting of course, the chief thought of Cornelius seemed to be to please and amuse me. He spent all his money in taking me about, and literally covered me with his gifts. He had an artist's eye for colour and effect, and was never tired of adorning me in some new way more becoming than the last. When I remonstrated and accused him of extravagance, he asked tenderly if he could spend the money better than on his own darling? In short, the great study of his life seemed to be to lavish on me, every proof of the most passionate fondness.
I was and always had been so fond of him myself, that I wondered at nothing, not even at his fits of jealousy; the heart that gives much is not astonished at receiving much, I let myself be loved without caring why or how. I knew he was devotedly fond of me; I feared no rival; I no longer felt the sting of his indifference or the bitter pang of his jealousy. I had nothing to stimulate my curiosity; nothing to desire or to dread; nothing but to be as happy as the day was long.
The other thing, I remember, is that I had in some measure seized on the power it had pleased Cornelius to relinquish. My will was more powerful over him, than his over me. I did not seek for it; but thus it was. It is almost ever so in human affections: perfect equality between two seldom exists; the sway yielded up by one is immediately and instinctively assumed by the other. With the least exertion of his will, Cornelius could again have converted me into a submissive and obedient child; but to govern always requires a certain amount of indifference; and he seemed to have lost both the power and the wish to rule. I should not have been human if I had not taken some advantage of this. I loved him as dearly as ever; but, secure of his fondness and affection, 1 did not, as once, make his pleasure my sole law. I also remembered that we had a few differences; mere trifles they then seemed to me, and Kate herself made light of them.
"Don't fidget," she invariably said to her brother; "she's but a child."
"A child!" he once replied, with a sigh; "you should hear her philosophize with me!"
"Well, then, she's a philosophical child."
"I don't know what she is," he answered, giving me a reproachful look. "I sometimes think Providence sent her to me as a chastisement for my sins."
"Poor sinner!" said Kate, smiling, "what a penance!"
We were all three sitting in the parlour by the fireside. I pretended to be much concerned, and hid my face in the sofa-pillow. Cornelius gently entreated me not to take it so much to heart, assured me I was no penance, but the joy of his life, and the light of his eyes; made me look up, and saw me laughing at him again.
"There," he said, biting his lip and looking provoked, "do you see her,Kate?"
"She is young and merry. Let her laugh."
"But why will she not be serious? Why will she be so provokingly flighty and slippery?"
"Nonsense!" interrupted Kate. "Let her be what she likes now; she'll be grave enough a few years hence."
He sighed, and called me his perverse darling. I laughed again, and bade him sing me an Irish song. He obeyed, and thus it ended.
As I was not conscious of giving Cornelius any real cause of offence, I made light of his vexation or annoyance, of which, indeed, as I have felt since then, he showed me but that which he could not help betraying. Had he been more tyrannical or exacting, my eyes might have opened; but he could not bear to give me pain. He let me torment him to my heart's content, also disdaining, it may be, to complain or lament. Once only he lost all patience. It was towards the close of winter. Kate was out; we sat alone in the parlour by the fireside. Cornelius had made me put down my work, and sat by me, holding my two hands in one of his, smoothing my hair with the other, and telling me—he had an eloquent tongue that knew how to tell those things, neither too much in earnest, nor yet too much in jest—of his fondness and affection. But I was not just then in the endearing mood. I tried to disengage my hands, and not succeeding, I said a little impatiently:—
"Pray don't!"
He understood, or rather misunderstood me; for he drew away, reddening a little, and looking more embarrassed than displeased, he observed:—
"Where is the harm, Daisy?"
"The harm?" I echoed, astonished at the idea, for between him and me I had never felt the shadow of a reserved thought; "why, of course, there is no harm, since it is you," I added, giving one of his dark locks a pull; "but it gives me the fidgets."
Cornelius looked exasperated.
"Thank you, Daisy," he said, with an indignant laugh, "thank you! I am no one; but I give you the fidgets!"
"Why, what have I done now?" I asked, amazed. "How is it, Cornelius, thatI so often offend you without even knowing why?"
"And is not that the exasperating part of the business?" he exclaimed, a little desperately. "If you cared a pin for me, you would know—you would guess."
"If I cared a pin for you!" I began; my tears checked the rest.
He stopped in the act of rising, to look down at me with a strange mixture of love and wrath.
"I'll tell you what, Daisy," he said, and his voice trembled and his lips quivered, "I'll tell you what, it is an odd thing to feel so much anger against you and yet so much fondness. I feel as if I could do anything to you, but I cannot bear to see you shed those few tears. Daisy, have the charity not to weep."
He again sat by me. I checked my tears. He wiped away those that still lingered on my cheek. I looked up at him and asked, a little triumphantly:
"Cornelius, where was the use of your flying out so?"
"You may well say so," he replied, rather bitterly. "Do you think I don't know that if 1 were cool and careless, you would like me none the worse; but what avails the knowledge, since I never can use it against you?"
I laughed at the confession.
"And so that is the end of it," he said, looking somewhat downcast, "there seems to be on me a spell, that will never let me end as I begin. Oh! Daisy; why do I like you so well? That is the heel of Achilles—the only vulnerable point which, do what I will, renders me so powerless and so weak."
"Then you do like me, you see," I said, smoothing his hair, "spite of all my faults!"
"Yes, I do like you," he replied, returning the caress with a peculiar look, "and yet, Daisy, I am getting rather wearied of this task of Sisyphus, which I am ever doing, and which somehow or other is never done."
"It was the heel of Achilles a while back, and now it is the stone ofSisyphus! What has put you into so mythological a mood?"
Cornelius coloured, then turned pale, but did not answer.
"Surely," I exclaimed, "you are not offended now about a few light words! Oh. Cornelius," I added, much concerned, "I see matters will never be right until you resume your authority, and I am again your obedient child. If you had always allowed me to consider you as my dear adopted father."—
I stopped short. He had not spoken; he had not moved; he still sat by me, calm, silent and motionless, with his look fixed on the fire and his hand in mine; but as I spoke, there passed something in his face, and even in his eyes, that told me I was probing to the very quick, the wound my careless hand had first inflicted.
"Have I done wrong again?" I asked, dismayed.
"Oh, no!" he replied, negligently; "it is only fair; I was once too careless, too indifferent—the girl has avenged the child—that is all!"
"I am sure I have said something you don't like," I observed, anxiously.
Cornelius took me in his arms and kissed me.
"My good little girl," he said, "you are the best little girl in this world; and if you are only a little girl, you cannot help it—so keep your little heart in peace—and God bless you."
He spoke kindly, and rose, looking down at me with a sort of fondness and pity which did not escape, and which half offended me.
"But I am not a little girl, Cornelius," I replied, in a piqued tone.
"Aren't you?" he said, taking hold of my chin with a smile and look that were not free from irony. "I beg your pardon; I thought you were the little girl that so long made a fool of Cornelius O'Reilly!"
I gave him a surprised look; he laughed and took his hat; I followed him to the door and detained him.
"You are not angry with me!" I observed, uneasily.
"Angry with you!" he said, "no, my pet. What should I be angry for?"
"I don't know, Cornelius; but I am glad you are not angry."
He laughed again, and looked down at me as I stood by him with my hand on his arm, and my upraised face seeking his look; assured me kindly he was not at all angry, and left me. From that evening I could not say that Cornelius was less kind or seemed less fond of me, but I vaguely felt a change in his manner; something lost and gone I could neither understand nor recall. At first I was rather uneasy about it, then I attributed it to his painting, with which he was wholly engrossed. "The Young Girl Reading," had been finished for some time, and he was hard at work on his two Italian pictures. Never did he seem to have loved painting better; never to have given it more of his soul and heart.
I went up to him one mild spring afternoon; I found him looking at his three pictures, and so deeply engrossed that he never heard me until I stood close by him.
"Confess you were admiring them," I said, looking up at him smiling.
He smiled too, but not at me.
"Yes," he replied, quietly, "I see better than any one their merits and their faults; but such as they are, they have given me moments of the purest and most intense pleasure man can know."
He spoke in a low abstracted tone, with a fixed and concentrated gaze. I looked at him again, and found him thin and pale.
"You have been working too hard," I said, "you do not look at all well."
"Don't I?" he replied, carelessly.
"No. Kate made me notice it yesterday, and said 'the boy is in love, I think!' I said 'yes, and painting is the lady.' Confess, Cornelius, you like it better than anything else in this world."
"Yes. Daisy, I do."
"Better than me?"
"Are you a thing?"
"You call me a nice little thing, sometimes."
"And so you are," he answered, smiling. "What do you think of that kneeling woman's attitude?"
"Beautiful, like all you do, Cornelius."
"It is beautiful, Daisy; and, alas! that I should say so, the only truly good thing in the whole picture. Well, no matter; with all my short- comings I am still—thank God for it!—a painter."
"And what a triumph awaits you. Oh! Cornelius, how I long to see it!"
He did not reply. Some imperfection in one of the figures had caught his eye; he was endeavouring to remove it, and appeared lost and intent in the task. I withdrew gently, and paused on the threshold of the door to look at him. He stood before his easel, absorbed in his labour; the light fell on his handsome profile and defined it clearly; his eyes, bent on his canvas, looked as if they could behold nothing else; no breath seemed to issue from his parted lips; he was enjoying in its fulness, the delight and the charm which God has placed in the labour dear to the artist's heart.
In a few days more the pictures were finished and sent to the Academy. Cornelius felt no fear. His confidence was justified, for he soon learned, on good authority, that "The Young Girl Reading" and the two Italian pieces were not rejected. He expressed neither surprise nor pleasure. Indeed there was altogether about him an air of indifference andennuithat struck his sister. She went up to him as he stood leaning against the mantelpiece, and laying her hand on her arm, she asked a little anxiously—
"What's the matter, lad? That girl has not been provoking you again; she's but a child, you know, and will grow wiser."
"Of course she will," he replied, smoothing my hair, for I, too, stood by him; "a year or two will make a great change, Kate."
His sister smiled a little archly.
Cornelius asked if I would not take a walk. I accepted, and we had a long and pleasant stroll in the lanes, that already began to wear the light and tender verdure of spring.
I saw by Kate's face when we returned, that something had happened. At length it came out. Mrs. Brand had called to see me. Mrs. Brand had learned by the merest chance that I was no longer at Thornton House, and was greatly grieved that I had not made the fact known to her sooner. Any resentment against me, for refusing to enter into her scheme, with regard to Mr. Thornton, did not seem to linger in her mind. She was all cousinly love and affection, reminded me of the promise I had made to spend some time at Poplar Lodge, and had parted from Miss O'Reilly with the avowed intention of coming to fetch me the very next day.
I looked at Cornelius, who smiled, and leaning on the back of my chair, said kindly:
"Why should you not have a little change and pleasure, my pet? You will not stay there more than a week or two."
"Yes, Cornelius, but it is the time of the Academy."
"What matter!" he interrupted; "we know the pictures are all right, and we have months to look at them together."
I was very glad he took this view of the subject; for I wished to redeem my promise to my cousin, whose kindness I could not quite forget; and yet I would not for anything or any one have vexed Cornelius. Thus, therefore, it was settled with the approbation of Kate, who added, however, with a peculiar smile:
"You let her go, Cornelius; but you'll be dreadful fidgetty until she comes back."
"Of course I shall," he replied, smiling rather oddly.
I knew he loved me dearly. I looked up at him with some pride; he looked down with an ardent fondness that went to my very heart. Unasked, I promised not to remain more than a week away.
In the course of the next day Mrs. Brand called for me. Cornelius had gone out early, and had not come in. I told Kate to bid him adieu, and tell him I should not remain beyond the week. She smiled.
"A week, child!" she said; "be glad if he lets you remain three days away."
I laughed, kissed her, and entered the light and elegant open carriage in which Mrs. Brand had condescendingly come to visit her obscure little cousin.
There is a way of leaning back in an open carriage which only those accustomed to its use can attain—a sort of well-bred indolence—of riding over the world—of indifference to its concerns, which requires long and constant practice. Mrs. Brand possessed that art in the highest degree. Walking in the street, she would have seemed a thin, faded, insignificant woman; but, reclining in her carriage, with herennuy?air, her carelessness, and her impertinence, she was stamped with aristocracy.
We had soon reached Poplar Lodge. It stood about a mile from the Grove, by the lanes, and twice that distance by the high road. I knew the place well—it was small, but the most beautiful residence in the neighbourhood. It stood in the centre of lovely pleasure-grounds—a white and elegant abode, filled with all that could charm the fancy and attract the eye. Pictures, statues, books, furniture, simple yet costly, were there, without that profusion which mars the effect of the most beautiful things. Mrs. Brand perceived my admiration, and led me from room to room with careless ostentation. At length, we came to a small gallery, filled with exquisite pictures.
"There are not many," she said, negligently, "but they are good. All modern, and almost all English. The blank spaces which you see will, I dare say, be filled up from this year's Academy."
My heart beat fast. I thought at once of Cornelius, and I saw his three pictures already hung up in my cousin's gallery.
"And so you like Poplar Lodge," observed Mrs. Brand, taking me back to the drawing-room. "Well, it is a pretty place. And don't you think," she added, sighing as she glanced around her, "that Edward's wife will be a happy woman?"
"I don't know, Ma'am; but I know she will have a lovely house, and delightful chairs, too," I added, sinking down, as I spoke, into a most luxurious arm-chair.
"My dear, she will have what one who speaks from experience can assure you is far above such worldly comforts—a devoted husband."
Mrs. Brand's cambric handkerchief was drawn forth, unfolded, and raised to her eyes in memory of the departed.
"And Mrs. Langton and this place will suit one another so well," I said, looking round the luxurious drawing-room. "I can fancy her wandering about those grounds as lovely as a lady in a fairy tale, or passing from one beautiful room to another, like a princess in her palace. She will be the crowning piece of perfection of Mr. Thornton's dwelling."
Mrs. Brand hastily removed her handkerchief, and assured me:
"That was over—quite over; a most unfortunate affair. It had once been her darling wish to see her friend and her brother united; but even she had felt it was impossible. They had felt it themselves, and had agreed to forget the past."
I smiled at the idea of this hollow truce.
"Besides," pensively continued Mrs. Brand, "I have strong reasons to believe his affections are engaged elsewhere. I hear him coming in; you will notice at once how pale and low-spirited Edward looks."
The entrance of Edward prevented my reply. He started with astonishment on seeing me, and greeted me with a mixture of embarrassment and tender courtesy that surprised me a little. He asked after Mr. Thornton's health.
"I hope he is well," I replied, smiling; "but I am your neighbour now. Is it not delightful?"
I meant delightful to be again with my friends; to my amusement he smiled and bowed.
"Miss Burns has been admiring your pictures," said Mrs. Brand.
Mr. Thornton was happy if anything at Poplar Lodge had afforded me pleasure.
"Anything!" I echoed, "why it is everything. From his appearance I could not have believed the late Mr. Wyndham had such exquisite taste."
Mrs. Brand laughed, and informed me the place was bare in Mr. Wyndham's time. Mr. Thornton's modesty, alarmed at the indirect compliment he had received, induced him to change the subject of discourse by showing me a handsome collection of drawings. We were engaged in looking over them, when Mrs. Langton, who was also on a visit to her dear Bertha, entered.
"Those two are always so fond of drawings!" said Mrs. Brand, rising to receive her.
I looked up, and saw the beautiful Edith glancing at us across the table. She had left by her weeds, and looked wonderfully lovely in a robe of changing silk. She stood with her hand clasped in that of her friend, and her beautiful arm partly left bare by her falling sleeve. Her face was turned towards us; her dark hair, braided back from her fair brow, wound in a diadem above it; her cheeks were flushed like roses; her blue eyes were full of light and softness. "Mrs. Brand," I thought, "you may do what you like, your Edith shall reign here yet."
She graciously expressed her pleasure at seeing me again; and gently sinking down on a divan, looked lovely, until we went down to dinner.
I spent the next day, Saturday, shopping in town with Mrs. Brand, and thought it rather hard work. Sunday I claimed and obtained to pass at the Grove. I came upon Cornelius suddenly, as he sat in the back-parlour by the open window; his elbow on the sill, his brow resting on the palm of his hand. Before he knew of my presence, my arms were around his neck, and my lips had touched his cheek. He started, then returned the embrace with lingering tenderness; and Kate, who came in, laughed at us both, and said one might think we had been years apart.
It was foolish to be glad to see him again after so short a separation; I knew it, but could not help it. He, too, seemed glad; I had never seen him in better spirits; and seldom had I spent even with him, a pleasanter day. With regret, I saw approach the hour that should take me back to Poplar Lodge. Cornelius said he would accompany me by the lanes. They looked very lovely on that mild spring evening, and we talked pleasantly and happily as we walked along. At length we reached the end of a long lane that brought us to a grated iron door—the back entrance of Poplar Lodge.
We stopped short; the place and the moment stand before me like a picture still.
The lane was lonely, and hushed rather than silent. The heavy clouds of night were gathering slowly in the lower sky. In its serener heights, the full moon had risen, and now looked down at us between two of the large poplar trees that had given its name to my cousin's abode. I stood by Cornelius, one arm passed in his, his other hand clasping mine.
"When will you come back?" he asked, bending over me.
"Next Saturday, I hope."
"Not before?"
"No, Cornelius, I could not, you know."
"Can't you try?"
"Indeed, Cornelius. I am afraid I cannot. You know I long to be back with you and Kate."
"Very well, then; Saturday let it be. And yet, Daisy, why not Friday?"
"Cornelius, I assure you I think it would be taken amiss if I were to leave on Friday."
He submitted, gave me a quiet kiss, and rang the bell. A white figure emerged from a neighbouring avenue, and Mrs. Langton, recognising me through the iron grating, took down the key that always hung by the door, and admitted me, smiling. I introduced Cornelius somewhat awkwardly. He stood with the light of the moon full on his face and figure. I caught Mrs. Langton giving him two or three rapid and curious looks, but she only made a few civil and commonplace remarks. He answered in the same strain, bowed, and left us.
"And so, Miss Burns," softly observed Mrs. Langton, as she closed and locked the gate, "that is your adopted father—as Mr. Edward Thornton calls him, I believe."
"Yes," I said, quietly, "Cornelius is, indeed, my adopted father; but he does not like me to consider him so."
"Indeed!"
"Oh, no: he does me the honour to hold me as his friend."
Mrs. Langton suppressed a rosy smile, and talked of the beauty of the evening as we walked through the grounds to the Lodge.
Mr. Thornton was out, and Mrs. Brand whispered confidentially that my absence might be the cause. He came in, however, sufficiently early, and as I sat apart rather silent, his sister felt sure I suffered from low spirits, and gave him the duty of enlivening me. He smiled, bowed, and settling himself in a comfortable arm-chair by me, entered on the task. But I remained obstinately grave, until, from topic to topic, he came to the Academy.
My cousin gave me the tidings that it was to open in two days. He hoped I would accompany Mrs. Brand. He knew my judgment was excellent, and felt anxious to have my opinion of several pictures he had already secured, and of others he intended purchasing.
"Oh, I shall be so glad!" I exclaimed, with an eagerness that made him smile.
I reddened at the thought that my motive had been detected, and tried to repair my blunder; but do what I would, I could not help betraying my pleasure. I laughed, I talked, I was not the same.
"Have I really succeeded so well?" whispered my cousin.
The spirit of mischief is not easily repressed at seventeen. I looked up at him, and answered saucily—
"Better than you think."
Mr. Thornton laughed, and declared I was the most delightfully original andnaivegirl he had ever met with.
It rained the whole of the following day, which we spent at Poplar Lodge, to the great disgust of the slave of the world. But the next morning rose lovely and serene. At an early hour we were at the doors of the Royal Academy. I knew that the pictures of Cornelius were accepted; on that head I therefore felt no uneasiness, yet my heart beat as we ascended the steps of the National Gallery. A glance at the catalogue dispelled all lingering fear. As my cousin placed it in my hands, he accompanied it with a pencil case, and a whispered entreaty to mark the pictures I approved. I looked up at him, smiling to think he had chosen a judge so partial. We had no sooner entered the first room than Mrs. Brand was overpowered with the heat. When she recovered, she thought she should go and look at the miniatures with her dear Edith. She knew we did not like the miniatures, and requested that we should go our own way. She and her dear Edith would go their own way. We resisted this a little, but Mrs. Brand was peremptory, and at length we yielded and parted from them. Absorbed in the engrossing thought "Are they well hung?" I performed my critical office very inaccurately; but having been so fortunate as to single out two of the pictures Mr. Thornton had purchased, I escaped detection, and received several warm compliments on my good taste. He was informing me how much he relied upon it, when we suddenly came to the two Italian pieces of Cornelius.
"What do you think of these?" I said carelessly.
"Poor, very poor," he replied, and passed on.
I heard him mortified and mute; all my hopes dispelled at once by all this sweeping censure. The pictures of Cornelius poor! Those two beautiful Italian things, which would have filled so well the blank spaces in the gallery! I was astonished and indignant at Mr. Thornton's bad taste. He might mark his own pictures now, I would have nothing more to do with him; he was evidently conceited, impertinent, insolent, and he had neither heart nor soul, for he could not appreciate the beautiful.
Unconscious of my feelings, my cousin went on criticising.
"What are they all looking at?" he said, drawing near to where a crowd had gathered around one of the lower paintings.
"At some stupid picture or other," I replied, impatiently. "It is always the stupid pictures that the people look at."
He smiled at the petulant speech, and, spite of my evident indifference made way for me through the crowd of gazers; but I turned away, I would not look. With an ill-repressed smile of contempt, I listened to the "exquisite," "beautiful," "a wonderful thing," which I heard around me.
"Yes," I thought, scornfully, "much you know about it, I dare say."
"I really think we must mark this one," whispered my cousin. "What do you say?"
I looked up ungraciously, but the book and pencil-case nearly dropped from my hands as I recognized "The Young Girl Reading."
"Don't you like it?" asked Mr. Thornton, smiling.
Oh! yes, I liked it! and him whose genius had created it, and whose master-hand had fashioned it; ay! and for his sake I liked even those who gazed on it, in a fast increasing crowd; and as if I had never seen it before, I looked with delighted eyes at the work of Cornelius. There was something in the admiration it excited I could not mistake. It was genuine and true. He was at length, after seven years of toil, known and famous. Sudden repute must have something of a breathless joy, but it cannot possess the sweetness of a slow-earned and long-coming fame. I felt as if I could have looked for ever; but the crowd was pressing eagerly behind us: my cousin led me away.
"I see you will not mark it," he gaily said, taking the catalogue from me.
"Do you really like it?" I asked, stammering.
"Do I like it? Why it is a wonderful picture! the most perfect union I have ever seen of the real and ideal. It is not sold, is it?"
I replied I thought not. He said he hoped not; that he should be quite concerned to miss it; and he proceeded to pay the genius of Cornelius very high and handsome compliments. I heard him with beating heart and swimming eyes; I felt too happy; it was not more than I had expected ever since the return of Cornelius from Italy; but for being anticipated, his triumph was not to me less glorious and delightful. I could think of nothing else; my eyes saw, but my mind could receive no impressions. Whatever picture I looked at became "The Young Girl Reading" with the crowd around her.
Mr. Thornton thought the heat affected me, and proposed joining his sister. We soon found her with Mrs. Langton. They looked dull and tired. As we entered the carriage, Mrs. Brand asked, with her air ofennui, how I liked the pictures, and if I had been amused.
"More than amused," I replied, warmly.
Mr. Thornton half smiled, and looked into the street; Mrs. Brand shut her eyes, and reclined back with an air of satisfaction, and Mrs. Langton flushed up like a rose. I looked at the three, and thought them odd people.
On the following evening, the slave of the world was to receive and entertain her master; in other words, to give a party. I had virtuously resolved not to be amused, and not to enjoy the pleasure I could not share with Cornelius; but when the time came, I forgot all about it. It was my first party, and what a party! The rooms were always beautiful, and when lit up, looked splendid. Then this constant rolling of coming and departing carriages; this pouring in of fashionable, well-dressed people; their flow of easy speech, greetings and smiles, gave the whole something so luxurious and seducing, that I felt enchanted.
Mrs. Langton, who looked exquisitely lovely in white silk—I wore my blue dress—kindly took me under her patronage. She was a world-known beauty, and whenever she went out, drew crowds around her. We were soon surrounded with adorers. All could not reach the divinity, and a few condescended to offer up incense at my humbler shrine. Two young Englishmen, rosy and bashful; a Dane as pale as Hamlet, and a Spaniard, fell to my stare. We also had an occasional dropping of grave gentlemen in spectacles, or dashing, military-looking men, whiskered and mustachioed, with an apparition of fair ladies, duly attended, who smiled and nodded at Mrs. Langton as they passed smelling bouquets or fanning themselves, but who took care not to linger in such dangerous vicinity.
I felt amused and entertained; but my real pleasure began with the daucing. I was fond of it, and I had plenty of pleasant partners. As I once came back to my seat, flushed as much with enjoyment as with the exercise, Mrs. Langton, who would not discompose her beauty by dancing, stooped over me, and gently whispered:—
"You little flirt, one would think you had received world incense all your life. Look opposite," she added, in a still lower tone. I followed the direction of her gaze, and saw in the embrasure of a door, standing and looking at me, with sorrowful attention, Cornelius.
"He has been there these two hours," said Mrs. Langton, smiling, "and you never even saw him, which I hold very unkind to me; for, thinking you would like to meet your friend, I asked a card from Bertha, and did not mention the name to her, lest you should not enjoy the surprise. And here am I actually obliged to tell you all about it."
I know not what I said to her, I felt so disturbed. I knew that I had surrendered myself rather freely to the pleasures of the evening, and he had seen it all, I had never even perceived him. I looked at him across the crowd that divided us. He caught my eye, and turned away abruptly. I rose, and gliding swiftly through the guests, I tried to join him; but he eluded me. I went from room to room, without being able to reach him. At length, I lost sight of him altogether, and gave up my useless search. I had reached the last room, a pretty little French sort of boudoir, adorned with exquisite Dresden ornaments, and thence called "Dresden" by Mrs. Brand. It was now quite solitary. I sat down, sad and dispirited, on a low couch, and was immediately joined by Mr. Thornton, who had been following me all the time, and gently rallied me on the chase I had led him. He sat down by me, and informed me that he had been wanting to speak to me the whole evening; but I had been so surrounded, that he had found it quite impossible to get at me. I coloured violently: if he had noticed it, what would Cornelius think?
"I wanted to tell you," confidentially observed Edward Thornton, drawing closer to me, "that I have secured 'The Young Girl Reading.' She is mine," he added, with rather a long look of his fine blue eyes.
"You have bought it," I exclaimed joyfully.
"And paid for it," he answered smiling.
"How delightful!" I said, "I mean that you have bought it," I added, fearing I had exposed the poverty of Cornelius by the hasty remark.
He smiled again, and passed his slender fingers in his brown hair.
"Where will you hang it?" I asked eagerly.
"In the long vacant place of honour, between my Wilkie and my Mulready."
For these two great artists, Cornelius felt a warm and enthusiastic admiration. I thought of his pride and triumph when I should tell him this, and I glowed with a pleasure I cared not to conceal.
"Mr. Thornton!" I exclaimed, turning on him flushed and joyous, "you have made me as happy as any crowned queen."
"Why have I not a crown to lay it at your feet?" he very gallantly replied, taking my hand, and pressing it gently as he spoke.
At that moment, through the door which Edward Thornton had left partly open, I thought I caught sight of Cornelius for an instant; the next he had disappeared in the crowd. I snatched my hand from my cousin, started up, ran to the door, opened it wide, and looked eagerly; but Cornelius had again vanished. I returned much disappointed to Mr. Thornton, who seemed amazed at my precipitate flight.
"I had seen Mr. O'Reilly," I said, apologetically.
"Mr. O'Reilly! Ah, indeed."
"Yes; and I wanted to speak to him. It was for that I came here, you know."
My cousin gave me a puzzled look, then suddenly recovering, said hastily:
"Of course, it was. Mr. O'Reilly, as you say."
"I am sure, you think it odd," I observed uneasily.
He denied it with a guarded look. I thought it worse than odd, and my eyes filled with involuntary tears. Mr. Thornton rose and sympathised respectfully.
"My dear Miss Burns," he whispered drawing nearer to me, "I am truly grieved; but your kindness, your frank condescension, made me presume— indeed, I am grieved."
I heard him with surprise. "Decidedly," I thought, "we are all wrong," and aloud I observed gravely:
"Mr. Thornton, is there not some mistake? I am talking of Mr. O'Reilly."
"And so am I," he answered promptly.
"And I should like to see if I could not find him."
He offered me his arm with a polite start, and an air of tenderness and homage that perplexed me; but though we went all over the rooms, Cornelius was not to be found. As the guests began to thin and depart I lost all hope, and releasing my cousin from duty, sat down in one of the nearly deserted rooms. Mrs. Langton at once came up to me, and asked if I had seen my friend. I replied that I had caught sight of him from the little Dresden room, when I was there with Mr. Thornton.
"In the Dresden room," she said, looking astonished; "and do you really, a fair maiden of eighteen, venture to remain alone in a Dresden room? alone with so gay and gallant a gentleman as Edward Thornton? Don't you know, dear?" she added, edging her chair to mine, and lowering her voice; "he is quite a naughty man! Did you never hear of him and Madame Polidori, the singer—no?—nor of Mademoiselle Rosalie, nor of Madame?—"
I stopped the list by gravely hoping she was mistaken. She assured me she was not, and wanted to resume the subject, but it was one in which I took neither pleasure nor interest; and I listened so coldly, that she reddened, bit her lip, and left me.
The guests were all gone. As she bade the last adieu, Mrs. Brand sank down in a chair by the open window, and sighed to her brother:
"Ah! Edward, as our own English Wordsworth so finely says:
'The world is too much with us—'"
The rest of the sonnet was lost, I suppose, in the whisper that followed. Mr. Thornton seemed to pay it but faint attention; his look was fixed with intent admiration on Mrs. Langton, who stood by a table turning over the leaves of an album with careless grace.
"What a night!" resumed Mrs. Brand; "with that moon and that starry sky, one might forget the world, the vain world for ever, Edward."
Edward still looked at the beautiful Edith, and seemed inclined to make a move in her direction, out of the reach of the moon and the starry sky. But his sister looked at me, and whispered something. He bowed his head in assent, and came up to me. He seemed for some mysterious reason to think it incumbent on himself to be very kind and sympathetic, and to speak to me in a tender and soothing tone. Wrapped up in thinking of Cornelius, I paid his words but faint attention; but as my cousin stood with his hand on the back of my chair, I saw Mrs. Langton look at us over her shoulder in silent scorn. I looked at her, too, and as she stood there in all her wonderful beauty, I marvelled jealousy could make her so blind, as to lead her to fear for a moment a plain, humble girl like me.
Although I had not thought it necessary to mention to Mrs. Brand how soon I meant to return to the Grove, she took complete possession of me for the whole of the next day; but, the following morning, I prevented the possibility of her doing so again, by starting out of Poplar Lodge before she had opened her aristocratic eyes. I wanted to see Cornelius, and make him explain his strange conduct.
I went by the lane where we had parted. It was a very beautiful lane— green, secluded, and overshadowed by dark trees. It looked fresh and pleasant on this May morning. The dew glittered on grass, tree and wild flower; the thrush carolled gaily on the young boughs, and the robin red- breast looked at me fearlessly with his bright black eye, as he stood perched on the budding hawthorn hedge. A grievous disappointment waited me at the end of my journey. The blinds were down—the house was closed and silent. I rang, and received no reply. I went to the front, with the same result. For an hour and more I wandered about the lanes; but every time I came back, I found the house in the same state. At length, I returned to Poplar Lodge, where my absence had not been perceived.
Mrs. Brand's party had given her a headache. She lay on the drawing-room sofa the whole day long, and would evidently consider it very barbarous to be forsaken. I remained sitting by her until dusk, which brought Mrs. Langton, and relieved me from my duty. I went out on the verandah for a little fresh air. I had not been there long, when a rustling robe passed through the open window. It was the beautiful Edith.
"Are you not afraid of taking cold?" she asked aloud; then whispered,"Say no."
As "no" chanced to be the truth, I complied with Mrs. Langton's wish.
"Oh! that exquisite old thorn!" she sighed; then added, in a low rapid key: "I have been so angry. I heard such strange things about you and Mr. Thornton. All the Dresden room."
I laughed.
"What are you two chatting about?" asked the voice of Mrs. Brand from within.
"I am only telling Miss Burns to mind Captain Craik," coolly replied Mrs.Langton, "he was quite attentive the other night."
"Really, Mrs. Langton," I observed impatiently, "you forget the gentleman you allude to could be my father, and is, after all, a middle-aged man."
"A middle-aged man!" echoed Mrs. Langton, looking confounded. "You are hard to please, Miss Burns; a most elegant and accomplished gentleman—a middle-aged man!"
"If he were an angel, he is not the less near forty."
"Still talking of Captain Craik," rather uneasily observed Mrs. Brand, joining us, "Edith, dear, are you not afraid of the tooth-ache?"
"No, Bertha, dear."
"But I am for you. You must come in."
Mrs. Brand slipped her arm within that of her friend, and made her re- enter the drawing-room. But something or some one called her away, for in a few minutes, Mrs. Langton was again by me. She came on me suddenly, before I could efface the trace of recent tears. The evening was light and clear. She looked at me and said:
"I could have spared you this, Miss Burns. Mr. Thornton—"
"Indeed, Ma'am," I interrupted, "I am not thinking of Mr. Thornton; but I fear Mr. O'Reilly is vexed with me: that is the truth."
I thought this would rid me of her tiresome jealousy, but it did not.
"Poor child!" she said compassionately, "I see you know nothing. Perhaps it is scarcely right to betray Bertha to you; but can I help also feeling for you? Do you know the play of Shakespeare entitled 'Much Ado about Nothing'?"
"Yes, Ma'am, I know it."
"Do you remember the ingenious manner in which two of the characters are made to fall in love with one another? Benedick thinks Beatrice is dying for him, and Beatrice thinks the same thing of him."
"That was vanity, Ma'am, not love."
"Ay, but vanity is a potent passion, and 'Much Ado about Nothing' is a play still daily enacted on the scene of the world."
I heard her with some impatience; I thought her discourse resembled the play of which it treated. She saw plain speech alone would make me comprehend her meaning.
"Our dear Bertha," she sighed, "has quite a passion for match-making. For instance, she will teaze me about Captain Craik, and says he is mad about me. I don't mind it, provided she does not say the same thing to him."
"Oh!" I replied, quite startled, "that would be too bad."
"So it would; but I fear it. Captain Craik has been very peculiar of late."
I felt uncomfortable. It was not to end with Captain Craik we had travelled over the slow ground of this ambiguous discourse.
"Now do you know." resumed Mrs. Langton, "I cannot help fancying that Bertha has been indulging in the same little pastime with you and her brother."
"Not with me," I said, eagerly; "she never even hinted it."
"You are slow at taking hints," replied Mrs. Langton with a sceptical smile.
"But why should she think of me?" I asked, incredulously; "I am not a beauty," I added, looking at her, "I have no wealth—no position. Why should she wish to marry me to her brother?"
"To make a good sister-in-law," answered Mrs. Langton, quietly.
I felt there was something in that, and remained mute with consternation.
"And do you think," she resumed, laughing softly, "he has been quite so slow to take the hint? Why, child, you have scarcely said a word that he has not modestly converted into a proof of your passion for him. Remember how sympathising he was on the evening of the party; he thought: 'Poor little thing! I must be kind. It is plain she is fretting herself away for my sake.'"
She spoke with evident conviction. I remembered words and looks, and I grew hot and faint.
"Oh, Mrs. Langton!" I exclaimed desperately, "what shall I do? how can I undeceive him?"
"Leave the house at once," she promptly replied.
"Will it not be better to stay for another day or so, just to be cool with him?"
"He will think it shyness."
"And despair if I run away. No, I must stay to undeceive him."
"And to give him time to inform you in his civil, gentlemanly way, how deeply he feels for you."
"Then I can show him I don't want his sympathy."
"He will think it pride or pique. Take my advice, Miss Burns. You are in a false position. Retreat."
She laid her hand on my arm and spoke impressively. But youth is rash; I scorned the idea of flight. Besides I had no faith in her advice. With the frank indignation of my years, I felt how meanly my candour and inexperience had been imposed upon. "So, Mrs. Brand," I thought resentfully, "you had me here, because you thought I might make a manageable sister-in-law! Much obliged to you, Mrs. Brand; you will have your dear Edith, yet. But to go and tell or imply to her brother that I was in love with him, with a man who might be my father!
"Besides, even if it had been true, how barbarous to betray me! And you, too, Mrs. Langton," I thought, looking at her, "you too have not thought it beneath your pride to deceive me: talking ill to me of the very man you love—as much as you can love—accusing him of profligacy! Then, so piqued because I said he was middle-aged!—and so kindly anxious to make me look foolish by running away! Go! no indeed! It is very odd if I cannot finesse a little in my turn, and, without committing myself, get out of this spider's web into which, like a foolish fly, I have got entangled; and it is very odd, too, if I cannot change the web a little, before I spread out my wings and take my flight back to the home foolish flies should never leave."
I was thoroughly piqued, and walked restlessly from one end of the verandah to the other. I set my wits to work; thought rapidly followed thought; schemes were made and rejected with every second; at length, both mentally and bodily, I stopped short. "I have it," I thought, triumphantly; "I am not so dull but that I have noticed certain passages between a fair lady and a certain gentleman; I have always thought they would end by marrying; I am certain of it now. I shall act on that belief; say something; no matter what; he likes mynaivete—to prove to my dear cousin that I consider Edith as good as Mrs. Edward Thornton. Let him like it or not, I shall take his vexation as excellent sport, glide out of it with a laugh, then beg pardon, apologize, and show him he may marry the Queen of Sheba, for all it matters to Daisy Burns."
I felt confident of success; and, elated with my scheme, I turned to Mrs.Langton, and said, gaily:—
"I have such a good idea!—only I cannot tell you. But you shall see how it will work."
She bit her lip, and gave me a mistrustful look.
"I have warned you," she said; "I warn you again; do not think yourself equal to Bertha. If she chooses to convince her brother that you are in love with him, I consider it out of the question that you can prevent her."
"I shall see that," I replied, indignantly.
"Yes," said Mrs. Langton, "you will have that satisfaction."
"Then what should I gain by running away?" I asked, a little tartly. "The best thing I can do is to stay, look on, and learn how these matters are managed."
Mrs. Langton gave me another mistrustful look, and withdrew. I saw she did not believe in my sincerity; perhaps she did not think it possible to resist Edward Thornton, and repented having been so frank. Her thoughts did not trouble me. The more I reflected on my scheme, the better I liked it. I enjoyed, in advance, the manner in which my cousin would open his fine blue eyes. I was not vexed with him; but I remembered the Dresden room, and was determined he should be as fairly undeceived as ever he had been deluded. Absorbed in these thoughts, I remained on the verandah, looking at the beautiful garden and grounds beneath. A visitor came, was received by Mrs. Langton, stayed awhile, left, and still I did not re- enter the drawing-room, where Mrs. Brand and her friend now sat, working and talking by lamp-light. At length, scarce knowing why, I began to pay a vague attention to their discourse.
"I think we are going to have a storm," said the soft voice of Mrs. Langton; "it will clear the air, perhaps. Doctor Morton says the weather has been so unhealthy; typhus so prevalent amongst the poor. He mentioned the case of a labourer who has just died, leaving a widow and nine children."
"Very sad, indeed," composedly replied Mrs. Brand; "but then you know, my dear, typhus is generally confined to the poor—which is a sort of comfort."
"It is not always the case," said Edith; "there have been several deaths amongst tradespeople."
"Ah! poor things, they have to deal with the poor, you see; but what I mean is, that it seldom goes higher up; which is a great comfort, you know; for what good would it do the poor that those above them should die?"
"None, of course. The doctor also mentioned another case—very sad too— such a fine young man, he had been told, an artist, I think; but he did not know his name, who is lying ill—all but given up."
"Really," said Mrs. Brand, "this gets quite alarming. Do you know whereabouts that unfortunate young man lives?"
Until then, I had listened to them as we listen to speech in which we take no interest. I was young, full of health; the evening air felt pleasant and fresh about me; and standing on that cool verandah above a fragrant garden, I recked not of the fevered dwellings where the poor perish, and of the sick chamber where even the rich man may be reached by death; but when Mrs. Langton spoke of the young artist who lay given up, I felt touched. When Mrs. Brand asked to know where he dwelt, I just turned my head a little to catch the reply of the beautiful Edith. She gave it carelessly.
"In a place called the Grove, I believe; is it far off?"
"Two miles away at least," complacently replied Mrs. Brand.
I know not how I entered the room; but I know that the two ladies screamed faintly, as they saw me stepping in, through the open window.
"Miss Burns, is the house on fire?" exclaimed Mrs. Brand.
"'T is he!" I said, with that dead calmness which many find in their woe. "I know it is. We live in the Grove, and there is not another artist in it."
"I am not sure he is an artist," said Edith, rising. "I now think it was an architect."
"There is no architect in the Grove," I replied; "not one."
"My dear," observed Mrs. Brand, soothingly taking my hand, "it is all a mistake, depend upon it."
I looked at her, and shook my head.
"The house was close and silent; the blinds were drawn down. I know why now—lest the contagion should reach me."
Mrs. Brand dropped my hand rather hastily.
"I shall send and inquire at once," she observed. "Pacify yourself, my dear."
She stretched out her hand to ring the bell.
"You need not," I said, "I am going."
"Oh! but you must not!" cried Mrs. Brand, "think of the danger."
I laughed drearily in her face.
"Of the contagion, my dear?"
"Do not fear, I shall come back, Ma'am," I replied, turning to the door.She followed me.
"My dear, you must have the carriage."
"I shall go by the lanes," I said impatiently. The carriage was, I knew, the delay of at least an hour.
"By the lanes, at this hour? I cannot allow it, Miss Burns."
I turned round upon her.
"But I will go," I said, and even in that moment, I wondered the woman could be so blind as to think her will had the power to detain me.
Without heeding her astounded look, I ran up to my room, took down my cloth cloak, drew it around me, and drawing the hood over my head, I hastened down stairs to the garden. As I passed underneath the verandah, the voice of Mrs. Langton seemed to call me back, but the wind drowned her words, and I ran fast along the avenue. I had soon reached the iron gate; I took down the key, opened the door, and entered the lane. As 1 turned my back on Poplar Lodge, I caught a last glimpse of it rising against a dark sky, with a faint speck of light glimmering from the drawing-room window.
No other light shone on my path; the sun had set bright and glorious, the evening had set in clear and serene; but a sudden eclipse had come; one vast gloom shrouded sky and earth; I never saw summer night like this for intense, for dreary darkness. I knew the way well; I walked straight on, swiftly and without pause, meeting no obstacles, fearing none, like one who passes through vacant space.
Once I thought I heard a voice calling on me faintly in the distance behind; but I heeded it not, I did not answer, I did not look round; I went on as in a dream. Raised beyond the body by the passion of my grief, I felt not the ground beneath my feet; all I felt was that the wind as it swept by me with a low rushing sound, seemed to bear me on through that sombre and melancholy night, as a spirit to its viewless home. At length, the air became of a dead stillness; it was as if I had suddenly entered a silent and sultry region in which there was no breathing and no life. I stopped short; I looked round to see that I had not mistaken the way; a streak of fiery lightning passed through the darkness of the sky; for a moment I caught sight of an open space, in which I stood, and saw before me two long lanes diverging from a half ruined gateway, and vanishing into depths of gloom whence seemed to come forth the peal of far thunder that died away in low faint echoes.
I knew the spot well; I had not missed the right path; I was half way on my journey.
But as if this first flash had only been a signal, the brooding storm now broke forth. Before it fled at once the silence and the gloom of the hour. A low, wild murmur ran along the ground, then rose and lost itself in the wide and desolate hollow of the night; trees tossed about their dark boughs, and groaned lamentably like vexed spirits. As the sound of a loosened flood came the rushing rain, the wind rose ever deepening in its roar; and above all rolled the full thunder, louder than the deafening voice of battle, whilst, cleft with many a swift and silent flash, the dark sky opened like a sea of living fire, below which stretched a long, low moving shore of livid clouds.
I stood still and looked; not with fear—to love and fear for what we love, is to be raised beyond all dread—but I felt dazzled with the ceaseless lightning, and dizzy with the tumult of the tempest; the heavy rain beat full in my face and blinded me; the strong gale rose against me in all its might. I could not move on; I could not turn back, seek shelter, or proceed; for a moment I yielded to the burst of the storm, and let the elements wreak their fury on my bowed head. But a thought stronger than even their power, more fearful than their wildest wrath, was on me. I drew down my hood, wrapped my cloak closer around me, and again went on drenched with the pouring rain, and often arrested, but never driven back by the impetuous blast.
The storm was violent and brief. Soon the wind fell; the rain grew less heavy; the lightning less frequent and vivid; the thunder slowly retreated; the sky cleared, and melted into soft clouds, behind which, for the first time, shone the watery moon. She looked down on me with a wan and troubled face, boding sorrow; her dim light filled the path I now followed; on either side, like gloomy giants, rose the dark trees; the rain had ceased, but as I passed swiftly beneath the dripping boughs, they seemed shaken by an invisible hand to dash their chill dew-drops in my face. The smell of the wet earth rose strong on the humid air; in the ditch by me, I heard water flowing with a low, gurgling sound, and every now and then I came across a shallow pool lit with a pale and trembling moonbeam.
The storm had not terrified me, but now my courage sank. This chill calm after the fury of the tempest; this sound of water faintly flowing, following on tumult so loud, seemed to me to speak of sorrow, death and utter desolation. The nearer I drew to the end of my journey, the more my heart failed me. As I turned down into the lane that led home, the church-clock struck twelve; every stroke sounded like a funeral knell on my ear; then a dog began to howl plaintively. I turned cold and sick—as a child, I had heard that this was a token of death. Oh! with what slow and weary steps, I drew near that door towards which I had hastened through all the anger of the storm, and which my heart now dreaded to reach. As I stood by it, my limbs trembled, my very flesh quivered, my blood seemed to have ceased to flow, my heart to beat, cold dew-drops gathered and stood on my brow, and something, an inward struggle, an agony without a name rose to my lips, and made one gasp for breath, but could not pass them. Twice I stretched out my hand to ring, and twice it fell powerless. I sank down on my knees; I uttered a passionate prayer: I asked—what will not the heart ask for?—for an impossible boon. "Even if he is to die. Oh God, do not let him die; even though he shall be dead, do not let him be dead!"