I rose and rang. "Now," I thought, "I shall know it all at once in the face of Kate or Jane, whichever it may be that opens to me." I nerved myself to meet that look, as I heard a door opening within, then a step on the wet gravel, and caught a glimmer of light through the chinks of the door. I heard it unbarred and unbolted, then it opened partly; and standing on the threshold with the light of the upraised lamp in his face, I saw Cornelius.
I think I could endure years of trouble and toil for the joy of that moment. My heart overflowed; I looked at Cornelius, then threw my arms around his neck, and burst into tears. My hood fell back, and with it my loosened hair.
"Daisy!" he cried, for he had not recognized me till then. "Good God!" he added with sudden terror, "has anything happened to you?"
"Nothing, Cornelius; but I am too happy—too happy—that is all."
He drew back a little; looked at my drenched garments and bare head, as he closed the door, and led me in.
"Daisy," he asked, anxiously, "what has brought you here at such an hour, in such a plight?"
"I thought you were ill, dying, Cornelius! I felt beside myself, and ran home to you like a wild thing."
We stood beneath the porch. Cornelius still held the lamp; its light fell on his pale, troubled face. With the arm that was free he drew me towards him, and looked down at me with mingled grief and tenderness.
"Oh, Daisy!" he exclaimed, "whilst I sat within, sheltered and unconscious, have you, indeed, been exposed to the fury of this pitiless storm—and for my sake?"
I shook back the hair from my face, and looking up into his, smiled.
"Cornelius," I said, "if weary miles had divided us; if rivers had flowed across the path; if I should have walked bare-footed over sharp stones, I would have come to you to-night. I could not have kept away; I feel that my very heart would have flown to you, as a bird to its nest."
"For Heaven's sake, go up to your room at once," he observed, uneasily."Here is the light."
I took it, and gaily ran up-stairs. I felt light with gladness—a new life flowed in my veins, a new vigour beat with my heart. I blessed God with every faculty of my being: as sincerely as if the miracle I had asked for, had been accomplished. I had soon changed my things, and went down very softly, not to waken Kate. The door of the back-parlour was ajar, and there I found Cornelius, standing by a newly-kindled fire. As I gently closed the door, I said, smiling:
"I have made no noise. Kate never woke—how is she?"
"She complains of a head-ache. The heat of the day, I suppose."
"Yes," I replied, sitting down, taking his hand, and making him sit down by me on a little couch which he had drawn before the fire. "Yes, every one was out this morning, when I called and found the house shut up. Oh, Cornelius! how I thought of that with terror and dismay, as I came along the lanes."
"The lanes!—you came by the lanes?" cried Cornelius, turning pale: "alone along that desolate road, where a cry for aid never could be heard! Daisy, how dare you do such a thing? How could they allow it?"
"Cornelius, who would be out on such a night to harm me? As to daring, I would have dared anything. Mrs. Brand remonstrated, and sent, I believe, a servant after me; but I outstripped him easily. Terror lent me her wings."
"I thought you felt no fear?"
"No fear of man, but a most sickening cowardly dread of fever. Oh, Cornelius! if I had found you ill, or in danger of death, what should I have done, what would have become of me?"
The mere thought was a torment that again sent the freezing blood to my heart. I shivered, and drew close to him.
"There! you are quite pale again," said Cornelius, anxiously. "Oh, Daisy! do you then love me so much—so very much?"
I looked up, and smiled at the question. But his face was burning, and expressed mingled pleasure, doubt, and pain.
"Oh!" he continued, taking my hands in his, and speaking hesitatingly, "what am I to think of the girl who forgets her friend?"
"I knew you were vexed and angry about the party," I interrupted. "I saw you."
"And then, on the first false alarm, who returns to him so kindly, on a stormy night, by a dreary way, fearless though alone."
"Now, Cornelius, what have I done that a good sister, or friend, or daughter, would not do?"
Cornelius dropped my hands, and said, abruptly: "Do you not feel chill?"
"Not with that fire. Do you know, Cornelius, now I am here again with you and Kate, I don't see why I should go back to Poplar Lodge. Suppose you ask me to stay. Well, what are you doing?"
He had stood up, and was pouring out a glass of wine, which he handed to me.
"Take it," he said.
"To please you, Cornelius: but I do not want it. The sight of your face at the door was more reviving than wine to me."
I just tasted the wine, and handed him the glass. He drank off its contents. His hand, in touching mine, had felt feverish, and he looked rather pale.
"You are unwell," I said, uneasily.
"Unwell!" he echoed, gaily. "I never felt better."
He poured himself out another glass of wine, but I took it from him.
"You must not!" I exclaimed, imperatively. "Oh, Cornelius! be careful," I added, imploringly.
He laughed at my uneasiness; but there was something dreary in the sound of his laughter, which I did not like.
"I tell you I am well—quite well," he persisted; "but I feel uneasy about you, Daisy. How this night will fatigue you! I dare not tell you to go to your room, lest it should be too chill; but will you try and sleep here?"
"On condition that, when I am asleep, you will go up, and take some rest yourself."
He promised to do so; and, to please him, I laid my head on the pillow of the couch. He removed the lamp from my eyes, but in vain I closed them, and tried to sleep. Every now and then I kept opening them again, and talking in that excited way, which is the result of over-wrought emotion.
"Cornelius," I said, "I am now quite resolved to stay with you. I should feel too miserable to be even a day away. Always thinking about typhus, you know."
"Sleep, child," was his only reply.
I tried; but awhile afterwards I was again talking.
"And the Academy!" I said, "and 'The Young Girl Reading'! Are the other pictures sold?"
I half-rose on one elbow to look at Cornelius, who sat a little behind me. Without answering, he made me lie down again, and laid his hand on my eyes and brow. He possessed, perhaps, something of mesmeric power, for unconsciously I fell asleep; but mine was not a deep or perfect slumber. I was aware of a change that I could not understand or define. I felt, however, some one bending over me, and a long and lingering kiss was pressed on my brow.
"It is Cornelius going up-stairs," I thought even in my sleep, but without awakening. My next remembrance is that I looked up with sudden terror, and that I found myself face to face with Kate, who sat by the table weeping bitterly. I looked for Cornelius and saw him not.
"Kate, Kate!" I cried, starting to my feet, "where is he? What has happened?"
She shook her head and never replied.
I crossed the room and opened the door of the front parlour; it was empty and in confusion; I ran to the front door, opened it, and looked down the moonlit street.
"Cornelius!" I cried, "Cornelius!"
I paused and listened; all I heard was the sound of a carriage rolling away in the distance. My voice died on my lips in broken accents; my arms fell by my side powerless and dead. He was gone! gone without a word of explanation or adieu. In this one circumstance I read a remote journey and a long absence, and yet I would believe in neither. I re-entered the parlour where Kate still sat in the same attitude. I went up to her.
"So he is gone to Yorkshire to see Mr. Smalley?" I said agitatedly.
"He is gone to Spain," she briefly answered.
My heart fell.
"To Spain! for a few months, I suppose?"
"For years!"
"I don't believe it!" I cried, angrily; "he could not, would not do such a thing. You want to frighten me, Kate, but I don't believe you; no, I don't."
"You do; in your heart you do; in your heart you know it."
I did know it; for I gave way to a burst of passion and grief, and spoke to Kate as I never before had spoken.
"Gone! gone to Spain, and for years! Kate! how dare you let him go and not tell me?"
She looked up at me; her eyes flashing through her tears.
"And how dare you speak so to me, foolish girl? Is Cornelius anything so near to you as he is to me? Did you rear him, sacrifice your youth to him, and then find yourself cast aside and forsaken, as I am this day?"
"He reared me," I cried, weeping passionately. "Claim him by all you have sacrificed to him, my claim is all he has been to me! Oh! Kate, why did he go?"
"What right have you to know?" she asked, with a jealous bitterness that exasperated me.
"Every right," I replied, indignantly. "What have I done to be so treated?"
"What have you done? Why, you have done that I believe there is nothing so dear to him as you are; that his last request was, that instead of going with him, I should stay with you and wait your wakening; that his last kiss was that which he gave you as you slept. If you want to know more, here is a letter for you. Ask me not another question; I shall not answer. I have no more to say, and I have enough of my own grief."
She handed me a folded paper. I opened it and read:—
"Forgive me, Daisy, if I forsake you thus by stealth; but partings are bitter things. I wished to spare you some pain, and myself a severe though useless trial. I had promised to leave you and Kate no more; but you must have noticed how restless my temper has been of late; indeed, there is in my blood an unquiet fever which only liberty and a life of wandering can appease. Good bye, Daisy, God bless you! May you be happy, ay, even to the fullness of your heart's wishes."
Kate need not have asked for my silence. I laid down her brother's letter without a word, not a syllable could I have uttered then; I was hurt; hurt to the very heart. Cornelius had forsaken me cruelly; he had done to the girl what pity would never have let him do to the child; he had left me in my sleep, without one word of adieu.
I felt the shock and bitterness of this sudden separation, and more bitterly still the desertion. How could I, after this, think that Cornelius cared for me? He had liked me, amused himself with me, but I had never been to him that living portion of the heart which we call a friend. I could bear his absence, but that he should not care for me, that he should have been trifling with me all along, I could not bear. I paced the room up and down, vainly trying to keep in my sobs and tears. As I passed by the table, a folded paper caught my attention, I seized it eagerly with that vague hope which clings to everything. In this case it was not deceived.
"Oh! Kate, Kate!" I cried, throwing my arms around her neck in a transport of joy too deep not to make me forget the few sharp words that had passed between us.
"Well, what is it?" she asked, amazed.
"He'll come back; he'll come back; he has forgotten his passport. Oh! I am so glad! so happy; he can't travel without it, you know. I defy him to go to Spain now."
I laughed and cried for joy. She sighed.
"And if he does come back," she said, "it will be to go away again."
"We shall see that," I replied indignantly. "I will not let him, Kate. He has accustomed me to have my way of late, and in this I will have it."
She shook her head incredulously; but I was confident and did not heed her; a low rumbling sound down the street had attracted my attention.
"There he is!" I cried joyfully; and with a beating heart I ran to the street door. I opened it very softly, and keeping it ajar, I listened. The sound had ceased, and for a moment all I heard was the voice of Kate whispering in my ear—
"Daisy, if you let him go this time, I shall never forgive you. Do not mind what I said; keep him; you can if you wish."
I had not time to think on her words or ask her for their meaning; a quick and well-known step was coming up the Grove—the garden gate opened—no bell rang, but a hand tapped lightly at the parlour shutters. I opened the door wide and Cornelius, for it was he, came up to me.
"I have forgotten my passport," he said, in a low tone; "it is on the table in the back-parlour. Is she still asleep?"
Before I could reply, the moon, that had kept hid behind a dark cloud, came forth bright and undimmed; her light fell on my face; I saw him start.
"Will you not come in, Cornelius?" I said quietly. But he stood there at the door of his own home, mute and motionless as a statue. "Well then," I continued, "I must go out to you; perhaps before you cross the seas again, standing on the threshold of your dwelling, you will not refuse to grant me what you did not think fit to give me within it—the luxury of a last adieu—of a last embrace!"
I stepped out to him as I spoke; but he made me re-enter the house, and followed me in.
"Daisy," he said, with a sigh, "I wished to leave whilst you were away, and fate brought you back; I stole away whilst you were asleep, and I was compelled to return and find you awake. I thought to spare us both some pain. I cannot; be it so; you shall have your wish."
His voice plainly said: "Your wish, and no more."
"Very well," I replied, quietly; for though I was resolved he should not go, I knew better than to startle him.
We re-entered together the back parlour; Kate had left it; but the lamp still burned on the table. Cornelius sat down by it; his face was pale, watchful, determined. I saw he was fully on his guard, and prepared to resist unflinchingly to the last. I was as determined to insist and prevail. Oh! daily life, that art called tame and reproved as dull, how is it that to me thou hast ever been so full of strange agitating dramas, I sat down by Cornelius; I passed my arm within his, and looking up into his face, I said:
"When, a few hours ago, I felt so glad to see you safe, Cornelius, I knew not I was looking my last for a long time."
He did not answer; I continued:
"Oh, if I had known we were going to part, how differently I should have spent this evening! I would not have talked away so foolishly, but have asked you so many questions—settled so many things! whereas now I have only a few minutes, and can think of nothing save that you are going away, Cornelius."
He quailed, but only momentarily; if his lip trembled a little, his unmoved look told of unconquerable resolve.
"You, it seems," I resumed, "had nothing to say to me, Cornelius, or you could not have wished to go away thus?"
He drew forth his watch, and said, briefly:
"I must go soon, Daisy."
"Kate says you are to be years away—is it true?"
His silence was equivalent to an assent.
"Well then, give me the farewell of years," I said, passing my arms around his neck, and compelling his face to look down at mine.
He seemed a little troubled, and made a motion to rise. I detained him.
"A little longer," I entreated; "I have thought of some things about which I wish to question you."
"Pray be quick, Daisy."
"Why do you go to Spain?"
"For change."
"You are tired of us?"
"I am tired of a quiet life."
"Go to France, Cornelius."
"Why so?"
"It is nearer."
"Daisy, I must really go now."
"A little longer; I have something else to say."
"What is it?"
"I have forgotten; but give me time to remember."
I laid my head on his shoulder as I spoke.
"Daisy," he asked, "what have you to say?"
I wept without answering; but saw his eye vainly looking over the table in search of something.
"I have it," I said aloud, "I have it, and I will not give it to you,Cornelius, for you must not, no, you must not go."
"I knew it," he resignedly exclaimed, "I knew it would come to this; and yet," he added, looking down at me rather wistfully, "it is of no use, Daisy; I must go, and I will go too."
"No, Cornelius, you will not; you never could have the heart to do it.Besides, why go?"
"For change."
"Change! what is change? If I were an artist I would make variety enough in my own mind to be the charm of daily life; and whilst I painted pictures, I would not care a pin for Spain or Italy. If I were an ambitious spirit, I would not go just when my fame was beginning, when glorious prospects were opening before me. If I were a brother, and had a good sister, who loved me dearly, I would not forsake her. If I were a kind-hearted man, and had adopted a poor little orphan girl, reared her, indulged her, made her my friend, and promised not to leave her, I would not break her heart by running away from her; but when she said to me: 'Stay, Cornelius!' I would just give her a kiss, and say: 'Yes, my pet, by all means!'"
But in vain. I looked up into his face; he did not kiss me; he did not call me his pet; his lips never parted to say, "Yes, by all means!" His head was sunk on his bosom; his arms were folded; his downcast look never sought mine. I left my place by him to sit down at his feet and see him better. I read sorrow on his face, great sorrow, but no change of purpose. I took one of his hands in mine, and gazing at him through gathering tears:
"Cornelius," I said, "are you still going?"
He did not reply.
"Are you still going?" I asked, laying my head on his knee.
He remained silent.
"Are you still going?" I persisted, rising as I spoke, and pressing my lips to his cheek. He never moved; he never answered. The blood rushed to my heart with passionate force. I threw back rather than dropped his hand; I stepped away from him with wounded and indignant pride. "Go then!" I exclaimed, with angry tears, "go, here is your passport; take it and with it take back your broken promise and friendship betrayed."
"Betrayed!" he echoed, looking up.
"Yes, betrayed; I do not retract the word. Want of confidence is treason in friendship, and you have had no confidence in me—why in this house, where as a child I had obeyed you, and could have obeyed you all my life, why did you of your own accord raise me to an equality which was my boast and my pride, when in your heart you meant to treat me as a child to be cheated into a parting? You gave me an empty name; I will have the reality or I will have nothing, Cornelius."
I turned away from him as I spoke; he rose and followed me.
"Daisy," he said, "what do you mean?"
I looked round at him over my shoulder, and replied, reproachfully:
"I mean that you do not care for me."
"I do not care for you!"
"No; you have secrets from me; William never had any secrets; he liked me more than you do, Cornelius."
An expression of so much pain passed across his face, that I repented at once.
"You cannot believe that?" he replied at length; "you would not say it if you were not very angry with me, Daisy, and yet you know, oh! you know well enough I cannot bear your anger."
"Can't you bear it, Cornelius?" I answered turning round to face him, "then don't go; for if you do, I shall be so angry—indeed, you can have no idea of it!"
"None, whilst you speak and look so very unlike anger. Oh, Daisy! which is easier: to part from you in wrath or in peace?"
"Why part at all? why go?" I replied passing my arm within his, and looking up at his bending face in which I read signs of yielding.
"Why remain?"
"Because I wish it," I said, making him sit down.
"Is that a reason?"
"The best of all—for it will make you stay."
He did not say yes; but then, he did not say no.
"Stay! stay!" he repeated with an impatient sigh. "What for? You do not want me."
"Indeed, I do," I replied, triumphantly, "I want you much, very much, just now."
"What for?"
"To advise me about Mr. Thornton."
"Ah! what of him?" exclaimed Cornelius, with a sudden start.
"Nothing," I replied, sorry to have said so much.
He gave me a look beneath which I felt myself reddening.
"He too!" he said, biting his lip and folding his arms like one amazed, "he too! And I was going, actually going, actually leaving you to him."
He laughed indignantly and rose; I eagerly caught hold of his arm.
"Oh, I am not going," he exclaimed impetuously, throwing down his hat as he spoke. "Catch me going now. No, Daisy," he added, resuming his place by me, and laying his hand on my arm as he bent on me a fixed and resolute look, "though I was fool enough to let him have the picture, he shall not find it quite so easy to get the original."
"Oh, Cornelius!" I exclaimed, feeling ready to cry with vexation and shame, "that is not at all what I mean."
"Another," he continued with ill-repressed irritation, "it is the strangest thing, that young or old, boys in experience, or worn and wearied with the world, they all want you."
"Cornelius, how can you talk so! it is Mrs. Langton whom Mr. Thornton likes."
"Mrs. Langton!"
"Yes, Mrs. Langton, the great beauty."
"So much the better," he replied with a scornful and incredulous laugh, "for he shall not have you, Daisy."
"He does not want me," I said desperately; "but if he did, it would be time lost. For I am sure I don't want him."
"You do not like him!" observed Cornelius, calming down a little.
"Very much as a cousin. Not at all, otherwise."
"And you will not have him, will you, Daisy?"
He spoke with lingering doubt and uneasiness.
"I tell you I shall not have the chance," I replied impatiently. "Oh, Cornelius! will you never leave off fancying that everybody is in love with me?"
I could not help laughing as I said it.
"Yes, laugh," he said reproachfully, "laugh at me, because like the poor man of the parable told by the Prophet to the sinful King, 'I have but one little ewe lamb; I have nourished it up, it has eaten of my meat, drank of my cup, lain in my bosom, and been unto me as a daughter.' Laugh because I cannot help dreading lest the rich man's insolence should wrest her from me!"
"No, Cornelius, I shall laugh no more; but indeed you need not fear that sort of thing at all. Neither for Mr. Thornton, nor for any other member of his sex do I care, and when I say that," I added, reddening a little, "you know what I mean."
"Too well!" he replied, in a low, sad tone. "Good bye, Daisy. God bless you!"
I remained motionless with surprise and grief. He rose; Kate entered the room.
"Oh, Kate!" I cried desperately, "after all but promising to stay, he is going. Speak to him, pray speak to him!"
She shook her head and stood a little apart, looking on with quiet attention.
I silently placed myself before her brother, but he looked both sad and determined.
"You cannot have the heart to do it: you cannot!" I exclaimed, the tears running down my face as I spoke; "you cannot!"
"Daisy," he replied, in a tone of mingled pain and reproach, "where is the use of all this? If I could stay, indeed I would; but though I love you so much, that every tear you now shed seems a drop wrung from the life blood of my heart, believe me when I declare that though you should ask me to remain on your bended knees, I should still say no."
"Then I shall try!" I exclaimed, despairingly; but before I could sink down at his feet, he had caught hold of both my hands, and compelled me to remain upright. Hope forsook me.
"Cornelius," I said, weeping, "will you stay?"
"No!"
"Cornelius!" I exclaimed, more earnestly. "Will you stay?"
This time he did not answer, but his half averted face showed me a profile severe, resolute, and inexorable.
"You cannot weary me," I said again; "will you stay?"
He turned upon me pale with wrath.
"Oh! blind girl—blind to the last!" he cried, his white lips trembling."You ask me to stay—to stay!"
"Yes, Cornelius, again and again!"
All patience seemed to forsake him. His eyes lit, his features quivered; he grasped my hands in his with an angry force, of which he was himself unconscious.
"Come," he said, striving to be calm, "do not make me say that which I should repent. Let us part as it is—do not insist—do not provoke me to forget honour and truth."
I could see that Cornelius was angry with me; that my obstinacy provoked him beyond measure; but his wrath was the wrath of love; it could not terrify me. I even felt and found in it a perilous pleasure, that made me smile as I replied:
"But I do insist, Cornelius."
His lips parted, as if to utter some vehement reply; then he bit them with angry force, and knit his brow like one who subdues and keeps down some inward strife. Kate quietly stepped up to us.
"The knot that will not be unravelled must be cut," she said. "He will stay, Daisy, if you will be his wife."
The words seemed sent, like a quivering arrow, through my very heart. Cornelius looked confounded at his sister, who only smiled; then he turned to me, flushed and ardent. As I stood before him, my hands still grasped in his—his face still bent over mine, half upraised—his look, overflowing with passion, reproach, love, anger, and tenderness, sank deep into mine, with a meaning that overpowered me. And yet, as if spell- bound by the strange and wonderful story thus, at once revealed to me, I could not cease to hear it. Kate had not spoken—she still spoke in words that echoed for ever. To speak myself, look away, return once more to the daily life beyond which that moment stood isolated, were not things in my power. I felt like one divided from Time by that immortal Present.
"Oh, Daisy!" vehemently exclaimed Cornelius, "how you linger! 'No' should have been uttered at once; 'yes' need not tarry so long. Speak—answer. Must I stay or depart?"
He spoke with the feverish impatience that will not brook delay.
"Stay!" broke from me, I knew not why nor how; but with the word, my head swam; my limbs failed me; there was a chair by me, I sank down upon it. Cornelius turned very pale, dropped my hands, and walked away without a word. Kate came to me.
"Daisy," she said, taking my hand in her own, "what is it? Are you faint? Have this," she added, handing me the glass of wine which, at once, her brother had poured out.
"No," I replied, "water."
She gave me some. I drank it off, but it did not calm the fever which she took for faintness. I clasped my brow between my hands, to compose and concentrate thought; but my whole being—my mind, faculties, soul, body, and heart, were in tumult and insurrection. I could hear, see, feel—know nothing of that inward world of which I called myself mistress. I rose, terrified at the sudden storm which had broken on my long peace.
"Daisy, do not look so wild!" said Kate; and taking me in her arms, she wanted to make me sit down again; but I broke from her. I passed by her brother without giving him a look, ran up to my own room, and locked myself in like one pursued.
A faint streak of grey was breaking in the east, through the low and heavy clouds of night. I went up to the window, opened it, and kneeling down by it, I looked at that still dark sky, and surrendered myself to the swift current that was bearing me away.
There is a rapture in strong emotions that has subdued the strongest; a perilous charm to which the wisest have yielded. What the storm is to our senses—something that raises, appals and lifts up our very being by its sublimity and terror—the strife of the passions is to the soul. They are her elements, from whose conflicts and electric shocks she derives her strength, her greatness, the knowledge that she is. And for this, though they so often blight her fairest hopes, she loves them.
It is hard, indeed, to be ever striving against those rebellious servants—to feel torn asunder in the struggle; but sweeter is that bitter contest than a long, lifeless peace. The danger lies not so much in the chance of final subjection, as in that of learning to love the strife too well. More perilous than the sweetest music is its tumult; more endless than are all the delights of the senses, and far more intoxicating is its infinite variety. The soul, in her most blissful repose, has nothing to equal the burning charm of her delirium.
My youth had been calm as an ice-bound sea, over which sweep breezes sweet though chill, but that knows neither the storm nor the sunshine of the ardent south. And now the storm had suddenly wakened, and from northern winter, I passed to the glowing tropics. I thought not of love or passion, of bliss or torment; I felt like one seized by foaming rapids, and swept far beyond human ken, with the sound of the rushing torrent ever in my ears. I yielded to a force that would not be resisted.
"Let it," I thought, my heart beating with fearless delight; "I care not whither it sends me; let the eddies cast me adrift—or bear me safely on—I care not—this is to live!"
I strove not against the current; I sought not to know where I was, until of itself the stream flowed more calm, until its mighty voice died away in faint murmurs, and I found myself floating safe in still waters. Then I looked up, and like one who after sleeping on earth wakens in fairy- land, I beheld with trembling joy the strange and wonderful country to which I had been borne during the long slumber of a year. Cornelius loved me! it was marvellous, incredible, but a great and glorious thing for all that. He loved me! my heart swelled; my soul rose; I felt humble, exalted and blest far beyond the power of speech to render. I had no definite thought, no definite wish, but before me extended the future like an endless summer day; beneath it spread life as an enchanted region which Cornelius and I paced hand in hand, bending our steps towards that golden west where burned a sun that should never set.
"Yes, he loves me!" I repeated to myself as I remembered every token unheeded till then. "And do I love him?" oh! how swift came the irresistible reply: "with every power of my soul, with every impulse of my being, with the blood that flows in my veins, with the heart that beats in my bosom." The answer both startled and charmed me. I did not understand it rightly yet, and like one suddenly taken captive, I looked at my bonds and saw incredulously that the liberty of thought, heart and feeling had departed for ever; that an influence as subtle as it was penetrating had taken possession of my being. One moment I rebelled; but after a brief struggle for freedom, I owned myself conquered; with beating heart and burning brow lowly bent, I confessed my master.
Filial reverence, sisterly love, friendship, what had become of ye then? Like weak briars and brambles swept away by a swift stream, ye perished at once on the path of passion. I wondered not that ye should be no more. I only wondered ye had ever been: vain words by which I had long been deluded.
I looked back into my past. Since I had known him, I could not remember the time when the thought of Cornelius had not been to me as the daily bread of my heart. There had been familiarity in my deepest tenderness, and lingering passion in my very freedom. I had felt intuitively that I could not make my love for a man, young and not of my blood, too sacred and too pure, and that love ever craving for a more perfect, more entire union, had caught eagerly at these shadows of what it sought. I had said to myself, to him, to all, that my affection was that of a child for its father, of a sister for her brother, of a friend for her friend, because it had not occurred to me that a closer tie might one day bind us; and what I had said, I had believed most sincerely.
I was very young and very innocent. Of love I had read little, and seen less. So long as it came not to me in visible aspect; so long as I felt not within myself some great change, I dreamt not of it. There is a love that lies in the heart unconscious of itself, like a child asleep in its cradle—and this I had never suspected. There is a love which grows with onr years, until it becomes part of our being; which never agitates, because it has no previous indifference, no remembrance of the time in which it was not, against which to strive; which has purer and deeper signs than the beating heart, the blushing cheek, the averted look—and all this I knew not. Where there is no resistance, there can be no struggle; but because there is no struggle shall any one dare to say— there is no victory? Reduce to logic the least logical of all passions, and argue with a feeling that smiles at argument, and disdains to reply.
Had I then loved Cornelius even as a child? loved him with that purer part of affection which needs not to wait for the growth of years? God alone knows. Love is a great mystery; it is easy to remember the time of its discovery, but wise, indeed, are they who can tell the hour and moment of its birth.
I had the wisdom not to ask myself so useless a question. The past vanished from my thoughts; it was all future now. I looked at the eastern sky; it was reddening fast, and grew more bright and burning as I looked. With the superstition of the heart, I watched the dawn of that day, as that which opened my new existence, and for all of the past that it revealed, and I had never seen; for all of the future that it promised, and I had never hoped. I gave thanks to God.
I know not how long I had been thus, when a tap at my door disturbed me. I rose, opened, and saw Kate. She made me turn my face to the light, then half smiled, and said:
"Cornelius wants to speak to you; he is quite in a way. Pray come down."
I followed her down stairs in silence. She opened the back parlour door, closed it, and left me. I stood still; all the blood in my frame seemed to have rushed to my beating heart. It was one thing to be alone with Cornelius, my friend, and another to find myself thus suddenly brought to the presence of Cornelius, my lover.
He sat by the open window; beyond it rose the green garden trees tinged with a rosy light, and above them spread the blushing sky. A fresh breeze came in bearing soft sounds of rustling leaves and twittering songs of wakening birds. He too had watched the dawning day; but there seemed to have been at least as much sorrow as love in his vigil. He looked pale, weary, and slowly turned around as I entered. He saw me standing at the door, rose, and came up to me without speaking. I looked at him like one in a dream. He took my passive hand in his, and gave me a troubled glance, then suddenly he passed his other arm around me, looking down at me with the saddest face.
"And is it thus indeed, Daisy," he said, in a low tone, "you are pale as death, but as silent; your hand lies in mine chill as ice, but not withdrawn; you yield, mute and meek as a poor little victim to the arms that clasp you! No tears! No words to rouse remorse or sting pride. Nothing but entire sacrifice, and that silent submission."
He spoke of paleness; his own face was like marble, his eyes overflowed, his lips trembled, he stooped to press them on my brow. Involuntarily I shunned the embrace.
"Do not shrink," he observed, with evident pain, "I mean it as the last. Yes! the last. I never intended putting you to such a trial. Never, Daisy," he continued, giving me a wistful look, "anger at your blindness, and the irresistible temptation of a sudden opportunity, did indeed make me forget, in one moment, the dearly-bought patience of a year; passion, roused to tyranny after her long subjection, and sick of restraint, did indeed vow she would and should be gratified, no matter what the cost might be; but I never meant it. You are young, generous, and devoted. Months ago, if I had spoken, I know—and I knew it then—that I could have had you for the asking. But I could not bear to have you thus. When your grandfather placed so great a trust in my honour, and showed so little faith in my generosity, I laughed at his blindness, for I thought age had cooled his blood, and made him forget the language which is not speech. But alas! I found that I who had taught you many things, could not teach you this lesson. How could I? when what is held the easiest of all, the letting you see what you were to me, I could never accomplish. Do, say, act as I would, the sacredness of your affection ever stood between us. I tried every art, and love has many, but when I spoke so plainly, it seemed as if a very child must have understood me. You looked or smiled with hopeless serenity. I vowed once that cost me what it might, I would not speak until I had made you love me as truly, as ardently as I loved you myself. I waited months, I might have waited years. Well, no matter, it is over now. Be free, forget the trouble of an hour in the peace of a life-time. Be happy, very happy, and yet, oh! how happy, it seems to me, your friend could have made you, if you would but have let him."
He released and left me. Touched with his sorrow, I could not restrain my tears.
"Weep not for me," he said, with a sad smile; "I shall do. It is true that when I came back from Italy, I secretly boasted that I had escaped both the follies of youth and the dangers of passion. But though Fate, which I braved abroad, has, like a traitor, lain in wait for me in my own home, know, Daisy, that like a man, I can look her in the face, stern and bitter as she wears it on this day, too long delayed, of our separation."
"Then you do mean to go?" I exclaimed, troubled to the very heart.
"Can you think I would stay?" he replied, vehemently. "Oh! Daisy, tempt me not to call you cold and heartless, to say those things which a lifetime vainly repents and never effaces. Is it because I have passed through a year of the hardest self-subjection ever imposed on mortal; through a year of looks restrained, words hushed, emotions repressed; a year of fever and torment endured, that not a cloud might come over the serenity of your peace—is it for this, Daisy, that you think my heart and my blood so cold as to wish me to stay; as not to see that between complete union or utter separation there can now be no medium?"
His look sought mine with a troubled glance; there was fever in his accent, and pain in the half smile with which he spoke.
"But why go so soon?" I asked, in a low tone.
"Why? Daisy, you ask why? Because endurance has reached her utmost limits, and cannot pass them; because the rest is an abyss over which not even a poor plank stretches; because the thing I have delayed months must be done now or never: because, hard as is your absence, your constant presence is something still harder to bear."
He spoke with an ill-subdued irritation I knew not how to soothe.
"Cornelius!" I said in my gentlest accents, "if you would but stay and be calm."
"Stay and be calm!" he replied impetuously, and pacing the room with hasty steps, that ever came back to me; "why, I have been the calmest of calm men! When, one after another, they attempted to woo and win under my very eyes the only girl for whom I cared, she whom I looked on as my future wife; as the secret betrothed of my heart: when, to add taunt to taunt, as if I were not flesh and blood like them; as if I had not known you more years than they had known you weeks; loved you, when they cared not if you existed, they allowed me with insolent unconsciousness to behold it all, did I not subdue the secret wrath which trembled in every fibre of my being? What more would you have me do? Wait to see in the possession and enjoyment of one more fortunate than the rest, that which should have been my property and my joy; whilst I looked on, a robbed father, a friend forsaken, a lover betrayed, and behold my child, companion, friend and mistress the prize of a stranger!"
"Do you think then," he added, stopping short, and speaking with calmer and deeper indignation, "do you think then that I have severed you from the lover of your youth, guarded you from my own friends, watched over you as a miser over his gold, suspected every man who looked at you, sickened at the thought, 'Is it now I am to be robbed?' breathed and lived again at the reply, 'Not yet'—to stay and wait until some other comes and reaps the fruit of all my vain watchfulness."
His eyes flashed, and his lips trembled with jealous resentment. Borne away by the force of his own feelings, he had spoken with a vehement rapidity, that left him no room for pause, as they left me no room for interruption. At length he ceased. I looked at him; he had spoken of his patience with feverish anger, of his calmness with bitter indignation; the passionate emotions had left their traces on his brow slightly contracted, on his pale and agitated face, in his look that still burned with ill-repressed fire; but there was sweetness in his reproaches, and a secret pleasantness in his wrath.
"Another," I said quietly, "and suppose there is no other. Suppose no one cares for me."
"No one!" he echoed, drawing nearer, and taking my hand in his, with a sudden change of mood and accent, "No one, Daisy! Oh! you know there will always be one. One who sat with you by a running stream for the whole of a summer's noon, and at whom your face seemed to look from the clear waters until it sank deep and for ever in his heart. One who waking or sleeping, has loved you since that day, and for whom it is you, Daisy, who care not."
I said I did care for him.
"But how, how?" he asked, with an impatient sigh, "you mean old affection, habit, friendship, and I, you know well enough, mean none of those things. I love you because do what I will, you attract me irresistibly. If I had met you in the street by chance, I should have said, 'this girl and none other I will have;' I would have followed you, ascertained your dwelling, name and parentage, ay, and made you love me too, Daisy, cold as you are now."
"I am not cold, Cornelius."
"Alas, no," he replied, a little passionately, "and there too is the mischief. Oh! Daisy, be merciful! Give nothing if you cannot give all. Be at once all ice, and torment me no more with the calm serenity which is never coldness. Do you know how often you have made me burn to remind you, that though I was no one to you, you might be some one to me; that you have made me long for the sting of indifference and pride; for a familiarity less tender, for a tenderness less dangerous? Do you know that if your affection has been too calm for love, it has been very ardent for mere friendship; that it has possessed the perilous charm of passion and purity; passion which would be divine if it could but be pure; purity which, if it were but ardent, would be irresistibly alluring. You have tormented me almost beyond endurance, then when I gave up hope, you have suddenly said and done the kindest things maiden ever said or did. You have deserted me and returned to me, embraced me with the careless confidence of a sister, spoken with the tenderness of a mistress, and perplexed me beyond all mortal knowledge. But why do I speak as if this were over? Daisy! you perplex me still. This very evening have you not declared that you care for no other, then almost as plainly said you cared not for me. Have you not heard me tell you how warmly I love you, yet have you not asked me to stay here in this house ever near you? Nay, though I speak now from the very fulness of my heart, do you not stand, your hand in mine, listening to me with patient, quiet grace? I dare not hope, I will not quite despair; I can do neither, for I protest, Daisy, that you are still to me a riddle and a mystery, and that whether you love him or love him not, is more than Cornelius O'Reilly can tell."
Cornelius had said all this without a pause of rest: he spoke with the daring rapidity of passion which tarries not for words, but with many an eloquent change of look, tone, and accent. I had heard him with throbbing bosom and burning brow. For the first time I was addressed in the language of love, and the voice that spoke was very dear to me. Answer I could not. I stood before him, listening to tones that had ceased, but that still echoed in my heart. When he confessed, however, that he did not know whether or not I loved him, an involuntary smile stole over my face, and this he was very quick to see; his look, keen and searching, sought mine; his face, eager and flushed, was bent over me.
"Look at me, Daisy," he said, quickly.
I looked up, smiling still; for I thought to myself, "I love him, but he shall not know it just yet." But as I looked, a change of feeling came over my heart. I remembered the past, his long goodness, his patient, devoted love, and I could not take my eyes away.
"Well," he said, uneasily, "why do you look at me so strangely? My face is not new to you, Daisy. You have had time to know it all these years."
Ay, years had passed since our first meeting; and what had he not been to me since then? My adopted father, my kind guardian, my secure protector, my faithful friend, my devoted lover! As I thought of all this, and still looked at him, his kind, handsome face grew dim through gathering tears. "I will tell him all," I thought; "I will be ingenuous and good; tell him how truly, how ardently I love him." The words rose to my lips, and died away unuttered. Is the language in which woman utters such confessions yet invented? Oh! love and pride, tyrants of her heart, how sharp was your contest then in mine! He was bending over me with strange tormenting anxiety in his face. I bowed my head away from his gaze. He half drew me closer, half pushed me back; his hand sought, then rejected, mine. He saw my eyes overflowing.
"Oh, Daisy, Daisy!" he exclaimed, "what does this mean?"
"Guess," was my involuntary reply.
"Do not trifle with me," he said, in a tone of passionate entreaty—"do not."
"Trifle with you! Could I, Cornelius?"
"Prove it then."
He stooped and looked up; for a moment my lips touched his cheek, whilst his lingered on my brow. Many a time before had Cornelius kissed me; but this was the first embrace of a love, mutual, ardent, and yet, God knows it, very pure—ay, far too religiously pure to trouble. And thus it was all understood—all known—all told—without a word.
When I felt that the unconscious dream of my whole life was fulfilled; that I was everything to him who had so long been everything to me; when I looked up into his face, met his look, in which the affection of the tried friend, and the love of the lover, unequivocally blended, and knew that no other human being—not even his sister—could claim and fill that place where my heart had found its home, and that as I loved so was I loved,—I also felt that I had conquered fate; that I triumphed over by- gone sorrow, and could defy the might of time. I cried for joy, as I had often cried for grief on that kind heart which had sheltered my forsaken childhood and unprotected youth.
"Tears!" he said, with a smile of reproach; and yet he knew well enough they were not tears of sorrow.
"They will be to me what the rain has been to the night, Cornelius; a freshening dew."
I went up to the open window; I leaned my brow on the cool iron bar; the morning air came in pure, chill, and fragrant. I shivered slightly. Cornelius, who had followed me, saw this, and wanted to close the window.
"Do not," I said; "this cool, keen air is delightful. Then I like to watch the rising of that sun that thought to see you far on your journey, and that shall find you here. Besides, bow beautiful our little garden looks!"
"Then come out into it for awhile."
He took my arm. I yielded. We went down into the garden and paced its narrow gravel path without uttering a word. There came a slight shower; we stepped under the old poplar trees; they yielded more than sufficient shelter. The sun shone through the sparkling drops as they fell, and whilst the fresh rain came down, the birds overhead sang sweetly under the cover of young leafy boughs, as if their song could know no ending. Yes, sweet and near though I knew it to be, it sounded to me as coming from the depths of some dreamy forest far away. I do not think our garden had ever looked so fresh, so pleasant, or been so fragrant as when that shower ceased. The rain-clouds soft and grey, had melted into the vapoury blue of upper air; the warm sunshine tempered the coolness of the breeze, the green grass was white and heavy with the dew of night, and bright with the rain of the morning; the wet gravel sparkled, the dark trunks of the trees trickled slowly, the brown moss clung closer to the old sun- dial, the fresh earth smelt sweet, stock, mignionette, wall-flower, furze, and jessamine yielded their most fragrant odours. Rhododendrons beaten down by the last night's storm trailed on the earth their gorgeous masses, whilst sparkling fox-gloves, with a dew-drop to every flower, still rose straight and tall. We were again walking on. Cornelius suddenly stopped short, and for the first time spoke.
"Daisy," he said, earnestly, "you are quite sure, are you not?"
"Look at that flower," was my only reply.
It was a crimson peony, heavy with rain. I bent it slightly; from the delicate petals, from the heart which seemed untouched by a breath, there poured forth a bright shower of liquid dew.
"What about that flower, Daisy?"
"It is a peony, Cornelius."
"Let it."
"Well, I don't think you can prevent it from being one. Peonies will be peonies."
"Who wants to interfere with their rights? and what have peonies to do with our discourse, unless that you look very like one just now? Oh, Daisy! are you sure you like me well enough to marry me?"
"Don't think, if ever I do such a thing, it shall be for liking,Cornelius."
"What for, then?"
"To prevent you from marrying any one else."
He still looked uneasy, and yet he might have known that, though it is sometimes very hard to know where love is, it is always wonderfully easy to know where he is not.
"What would you have?" I asked, a little impatiently. "Is it the love, honour, and obey that troubles you? Well, I have loved you all my life, or very nearly. I honour you more than living creature; as for obedience, I could obey you all the day long, Cornelius."
"Do you mean to turn out a Griseldis?" he said, uneasily. "What put such ideas into your head?"
"Remembrance of the time—"
"I knew you would grow filial again," he interrupted, looking provoked, "instead of answering my question, which was—"
"Concerning your wife," I interrupted, in my turn; "what about her? She ought to be a proud woman, and it will be her own fault if she is not happy—ay, a very happy one."
He stroked my hair, and smiled quite pleased.
"I hope so," he said. "And yet you do not know what I mean to do for her, Daisy. I will paint her pictures that shall beat all the sonnets Petrarch ever sang to his Laura. I will win her fame and money: I will dress her as fine as any queen, until my field-flower shall outshine every flower of the garden. Above all, I will love her as knight of chivalry, or hero of romance, never loved his lady."
He spoke with jesting, yet very tender flattery. Love can take every tone, and bend any language to its own meaning.
I know not how long we lingered together in that garden. I was the first to become conscious of time.
"Where is Kate?" I asked.
"Forgotten," replied her low voice.
She stood beneath the ivied porch; her head a little inclined; one hand supporting her cheek. She looked down at us with a smile happy, yet not without sadness.
"Don't think I envy you the pleasant time," she resumed more gaily; "I like to see people enjoying themselves. When I meet couples in the lanes, I either get out of the way, or, if I cannot do that, I give them internally my benediction. 'Go on,' I think to myself, 'go on; you will never be happier, nor, perhaps, better than you are now. Go on.'"
"We want to go in," said Cornelius, as we ascended the steps.
As I passed by her, Kate arrested me by laying her hand on my shoulder, and saymg:
"Look at that child! She has not slept all night, and there is not a rose of the garden half so fresh. It's a nice thing to be young, Cornelius."
She sighed a little, then led the way in to the front parlour, where breakfast was waiting.
"Already!" said Cornelius.
"Yes, already," she replied, sitting down to pour out the tea: "whilst you were in the clouds, the world has gone on just the same. Midge, why don't you sit near him as usual? you are not ashamed of yourself, are you?"
Ashamed! Oh, no! There is no shame in happiness; and God alone knows how happy I felt then sitting by him whom I loved, and facing her whom I loved almost as well. I do not know how I looked, or Cornelius either; for I did not look at him; but I know that Kate was radiant; that every time her bright eyes rested on us, they sparkled like diamonds, and that it touched me to the heart to read the generous, unselfish joy painted on her handsome face.
We were no sooner alone, than with her habit of continuing aloud whatever secret train of thought she chanced to be engaged in, Miss O'Reilly said to me in her most positive manner:
"I am very glad of it."
"Are you, Kate?" I replied, passing my arm around her neck and kissing her.
"Yes, you coaxing little thing; for he is devotedly fond of you, and I believe you like him with your whole heart, though it took you so long to find it out. What would you and he have done without me."
"I don't know, Kate, but how came you to let him think of going?"
"Ah! he quite deceived me in that matter; I never dreamt of it until it was all settled. It was no use my telling him that if you only knew he liked you, you would be glad to have him, as indeed any girl in her senses would. He said you only liked him in a sisterly sort of way, and would be off. I thought I would find out when he was gone, what sort of a way it was, but I had not the trouble."
I smiled. She gave me a wistful look and said:
"Ah! you don't want to be his niece now, do you?"
"No, indeed," I promptly answered.
"And I don't wish it either," she replied with a stifled sigh, "time was when I fretted and repined; when I wished I had been the wife of Edward Burns, and that his child had been my child; but that is over. I am glad now that my heart was denied that which it craved so eagerly; that my youth was cold and lonely; that my sorrow which past, purchased him and you a happiness which will I trust endure. Oh, Daisy! this is a good world after all, and with a good God over it; don't you see how the grief of one is made to work the bliss of another; how because your father and I were severed, the two children we loved so dearly can be united?"
"I see, Kate," I replied looking up into her face, "that Cornelius is good; that I, too, am what is called a good girl, and yet that we are two selfish creatures; that you alone are truly good and noble."
She shook her head with humble denial.
"I am an idolator for all that," she replied, her lips trembling slightly, "and you are blind if you do not see it. When I lost my lover, I set my heart on a child—for what are we to do with our hearts, if we don't love with them?—and he has kept it, and if God, to chastise me, were to take him from me to-morrow, I feel I should love him as much in his grave as I do on earth. If it be a sin, I trust to His mercy to forgive it. Sometimes, when my heart fails me, I cling to the recollection of His humanity. He who felt so much tenderness for his dear mother; who loved His brethren so truly; who cherished the beloved disciple; who wept by the grave of Lazarus, will surely not be very severe on a poor woman to whose whole life he thought fit to grant but one delight and one happy love. Do you think he will, Daisy?"
I was too much moved to reply.
"Now, child," she said gaily, "don't cry, or Cornelius, whom I hear coming down after you, will think I have been scolding my future sister- in-law."
"And would you not have the right to do so?" I asked, kissing her with mingled tenderness and reverence.
As she returned the embrace, Cornelius entered, and from the threshold of the door, looked at us with a delighted smile.
How Mrs. Langton explained her conduct towards me, is more than I know; but it cannot have been to the dissatisfaction of Edward Thornton; for within two or three weeks they were married. They went to Italy on a matrimonial tour, and there they have resided ever since, leaving Mrs. Brand in happy and undisturbed possession of Poplar Lodge.
They thought not of us, and we thought not of them, nor of mortal creature, save Kate. The present effaced the past, and absorbed the future. Familiar affection may not have the romance and mystery of the passion which has given one soul and one heart to beings hitherto strangers; but it has a deeper tenderness and far more sacred purity. Love now sat with us at board and hearth; something unknown lingered at twilight-time in the shadow of the room, and morn and eve a charmed presence haunted every garden-path and bower.
Kate allowed us to dream away a few days, then suddenly startled us one evening, by saying quietly:
"Cornelius, when do you mean to write to Mr. Thornton?"
Cornelius started, and turned a little pale; my work dropped from my hands, and I sank back on my chair. Upon which he looked distracted, and seemed ready to quarrel with Kate for having started such an unwelcome subject.
"Nonsense!" she said gaily, "don't you see it is all right."
We looked at her, she smiled kindly.
"You have written to him?" anxiously observed Cornelius.
"I have seen him this very day. You need not open your eyes. What are railroads and express trains for? Why should I not go via Thornton House, and give a look to Rock Cottage; for I trust you do not mean to follow the foolish cockney fashion of associating your honeymoon with hotels and long bills. I shall never forget the impression I received, when Mr. Foster said to his wife with whom he ran away: 'Don't you remember, dear, how they cheated us at that Hotel des Etrangers?' 'Yes, dear,' she replied, 'but you know they were twice as bad at the H?tel d'Angleterre.' Poor things, it was ten years ago, but they had not forgotten it yet."
"Kate," interrupted Cornelius, "what about Mr. Thornton."
"Why nothing save that he seemed inclined to be merry, and said if he had reflected there was a woman in the case, he could have foretold at once what would become of the secret. Don't you see, you foolish fellow, that he only meant this as a bit of humiliation and punishment for you. But that if he did not want you to marry Daisy, he would not have allowed her to be here. For my part I like him, and did not find him so very grim. He showed me his books, instruments, and when I left, hoped he should see me again."
"That is more than he ever did for any one," I said astonished; "Kate, you have made a conquest."
She looked handsome enough for it, and so Cornelius told her. She laughed at us, and bade us mind our own business. More she did not say then, but it came out a few days later that Mr. Thornton had told her the sooner Cornelius and I were married, the better he would be pleased. As this was precisely the feeling of Cornelius and Kate, I yielded.
We were married very quietly one sunny summer morning; then we bade Kate adieu for a fortnight, which we were to spend in Rock Cottage. It was her darling wish that we should go there, and we gratified her.
I remember well how strangely I felt when we reached my old home, now ours. It was not a year since I had left it, but it seemed ages. Everywhere we found touching tokens of the recent presence of Kate, and of her thoughtful tenderness. The sun was setting; we watched it from the beach beneath the pine trees, and never—so at least it seemed to me, and it cannot have been a fancy of mine, for Cornelius said so too—never had the sun set more gloriously, or the sea looked more beautiful than on this the eve of our marriage day.
As in the visions of olden prophets, the cloudless heavens before us seemed to open, revealing depths of blazing light with long golden rays that, as they departed from the sun, grew paler until they faded into the deep evening blue. From the cliff whence we looked down, we saw the heavy billows of the sea rolling away towards the far horizon, and touched with a changing light that seemed both alive and burning.
The glowing heavens were still; the voice of the ocean was murmuring and low; the land breeze was silent, and thus, looking at the two vast solitudes of sea and sky, we forgot earth beneath and behind us, as we sometimes forget life in the contemplation of eternity. I do not think I ever felt existence less than I did then, though so near to him whom I yet loved with every faculty of my being. But there is in true happiness something sublime that raises the soul far beyond mortality.
If I felt anything in that hour, it was that the glorious ideal world which lay before us was not more lovely or more ideal than the new world which I now entered; and where in this life and the next, I hoped to dwell for ever with Cornelius. For to those who love purely, love is its own world, its own solitude, its own new created Eden, green and pleasant where they abide, a new born Adam and Eve, without the temptation and the fall, their hearts filled with tenderness, their souls overflowing with adoration.
I know at least that sitting thus by Cornelius, my hand in his, my eyes like his watching that broad, tranquil sun slowly going down to rest, I had never felt more deeply religious, more conscious of God in my heart. As the bright disk dipped in the long line of the cool looking sea, then sank rapidly, and at length vanished beneath the deep wave; as dark clouds advanced across the sky, and the beautiful vision was lost in the purple shadows of coming night, I felt that the earthly sun might set, but that within me dwelt the peace and loveliness of an eternal dawn.
When the chill sea breeze began to sweep down the coast, Cornelius made me rise. Through the green garden we walked back to the house. He stopped before the stone steps and said:
"It was here I found you lying eight years ago: do you remember, Daisy?"
"Yes, Cornelius, I was very wretched, very lonely when you came and sat down by me, took me in your arms, kissed me and consoled me."
"God bless you for having remembered it so long!"
"As if it were likely I should forget it! Cornelius, I do not think we have ever sat on those stone steps since that day; let us do so now, and talk of all that has happened since then."
We did so. It was the pure twilight hour, when earth and all she bears lie dark and sleeping beneath a vast clear sky, to which light seems to have retreated. For awhile we talked, but of its own accord speech soon sunk into silence. What we said I do not remember now; but I still remember how solemnly beautiful was that eve; how the calm moon rose behind the house and looked down at us from her lonely place above; how, as the sky darkened, it grew thick with stars; how the pine-trees bowed to the sea-breeze at the end of the garden; how the waves broke at the foot of the cliff with a low dash, pleasant to the ears, and how as I sat by Cornelius I felt I was no longer a poor orphan child, but a happy and loved woman; no longer an object of pity and sorrow, but the proud companion of his life, and the chosen wife of his heart.