We went down to the beach. A deep line of shade still extended at the
foot of the cliffs; the sky had not a cloud; the sea lay calm beneath; it
looked one of Nature's happy days. I said so to Cornelius, adding, in the
fulness of my joy, "How kind of Kate to tell you to take me!"
"Yes," he replied, wilfully misunderstanding me, "she always was a good
sister."
"Now, Cornelius, you know very well she did it to please me."
He smiled without looking at me.
"One to please you, Daisy, and a great deal more to please me. You will
ascertain it thus: state that D is to C in K's estimation, what 1 is to
_x_ in figures: then multiply by C (that's me) and divide by D (that's
you), and you will know all about it."
"I don't want to multiply by you and to divide by myself, to know why
Kate told you to take me."
"She's as obstinate as the other one," said Cornelius, stopping short to
look at me.
I replied, "Is she?" and we went on, until a promontory of steep rock
barred our passage.
"We must cross that," I said.
"Humph! Can you manage it, Daisy?"
"Can you, Cornelius?"
He told me I was very saucy. I laughed and ran up the rocks so fast, he
could scarcely overtake me. When we reached the highest peak, we stood
still, and thence looked down on a wild narrow spot below, shut in
between cliff and wave. Long ridges of sharp rocks, stretching out far
into the sea, and impassable when the tide was full, enclosed it on
either side. The cliffs at the back stood steep and perpendicular within
a few yards of the breaking surf, but the strata of earth that ran
through them in slant and undulating lines, gave them a distant and
receding aspect, which, like the glamour of enchantment, vanished with a
closer view; then they suddenly rose on the eye, near, stern, and
threatening. Undermined by the high spring tides, rocks had fallen from
above, and now lay thickly strewn about the beach, as if tossed there by
the sea in angry or sportive mood. From the deep gap thus made in the
cliff descended a narrow stream, which spread on a flat advancing ledge
of rock, fell again a wide and clear stream of sparkling water, into a
basin which itself had made, and thence glided away with a low splash and
faint murmur, through worn-out old stones green with slime, until it lost
itself for ever in the great rush of the wide waters.
We descended silently; when we stood within the enclosed space, Cornelius
said--
"Of all wild and barren spots this is the gem."
"It is sterile, Cornelius, and that is its beauty."
It was indeed a desolate place. Shell-fish in serried ranks, and weeds in
dark and slippery masses, clung to the sea-washed rocks. A few crabs and
shrimps had remained captive in the shallow pools of water, where they
waited the returning tide. Long algae, all wet and tangled, and light
feathery sprigs, delicate enough to be wreathed in the green hair of pale
mermaids, were strewn on the beach, but other tokens of life and
vegetation there were none. The sea breeze, which moaned along that wall
of rock and cliff, fanned and stirred not one blade of yellowish grass on
its way. Here ceased the freshness and verdure of earth; here began a
nature other than that of the poets, yet not without its own beauty,
contrasts, and harmonies.
"It is grand, but wonderfully dreary," said Cornelius, "let us go back,
Daisy."
"Not yet. Do you see that hollow nook perched up there between earth and
sky, close by the fountain?"
"Well, what about it?"
"There is a very fine prospect from it."
"How do you know?"
"I often go there."
"You!" he exclaimed, with an astonished look that amused me, "and pray
how do you get there?"
"Look!"
I sprang up a steep path in the rock; every step of it was familiar to
me; I had reached the hollow, and was laughing down at Cornelius, before
he recovered from his amazement. He followed me lightly, but chid me all
the way.
"What could tempt you to do such a mad thing and to come to such an eyrie
as this?" he asked as he stood by me in the wide hollow and under the
broad shelter of an overhanging rock.
"Look at that glorious prospect, Cornelius," I replied, sitting down and
making him sit down by me.
I remember well both the day and the spot. The blue sky, the sea of a
blue still more deep, the yellow beach, the brown wall of rock, gave back
the same ardent glow; the place seemed enchanted into the quietness of
noon, save when some solitary raven suddenly left a cleft in the rock
and, descending with a swoop, hovered a black speck over the beach in
search of prey. We sat pleasantly within reach of the cool spray of the
spring; a breeze from above brought us the sweet scent of unseen fields
of gorse in bloom; below us the sea boiled in white and angry surf
amongst the rocks, and thence spread away in seemingly unbroken
smoothness, until it met and mingled with the distant horizon.
"What do you think of my eyrie, Cornelius?" I said, after a long pause.
"So you come here often?" was his reply.
"Yes, very often."
"What can attract you to such a wild spot?"
"Its wildness."
He looked me in the face and smiled. I resumed--
"I was born by the sea, Cornelius, and I love it, ay, very dearly; this
barren spot seems pleasanter to me than any sunny landscape. I could
listen for hours to the wind sweeping down the coast and the dash of the
heaving waves. Could not you?"
"No," he answered, frankly, "sea-side is to me the grand historic style
of nature. I like the calm, homely woodlands and quiet valleys."
"Yes, but you are going to sketch that little fall of water?"
"Am I?"
"For what else did I bring you to see it? Let me go down first, and take
my hand."
I held it out to him; he tossed it back to me with a laugh.
"Do you imagine I want it?" he asked, looking piqued; "I have gone
sketching in mountain-passes where there were paths more steep than in
any English Leigh, let me tell you."
He insisted on preceding me. It amazed me to see how he kept looking
back, looking to my steps. He reached the bottom first, and stood still
to receive me. Spite of his remonstrative "Daisy!" I ran down the rest of
the way. I paused on reaching the last ledge, and standing a little above
him, I uttered a triumphant "There!" then lightly stepped down to where
he stood.
"Yes," he replied admiringly, "I see: your head is steady, your foot as
light and sure as that of any mountain maid. Ah! if I had but had you for
a companion, when I was sketching alone in the Alps!"
"Will you have me now, and though these are not the Alps, sketch."
He sat down on one of the fallen rocks, opened his sketch-book, and began
to draw the little fountain and the stern crags around. I sat by him to
watch his progress; he made little; he was ever looking round at me, and
breaking off into speech that had nothing to do with sketching.
"How old are you?" he once asked.
"Seventeen; ten years younger than you are."
He resumed his task, but his pencil was soon idle again; his eyes once
more sought my face.
"Am I too near?" said I, "shall I sit behind?"
"No, indeed."
"What are you thinking of?"
"I am thinking that it is getting very hot."
His look sought the downs above. I said, I knew green nooks such as he
would like. So we wound our way up the heights, and were soon in the open
country. The scenery around Leigh was soft, woodland, pastoral, and no
more. Yet Cornelius seemed to like those green slopes, fertile fields,
and wide pastures; those shallow valleys, white homesteads, and fragrant
orchards looking down from above, with now and then, in the open space
between the dark outskirt of low woodland, and the golden green of sunlit
scope opposite, a glimpse of azure hills melting soft and indistinct on
the far horizon. But though he confessed it was very pretty, he found
nothing to sketch.
"Let me take you to an old ruin further on," I said, zealously, "it is so
picturesque!"
"How much further on, Daisy?"
"Only three or four miles."
"A mere trifle! but suppose we stay here?"
We stood in a hollow, sheltered by a few stunted trees.
"There is nothing to sketch here," I said.
"So much the better; I want rest."
"Then I know of a better resting-place close by."
He submitted to my guidance, and I led him into an open plain, exposed to
all the heat of a burning sun.
"Why, Daisy," said Cornelius, looking round, "what made you come here?
There is not a hedge: no, not so much as a poor little bush. Let us go
back."
I pointed to a group of trees, partly hidden by a rising of the ground.
"It is there," I said.
He gave a look of regret to the shady hollow we were leaving behind us,
and followed me over the scorching plain. At length the group of trees
was reached. I entered it first; then, as he followed, I turned round and
looked to enjoy his surprise, for we now stood on the grassy banks of the
clear little stream which passed through Leigh; trees flung their shadow
above; waters flowed beneath; silence and freshness filled the whole
place.
"Well!" I said triumphantly.
"Well," he replied, "it is a pleasant place, that is true enough."
And he threw himself down on the grass with evident delight. It was a
pleasant place. Many a day has passed since I beheld it; yet if I but
close my eyes with my hand over them, I seem to see it again as I saw it
then on that summer noon, when I went out walking with Cornelius.
It had the first charm which such a spot need have--perfect solitude. You
might sit or linger for hours, unheeded and undisturbed in that green
nook, shut in between the dark mass of trees which separated it from the
open country, and the stream on which their heavy shadow ever fell.
Beyond extended a wide and ancient park, a wild-looking desert of dark
heath and high green fern, with sombre groups of trees that seemed the
vanguards of aged forests, and paths deepening down like Alpine dells and
ravines. I took off my bonnet and scarf, and fastening them to the
bending branch of an old, hoary willow, I sat down by Cornelius. The
sandwiches were produced, and done full justice to; but when the repast
was over, Cornelius exclaimed--
"Kate might as well have given us a stone or osier bottle of some sort.
We have nothing to drink."
"Nothing! why there is a whole river."
"Water!" he replied with a slight grimace; "but how are we to get at even
that?"
I did not answer, but clasping the trunk of the willow with one arm, I
bent over the stream to dip my other hand into it. With a start of alarm
Cornelius held me back.
"That river, as you call it, is deep and swift, Daisy. How can you be so
imprudent?"
"There is no danger where there is no fear. Unless that willow-tree
breaks I am safe."
He persisted however in holding me fast with his arm passed around me, as
I stooped again, and brought forth my hand full of water, as clear and
sparkling as crystal.
"Look!" I said, "and tell me if you ever saw such water, even in Italy?"
"The true test lies in the taste."
He raised my hand to his lips, drank the little it contained, then said
with a smile--
"Rather a shallow cup, Daisy."
"Well, but did you ever taste such water?"
"Never--it is as exquisite--"
"I told you so."
"As exquisite as water can be, which is not saying much."
Necessity however compelled him to have more of it; he brought it up
himself, for he positively refused to let me try again. Our meal being
now fairly over, I wanted him to indulge in a siesta, a habit which he
acknowledged having taken during the hot noons of Italy; but he would
not.
"I do not feel in the least inclined for it, Daisy; pleasant though it
may be to sleep away here an hour or two, I fancy it must be more
pleasant still to lie awake and dream."
It was indeed the very place for day-dreams. It lay in a gentle curve of
the stream, and far as the eye might look it could see above nothing but
the overhanging branches of old and majestic trees, with sudden glimpses
of bright blue sky, and below the same trees and sky ever imaged again in
glassy depths. The reflection was so distinct and vivid that the water
almost seemed to flow between two forest solitudes, one above the other
beneath the wave, but both beautiful, wild, and lonely, and yielding the
same delightful sense of coolness which shade and water always give.
In the park beyond the sun shone with burning heat, and even the blue sky
had caught a golden glow; but here the breeze was pleasantly chill, the
trees sheltered us from its strength, and left us all its vivifying
freshness. It came every now and then, sending through my veins a thrill
of vague delight, for earth has many sounds and murmuring voices which
are to me a part of her beauty, and it woke them every one. The rustling
of leaves in the trees above blended with the faint ripple of the flowing
waters below; birds broke forth into snatches of song, or flew away with
flapping of wings; then there were strange undefined sounds of short
twittering, low monotonous hum, and sudden splash mingling into nothing
continuous, ever interrupted and ever renewed, faint, indistinct, but
soft and soothing as a dream.
And as I sat at the foot of the old willow, half bending forward and
looking at the stream which flowed almost beneath me, so steep was the
bank, and so near the edge did I sit, I felt as if its scarcely audible
murmur, as if its scarcely visible flow, were slowly wrapping me in a
dream of bliss. I was steeped in happiness; it was sweet, it was
delightful to know that Cornelius was come back, that he was sitting
there by me. I did not look at him; there was no need. Besides, strangely
enough, it seemed more pleasant by far to feel his presence in my heart,
than to gaze on him for hours with my eyes. He had been two long years
away--severed by the sea, by Alps, by strange skies, strange lands,
strange languages, and now, if I wished, I had but to put forth my hand
to touch him as he sat by me beneath the same shade, gazing on the same
clear brook. How he felt I know not; but I know that gradually my reverie
deepened, until at length external objects seemed to fade away, and I
remained sitting there gazing at the dark water, and fully conscious but
of two things--the presence of Cornelius, and the low gliding of the
stream. Happy day!--happy moments! I felt as if I could have sat there,
even as the waters flowed--for ever.
The sound of a tramp, swift and light, on the heath of the park, made me
look up; a herd of deer, with heads erect and startled looks, were
floating past like a vision. They vanished down a beaten track leading to
some favourite haunt. I looked at Cornelius, and smiled; but he had
heard, he had seen nothing. He sat by me on the grassy bank, half-leaning
on one elbow; his brow rested on the palm of his hand; his dark and heavy
hair partly shaded his face. I followed the direction of his glance; it
was fixed on the stream, not with abstracted or dreamy gaze, but as if
beholding something there that charmed attention irresistibly. I looked
down rather curiously, and saw nothing, save my own face reflected in the
placid wave, and seeming, Oread-like to bend forth from a background of
dark foliage. He detected my change of attitude, for he looked up
immediately. I laughed, and said--
"I know what you were doing, Cornelius."
He did not answer.
"You were studying 'effects' again."
"Precisely," he replied, smiling; "effects of light and shadow."
"Are you always studying effects, Cornelius?"
"Whenever I can get them. To look is the delight, ay, the very life, of
an artist."
The words awoke within me a train of thoughts that made my heart beat and
my blood flow with a warmer glow. I could not keep silent. I looked up
and said--
"Oh! Cornelius, what a great painter you will yet be! How much fame and
honour await you! Well, why do you smile so?" I added, somewhat annoyed:
"is it not true?"
"Because, as you speak, your cheeks flush, and your eyes kindle. You look
like a young sybil just now, Daisy."
"A sybil in white muslin!" I replied, laughing in his face; but
remembering how disrespectful this was, I became suddenly grave again. He
seemed anything but offended, and listened like one whose ear has caught
a pleasant sound.
"Do you know," he said, "I think this is the first time I ever heard you
laugh outright. I remember your smile, but not your laugh. Oh, Daisy, are
you sure you are the same? When I hear your voice, I think of my pale,
sickly child. When I look, I am perplexed to see a tall, slender girl--
fair as a lily, fresh as a rose, demure as a young Quakeress, yet who
looks kindly at me, like an old acquaintance. Speak!--say something that
will throw a sort of bridge from the past to the present."
"The only bridge I can give you is, that you have been two years away;
that I am now always well, instead of being always ill; and that, as I
began at the wrong end, by being dull as a child, I now mean to make up
for the lost time by being as merry and as mad as I can."
"How old are you?"
"You have already asked me. Subtract ten years from your own age and you
will know."
"What is ten years?"
"A mere trifle, like the walk awhile ago."
"Then in another year you will be eighteen."
"And you twenty-eight."
"You are very tenacious of that ten years' difference," he said a little
impatiently. "What is age--any one's age? I don't care about yours; all I
care about," he said smiling, "is to find you so changed from what you
were."
"In one or two things I certainly am changed, as you will perceive, if
you close your eyes and promise not to look."
"Why so?"
I would not tell him, so he complied, looking rather curious. I rose so
softly that he could not hear me; the stream was neither wide nor deep;
besides at this spot it suddenly grew narrower; I lightly sprang over; as
I alighted safely I said--
"You may look now."
He turned pale on seeing me on the other bank.
"Daisy," he cried, "how could you do such a thing!"
"Could you not do it, Cornelius? it really is not so difficult. Try."
He refused, and said he was very angry. I laughed.
"No, Cornelius," I said, "I see in your face you are only surprised. I
mean to astonish you still more; you said you had never heard me laugh, I
am at least certain that you never heard me sing. Pray open your ears,
for I mean to sing you a song."
I sat down in the high ferns, so high that they almost hid me, and I sang
him the song of her who loved the lad at the sign of the Blue Bell. He
heard me, his chin in his hand, his look on my face; seeing me so
fearless, his own uneasiness had vanished.
"Well!" I said.
"Well," he replied, smiling, "it is as wild and sweet a ditty and as
pleasant a voice as one need wish to hear on a summer noon. Sing me
something else."
"No, it is your turn now."
He lay down at the foot of the willow, and in his clear rich voice, he
sang me that pleasant song of Burns--it had always been a favourite of
his--of which the burden is 'Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the birks of
Aberfeldy?'
I listened, thinking how delightful it was to hear that voice again. When
its last tones had died away, I thanked him, and said--
"This is not Aberfeldy, but we have the birks."
"And the bonnie lassie too."
"To be sure; but will you just move a bit?"
"Why so?"
"I want to get back again, and the spot where you are lying is the only
convenient one."
"Thank you for the information. I was wondering what sort of punishment I
could devise for you: it is now settled; you shall stay there."
"And be taken up for trespassing?"
"Why not?"
"Or for poaching?"
"Why not?"
At length he relented, but said I was to sing him another song; then
another, and so on, until I had sung him every song and ballad I knew.
The intervals of rest were filled up with talking, laughing, and jesting
at one another across the stream. I had never felt so merry, seldom so
happy; yet once I could not help observing remorsefully--
"And Kate, who is alone at home, and thinks you are so busy sketching!"
"Why did she make me take you with me?"
"Do I prevent you from sketching, Cornelius?"
"Of course you do; but for you I should have travelled for miles, and
come home at night groaning beneath the load of crags, lonely fountains,
cottages, farm-houses, snug little woods, ruins, etc. Instead of which,
here I am lying on my back, looking up at trees and sky, and losing all
my precious time in listening to 'Auld Robin Gray,' 'The Exile of Erin,'
'Charlie, you're my darling,' and I know not what else. Oh, Daisy, Daisy!
are you not ashamed of yourself?--sing me another song."
"Indeed, Cornelius, I do not know another."
"Then I must have mercy on you."
He moved away, but kept a keen, watchful look fastened on me. There was
however no need to fear. In a second I was by his side. He chid me for
form's sake, then smiled, stroked my hair, and passing his arm around me,
said--
"The other one could not have done as much, could she, Daisy?"
"What other one, Cornelius?"
"The one I carried in my arms from Leigh to Ryde."
"No, Cornelius, she could not, and that was why Providence sent her so
kind a friend."
I forget his answer, but I remember that we sat again on the grassy banks
and lingered there until the little brook shone red and burning in the
light of the broad round sun that slowly sank down behind us, filling
with fiery glow the space between earth and sky.
Oh! surely it was a lovely thought in the worshippers of southern lands,
to link an act of prayer with the close of day and the setting of the
sun. If ever there was an hour for thanksgiving, praise, and adoration,
it was this. When should we, poor travellers towards the dark goal of
time, find fitter moment to pause, take breath after the journeying of
another day, and give a look back to the past, a hope to the future, an
aspiration to heaven? At that moment meet, to part almost as soon as met,
the splendour and beauty of the day and the soothing solemnity of eve. We
can give thanks at once for the gladness that is going, and for the
silent rest of coming night. It is the very time for intense and brief
worship; for aspiration purer than prayer; for the _Sursum corda_. I did
raise my heart in that hour. Was the word too earthly? I know not; God
who gave us hearts that love so warmly alone can tell; but as I sat there
by Cornelius, my head, in attitude familiar of old, resting on his
shoulder, I thanked Him who had given him to me, for the gift, and
blessed Him who had sent him back for the return.
At length we rose, and left the spot where half a day had passed in
enjoyment so pure. We followed a green path where we met, and soon
outstripped a friendly couple whom we left, slowly lingering in the cool
shadow of the winding lane. They looked like lovers, or a newly married
pair--young, happy, oblivious of time, and heeding not the passing of
hours. Cornelius gave them a stealthy look, and repressed a half smile. I
smiled without disguise, for in the gladness of my heart I thought--"the
lady may be fair, and the lover may be devoted, but she cannot be more
happy than I am now--to feel within mine the arm of Cornelius; and sure
am I, that he whom she seems to like so well, is not half so good, ay,
nor half so handsome, as he who reared me."
And thus, arm-in-arm, we walked on through landscape scenes that would
have gladdened the genial heart of Rubens. The warmth of the setting sun,
the rich verdure of the undulating plains, the herds of fair cattle
grazing by the green banks and full waters of a calm river, made one feel
as if gazing on a land of untroubled peace and untold abundance.
But, oh! how glorious o'er the sea, was the hour thus beautiful on land.
We reached the extremity of the downs as the sun began to dip in the
broad ocean. Blue, green, purple, and burning gold glanced through every
wave; the receding coast slowly vanished through glittering mists; the
masts of distant ships rose on the golden horizon like the turreted
castle of some enchanted region. As we descended a winding path that
gently led to the beach, the sun set and the glorious pageantry suddenly
vanished. The first pale stars glittered from the depths of the grey sky;
the sea looked of a darker and colder blue, and returned to her
fathomless bed with a faint murmur; a chill breeze rose, swept along the
coast, then died away again; on all things silence set, and the high arch
of heaven rose deep and solemn over the plain of the receding sea. Oh!
brief life of ours, how beautiful is thy dwelling-place! How deeply did I
then feel in my heart, the presence of that Great Spirit which broods
over and hallows all it has given to the eye of man to scan!
We silently walked homeward along the beach, now grey, quiet, and lonely.
A low, large moon hung over the silent downs, from which even the
melancholy cry of the plover had died away. Everything seemed subdued to
repose, and even in the low rush of the breaking waves, as they rose and
fell ever again on the shore, there was a murmur inexpressibly soft and
soothing to the ear. We did not speak until we reached the foot of the
cliff on which Rock Cottage rose. A light burned in one of the windows
and spoke of pleasant welcome. Cornelius looked up and said--
"It is a wild-looking place, quite an eagle's nest, and yet there is a
strange sense of home about it."
We went up the path, and found the little wooden gate unlocked as usual.
Miss O'Reilly came out to meet us, with a shawl thrown over her head. She
seized on her brother; I slipped away to my room. When I came down again,
in the grey dress after all, I found Kate presiding over a tea-table
covered with provisions sufficient for a whole legion of famished
travellers, and Cornelius laughing at the extent of her preparations.
When the meal was over she took up his sketch-book.
"Oh, Kate!" I cried, "don't look--it is such a shame--he would not sketch
at all; he began the little fountain and did not even finish it. Is it
not too bad?"
She sat with the open sketch-book on her lap, but looking at us with a
pleased, happy smile.
"Yes," she said at length, "it is a shame--but he will do better to-
morrow."
"Must we go out again to-morrow, Kate?" I asked, a little hesitatingly.
"To be sure you must--that is, if you both liked it to-day well enough to
wish to begin again."
I sat by him--he looked down--I looked up, and we exchanged a conscious
smile.
"Yes," he said, laying his hand on my head; "I think we both found it a
pleasant day."
"Delightful, Cornelius, delightful!" I exclaimed, with a warmth that made
Kate smile, brought a transient glow to his brow, and won me a tacit and
quiet pressure of the hand that was free. I only spoke as I felt.
Pleasant days I had known before and was to know again, but none in
which, oblivious of the past and heedless of the future, I surrendered
myself so freely to the charm of the present time. I laid it all to the
return of Cornelius. I had yet to learn from experience that this
singleness of enjoyment, this simplicity in receiving happiness, belong
almost exclusively to the pleasant season of youth, and--pity that it
should be so--only to its first fresh untroubled hours, before the coming
of grief or the wakening of passion.