To reach Thornton House, we had to follow the windings of the stream for
some time; cross a one-arched bridge that spanned it, then enter the
solitary path that led to the old lodge and iron gate. We had not far to
go, but my heart seemed to sink with every step I took; as I perceived
the dark trees of the park rising before us, a sudden faintness seized
me. I stopped short, and laying my head on the shoulder of Cornelius, I
said:
"Let me cry before you give me up, Cornelius; let me cry--or my heart
will break."
"I give you up!" he echoed, his eyes kindling, "no mortal man shall make
me do that, Daisy. I shall redeem my word by taking you to your
grandfather; but from the moment I leave Thornton House, my mind shall
have but one thought, my will but one aim: to get you back."
Struck with his defiant tone, I raised my head, and checking my tears,
drew back to see him better. He met my look firmly.
"It is fair play," he said, "so long as you are mine, I will not break my
pledge by breathing a word to keep or secure you--even with you for the
stakes, I would scorn to cheat--but once he fancies you his, I say you
are mine, to win if I can. He may guard you as jealously as ever a Turk
his Sultana--I shall still outwit and defy him--cost me what it will--
come what may--I will have you back again."
A slight frown knit his brow; his brown eyes were bent on me, with a look
both ardent and resolute; there was will and confidence in the smile
which curled his lip, and power and daring in his mien.
"Cornelius," I said a little startled, "how will you do it?"
"Leave that to me, Daisy."
"Then, if this is no parting after all," I observed rather perplexed,
"why were you so grieved, and why have you let me grieve, Cornelius?"
His face fell. He sighed profoundly.
"Why?" he said, "why? because, alas! my own will cannot do all. Oh,
Daisy! I dread you. I dread you deeply! What avails it to me that I may
prevail against others, when with a word you can render me powerless?"
He gave me a look of mingled anxiety and doubt. I wanted him to explain
himself; but he would not go beyond saying that on me it all depended; an
assertion which he repeated with a sigh. I believed him, and passed from
grief to sudden gladness.
"Then consider it settled," I said laughing joyously. "I am not leaving
you, Cornelius. I am going on a week's visit or so to my good grandpapa.
Tell Johnstone to send me only the little black trunk, but to put my work
in it. I want to have it ready for Kate."
We were standing in the path. Cornelius looked down, with a fond yet
troubled smile, into my upraised face.
"Go on!" he observed, "it sounds too delightful to be true. It is but a
dream which the first rude touch of reality will dispel; and yet I like
to delude myself and listen; go on!"
I did go on, laughing at his credulity.
"You must write to Kate," I observed, "and tell her that you are waiting
for me. I shall not keep you long; just a week for form's sake."
"God grant it," he replied fervently; and we resumed our walk.
We found Thornton House as gloomy and neglected as ever. The court was
overgrown with grass and weeds; the fountain was still a ruin; the ivy
grew thick and dark on the walls, and the yews and cypresses behind only
looked more sombre and melancholy for rising, as they did now, in the gay
sunlight.
When Cornelius knocked at the door, I seemed to expect that the little
servant would again open and attempt to oppose our entrance; but, in her
stead, a tall, straight housemaid appeared in the gloomy aperture; and,
on hearing the name of Cornelius, showed us at once into the same room
where, seven years before, we had been ushered by her predecessor. And
there, too, surrounded by his books, his papers, maps, globes, stuffed
animals, insects, geological specimens, shells, and scientific
instruments, we found my grandfather, seated in his arm-chair and
unchanged, save for a few more wrinkles.
Mr. Thornton received us with abrupt courtesy. When the preliminary
greetings had been exchanged, he gave me a sharp look, and startled me
with the remark addressed to Cornelius--
"They are not at all alike."
Implying, I supposed, that my former and my present self were two
individuals.
"Not at all," replied Cornelius, who had the faculty of entering at once
into the peculiarities of those with whom he conversed.
"Of course you are sure it is the right one," suggested Mr. Thornton.
"Quite sure."
"She has grown," was the next observation of my grandfather; as if the
fact astonished him.
Cornelius did not answer. My heart sank to see him rise; he laid his hand
on my arm, and said gravely--
"Sir, four years ago, I pledged my word that whenever you wished for this
young girl, you should have her. Here she is. I have kept my word."
"And mean to keep it still?" hinted Mr. Thornton, darting a quick and
piercing look from me to him.
Cornelius reddened, and replied shortly--
"It is kept, Sir."
"And the future may shift for itself. Humph! Well, I suppose you are glad
enough to be rid of her! I remember you found her in the way four years
ago. So, fancying she would still be more inconvenient as she grew up, I
thought I would relieve you from her altogether."
He spoke with ironical politeness. Cornelius gave him a defiant look--
which Mr. Thornton received with evident amusement--then he turned to me,
glanced at me significantly, pressed my hand, bade me a quiet adieu,
bowed haughtily to my grandfather, and was gone. I felt confident that
this parting was but to lead to a pleasanter reunion, and yet life is so
uncertain--its unhappy chances so often outweigh the more fortunate, that
I grew sad, spite of all my confident hopes.
"Humph!" said Mr. Thornton, looking at me from under his shaggy eyebrows.
"Don't you want to go up to your room?" he added, abruptly.
"I should like it," I replied, not much pleased with his manner.
He rang. A tall, straight housemaid appeared.
"Marks!" said Mr. Thornton, briefly.
"Please, Sir!"
"Mrs. Marks, you fool! Well, why do you stare?"
"I want to know what about Mrs. Marks, Sir."
"Tell her to come, of course."
The girl never moved. He asked, impatiently:
"What are you waiting for, creature?"
"Please, Sir, Mrs. Marks will not come."
"She will not come!"
"No, Sir; she has just had her luncheon. Mrs. Marks never stirs after her
luncheon."
She spoke confidently. Mr. Thornton reclined back in his chair, uttered
an amazed "Ah!" but, recovering himself, he said, with great suavity:
"Charlotte, be so good as to give my compliments to Mrs. Marks, and say
that I shall feel indebted to her if she will favour me with her company
for a few minutes, now," he added, with some stress.
Charlotte shook her head sceptically; but she obeyed, and proved more
successful than she had anticipated, for, ere long, the door again
opened, and admitted Mrs. Marks. In dress and appearance, she looked
exactly the same as seven years before.
"Mrs. Marks," said Mr. Thornton, with great politeness, "will you have
the kindness to show Miss Burns, my grand-daughter, to her room?"
Mrs. Marks gave me a look of her cold, fishy eye, and said, "Yes, Sir,"
in a tone of ice.
I saw she remembered me with no pleasant feelings. I followed her out of
the study, determined that both she and my grandfather should learn I was
no longer a child. She took me to a room on the first floor, large, but
plainly furnished, and informed me "this was my apartment."
"Thank you," I replied, quietly; "but it is too gloomy. I prefer the room
I had formerly."
Mrs. Marks did not understand. Mrs. Marks was in a state of obliviousness
concerning all that had passed before this day. Mrs. Marks knew Miss
Burns, the grand-daughter of Mr. Thornton; of the obstinate little girl
whom she had called Burns, Mrs. Marks had no recollection, nor of
anything concerning her. Without heeding this, I described to her so
minutely the locality of my old apartment, that she could not feign
ignorance; but when, in answer to her objection that it was "quite
empty," I civilly requested her to cause the furniture around me to be
removed to it as soon as possible, Mrs. Marks looked figuratively knocked
down. I left her in that prostrate condition, to go down and speak to my
grandfather.
I could not understand why he had so suddenly claimed me, and what he
wanted with me. He did not look as if he liked me a bit better than
formerly; certainly not as if inclined to make me "the charm of his home,
and the delight of his heart and eyes." "There is something in it," I
thought. "Cornelius may fancy that every body is as fond of me as he is,
and look for no other motive; but I am sure there is, and I must find it
out, if it were only to help him in his mysterious design."
I knocked at the door of the study, and, receiving no answer, opened it
and looked in. My grandfather never raised his eyes from his book.
Unwilling to disturb him, I entered quietly, and, without speaking, sat
down by the window. It was a broad, arched casement, partly veiled with
ivy hanging down from above, and facing a magnificent avenue of beech
trees that stretched far on into the park. They communicated some of
their solemn gloom to the apartment; and the contrast of that green
woodland aspect with the dusty tomes and air of venerable learning
within; of that solitary look out, and of the quiet, white-headed figure
bending so intently over its open volume, struck me. "There is a pretty
picture for Cornelius," I thought. "I must bear every detail of it in my
mind's eye to tell him when we meet." The contrast recalled me to the
object of my presence in my grandfather's apartment. I coughed gently;
Mr. Thornton started, looked up, and said, "Ah!" with evident
astonishment. I looked at him quietly.
"Well!" he ejaculated.
"Yes," I replied.
"Yes what?" he asked, impatiently.
I thought I might have asked, "Well what?" with as much reason; but I
merely said:
"Yes, Sir, I am here."
"What for?"
"To speak to you, if you please."
"What about?"
"Is there any lady in the house besides myself?"
"No."
"Is there to be?"
"No."
"Am I to keep house?"
"Mrs. Marks is my housekeeper."
"Then what am I to do?"
"Nothing."
This was not encouraging; but I persisted.
"Then there is nothing for me to do?"
"Nothing."
"Are you quite sure?" I asked, earnestly.
He gave me a surprised look. I continued:
"Are you quite sure I cannot be of any use to you, Sir?"
"Of none," was his somewhat contemptuous reply.
"Well then," I rejoined, with great alacrity, "as I am not to keep house,
not to do anything, don't you think, Sir, you had better send me back to
Mr. and Miss O'Reilly? You know," I added, impressively, "that I must be
of some expense to you here, whereas with them, I should cost you nothing
at all; and, though it was very kind of you to think of me, I assure you
they did not find me in the way."
My grandfather drew in a long breath, and, folding his arms, looked at me
from head to foot.
"So you are not an hour here, and you already want to be off," he said.
"But since you don't want me--" I remonstrated.
"I beg your pardon--I do want you," he replied, with ironical politeness;
"and the proof I do want you, is, that I have taken the trouble of
procuring you, and that I mean to keep you."
He spoke as if I were a piece of furniture. I felt very indignant, and
reddening, asked:
"May I know, Sir, what you want me for?"
"No," was the laconic and decisive reply.
"Am I to stay here whether I like or not?"
"Precisely."
"I shall appeal to Mr. O'Reilly," I exclaimed indignantly.
"The law does not recognise Mr. O'Reilly," composedly answered Mr.
Thornton; "he is nothing to you, not even your guardian. I am your
grandfather; and the law," he added, giving me an emphatic look,
"recognizes me and my power until you are of age."
He seemed to think this sufficient, and again bent over his book. His
last words had sunk on my heart like lead. Was it true? could it be true?
Did the law give so much power to Mr. Thornton? and, provided he did not
ill-use me, would it make me for four years the captive of his pleasure?
Could Cornelius really deliver me from this bondage, or, as I began to
fear, had he deceived himself, and deceived me? I repented having spoken
so openly to Mr. Thornton: and hoping to repair this error, and
conciliate him by a more submissive behaviour, I lingered in the study,
and took up one of the dusty old volumes scattered everywhere around me.
It was a Latin work, but an English treatise on mineralogy had been bound
up with it; and this I began reading, or rather I attempted to read. My
eyes ever kept wandering from the page down the avenue before me. From
its direction, I was sure it led to that quiet stream by which Cornelius
and I had sat that same day. In thought I leave the room, hurry down the
avenue; the stream is crossed. I follow silent lanes, and traverse lonely
fields; a quiet path brings me to Rock Cottage; the garden gate is open;
the door stands ajar; I look in; Cornelius is sitting with his back
turned to me; I utter his name; he looks round.
The sound of the key turning in the lock, woke me from my happy dream. I
looked up; Mr. Thornton's chair was vacant; I ran to the door; it
resisted my efforts; my grandfather, forgetting, I suppose, my presence,
had locked me in. I looked for means of egress, and saw none but the
window. I remained patient for about a quarter of an hour; but perceiving
that Mr. Thornton did not return, and, from the fact of being shut in,
feeling of course the most eager desire to get out, I opened the window,
and stepping on the sill, prepared to jump down; it was higher from the
ground than I had expected; I looked and hesitated a little.
"Allow me to assist you," said a very pleasant voice.
I looked round, and saw standing by the window a handsome, gentlemanly
man of thirty-five or thereabouts. He had light brown hair, a delicate
moustache of the same hue, very fine blue eyes, and a classical profile.
As he stood before me, politely offering me his hand to assist my
descent, yet scarcely able to repress a smile at my predicament, I
fancied I recognized in him the "young Mr. Thornton" I had formerly
mistaken for Cornelius. I could not retreat; it would have looked foolish
to refuse; so I accepted his assistance, and, as I alighted, said
explanatorily:
"My grandfather, I mean Mr. Thornton, had forgotten I was there, and
locked me in."
"Miss Burns!" he said smiling, "I guessed as much."
I gave him a look implying, "Who are you?"
"Your cousin Edward Thornton," he answered bowing.
"I thought so;" I replied gravely, "I remember letting you in by the
side-door."
"And I have been so fortunate as to help to let you out through the
window."
I laughed at the turn our discourse was taking. There was a well-bred
ease in his manner, sufficient of itself to banish all shyness.
"My dilemma," he said quietly, "is very different from yours, Miss Burns;
I am in the same unfortunate position, in which you found me seven years
ago: I cannot get in. I have tried three doors--in vain."
"Here is a fourth," I replied pointing to a low side-door. He knocked
against it with his cane, but received no reply.
"Decidedly," gravely observed Edward Thornton, "the place is enchanted.
As old Spenser would say:
'There reigns a solemn silence over all;
Nor voice is heard--'"
Here he broke down in the quotation; I ventured to suggest the rest:
"--nor wight is seen in bower or hall."
"Thank you," he said, with a gracious inclination of his handsome head.
"You like Spenser?" he added, resuming the task of tapping against the
door with the end of his elegant cane.
"Yes," I answered, "and you?"
He turned round to give me a surprised look of his fine blue eyes, but he
quietly replied:
"Yes, I admire Spenser very much."
He was at the door again, and this time he condescended to apply to it
the heel of a very handsome, aristocratic foot, when a thin, high voice
behind us observed:
"This way, Edward; I have found means of entering, but I never saw a more
barbarous place, never."
We both looked round; a lady of middle age, very slender, and attired in
pale blue bar?ge, a white lace cloak and a tulle bonnet, over which she
balanced a delicate white parasol, was advancing towards us with mincing
steps. I fancied I recognised Mrs. Brand, and I was not mistaken.
"Have you found no one?" asked her brother.
"I have found an idiotic house-maid, and an old goblin housekeeper, from
neither of whom could I extract anything, save that Mr. Thornton never so
much as hinted we were coming; but that, as our carriage entered the
avenue, he was seen to rush from the study, and vanish down the park.
Gracious, very!"
"Characteristic," said Edward Thornton, smiling with languid grace.
"My dear Edward," solemnly observed his sister, "are you aware that there
are no beds ready, or indeed, in existence, and that Marks--I believe
that is her name--declares there is not a pound of meat in the house."
Edward Thornton's handsome face lengthened visibly.
"Really," he said, "really!"
"I do not mind it," continued Mrs. Brand; "but I am ashamed at the slur
cast on our national hospitality. It is one of those things which, if
related to me, I should have dismissed with the reply: 'Absurd--not
English--absurd!' I am now compelled to acknowledge it as a melancholy
fact, from which I cannot help drawing certain conclusions."
"Perhaps Miss Burns can enlighten us concerning the domestic arrangements
of our eccentric relative," observed Mr. Thornton, turning to me.
"I have not been two hours in the house," I replied, smiling.
"Miss Burns!" exclaimed Mrs. Brand, with a start. "Really, Edward, I am
surprised you did not mention it sooner. You know how I have longed to
see our dear young cousin."
She tripped up to me as she spoke, and gave my hand a fervent squeeze.
Then looking at me through a gold eye-glass:
"My dear child," she said, "how well you look--not at all altered. Were I
not so short-sighted, I should have known you anywhere--would not you,
Edward?"
"No," he replied, quietly; "I find Miss Burns much altered; and if I
recognised her, it was in spite of the change seven years have worked."
"Ah! very true," sighed Mrs. Brand. "Years pass, and the world goes on
with all its vanities. My dear girl, have you really no idea of what we
are to do for beds and a dinner?"
The moral sentiment had been uttered with slow abstraction, but the
question relating to the things of the flesh, came out quite briskly.
I regretted that I could give Mrs. Brand no information, but repeated my
previous statement.
"It is a _guet-apens_," she feelingly observed; "a most un-English,
uncivilised mode of proceeding--worse than primitive--quite savage.
Edward, what do you advise?"
"Eggs."
"Eggs!"
"Yes, I have always laboured under the impression that eggs were the
resource of travellers in distress."
"When they could get them, I suppose," rather sharply replied his sister.
"Yes," he observed, gently tapping his foot with the extremity of his
cane. "I should say this was an indispensable condition."
"I have sent Brooks to a place called Leigh," resumed Mrs. Brand, "but I
have no hopes; for Marks says that this not being market-day, there is no
chance of our getting anything."
"Excepting visitors," said Mr. Thornton as a sound of carriage wheels was
heard in the neighbouring avenue.
We stood near the wicket-door, which had so often been my post of
observation. A travelling-carriage was coming up the broad avenue. It
stopped before the house, and a lady alighted. Affection rendered Mrs.
Brand sharp-sighted, for without even using her eye-glass, she exclaimed:
"Edith!" and biting her lip, looked uneasily at her brother.
"Mrs. Langton!" he said raising his eye-brow, and smoothing his delicate
moustache, "why I think it is at least five years since I saw her
climbing the Jung-Frau with her gouty old husband. Is he not dead,
Bertha?"
Bertha did not answer; she had hastened away to her friend. They met most
affectionately, and entered the house kissing.
"This is quite a gathering of cousins," observed Edward Thornton smiling
with some irony, "I suppose you know Mrs. Langton?"
"I remember her as Miss Grainger."
He silently offered me his arm, I accepted it, and we entered Thornton
House. In an old wainscotted parlour, we found the two ladies in close
proximity and conversation. The beautiful Edith seemed to me more
beautiful than ever; her weeds became her charmingly, and when she rose,
and greeted me with a pleasant smile, I still thought her the loveliest
creature I had ever looked at. A faint blush mantled her cheek, as she
saw Mr. Thornton; he was polite and unmoved.
The cloth was laid; Mrs. Brand mournfully observed that the dinner not
being more remarkable for quantity than for quality--it was the servants'
dinner, she said, but did not say how they were to manage--it would be as
prudent not to delay the meal. It consisted of cold beef, hot potatoes,
home-brewed ale and musty cheese. Mr. Edward Thornton had the good
breeding to look as unconscious of the sorry fare before him, as if he
had venison on his plate and claret in his glass. Mrs. Brand sighed and
lamented the whole time. Mrs. Langton would have been a woman after
Byron's own heart, for she scarcely touched a morsel, and indeed looked
much too lovely to eat or do anything but be beautiful, which she
certainly did to perfection. As soon as politeness permitted, she retired
to a deep bow-window that looked forth into the park; Mr. Thornton soon
made his way to her chair, and from where I sat by Mrs. Brand, I could
hear fragments of their conversation. He believed he had had the pleasure
of seeing her in Switzerland. Had he really seen her? she asked
carelessly; she thought one could see nothing but the mountains and
precipices in that picturesque country. Did she not like it? inquired Mr.
Thornton. Oh, yes; that was to say no; and yet she thought she rather
liked it, as much as one could like anything of course. Of course,
assented Mr. Thornton with some emphasis. She reddened, rose and came and
sat by Mrs. Brand, who immediately began kissing her; whilst her brother,
addressing me in his easy polite way, alluded to the beauty of the
evening, and proposed a walk over the grounds. My lips parted to decline,
but on second thought I consented.
"As I was telling you, dear," said Mrs. Langton, but on seeing me take
the arm of my cousin, she hesitated slightly.
"As you were telling me, dear," echoed Mrs. Brand, giving the hand of her
friend a gentle squeeze, and watching her brother and me with the corner
of her eye.
"Yes, I was telling you," resumed Mrs. Langton.
What she was telling her dear Bertha. I know not, for at that precise
moment, Mr. Thornton and I left the room. He was my cousin and old enough
to be my father; I did not think there could he any impropriety in
walking out with him, and, secure on this head, I allowed myself to be
entertained by his pleasant discourse, and watched for an opportunity of
introducing the questions I wished him to answer. That opportunity not
coming, I was obliged to enter on the subject somewhat abruptly.
"What a beautiful, rosy cloud," thoughtfully observed my companion.
"Mr. Thornton," I said very earnestly, "I am afraid you are going to
think me very impertinent."
Mr. Thornton thus summoned from his cloud, looked as astonished as a man
of the world can look, but he promptly recovered, and of course protested
against anything of the sort.
"Oh! but I mean it," I resumed; "and yet I cannot help it, you know; that
is what makes it so provoking."
Mr. Thornton smiled, and felt convinced that I alarmed myself
unnecessarily.
"No, I assure you I do not; and, to prove it, here it is. What sort of a
man is Mr. Thornton?"
"A very learned man."
"Ah! but I mean in temper."
"Eccentric."
"And wilful," I suggested.
"He is very firm."
"I remember hearing formerly that he was very litigious; is it true!"
"Why yes," carelessly replied my cousin; "he generally has one or two
little law matters going on. He is tenacious of his rights, and never
allows them to be infringed. He would spend hundreds sooner than be
wronged of a shilling. How do you like this place?"
I had not heeded where he was taking me; looking up I perceived that we
had reached a wild-looking part of the grounds, and stood by a quiet and
solitary well. Between the sombre and massive trees that shed their
solemn gloom over it, I caught a distant glimpse of the narrow stream by
which Cornelius and I had sat that same day, and of which the glancing
waters were now reddened by the setting sun. The well was built against a
rise of ground; it was rude, ancient, defaced by time, and partly veiled
by moss, and dark creeping plants; the water came out clear and bright
from beneath the gloom of its low arch, to fall into a stone basin, then
flow away hidden among the high ferns that grew around, and betrayed in
its course, only by its low murmur.
"It is a wishing-well; will you try its virtues?" said my cousin,
pointing with a smile to the iron bowl, hanging from a rusty chain by the
low arch.
"Did you ever put them to the test, Sir?" I asked, wishfully.
"As a boy I did; and found the legend--a legend."
"Then I fear it is useless for me to try," I replied, sighing.
We turned away from the spot, walked a little longer, then went in. What
sort of an evening my three cousins spent together, I know not. I retired
early, and went up, sad and disheartened, to that room whence I now
feared it passed the power of Cornelius to deliver me. I sat down, and
looked around me; vivid images of the past rose with every glance. I went
to the window by which I had so often watched for his coming; and looking
down on the dark park below, I thought, with an aching heart, of the
lonely evening he was spending at Rock Cottage. My own heart was full. I
could not bear not to be with him; but every time, even in thought, I
imagined our reunion, the dread spectre of the law seemed to rise between
us. Cornelius, exposed to trouble, persecution, and loss on my account--
it was not to be thought of.
"I must try conciliation," I thought; "rough as he is, Mr. Thornton may
be smoothed down. If that will not do, I shall make myself so
disagreeable that he will be glad to get rid of me." And with a thought
and prayer for the absent one, I fell asleep at a late hour.
Our breakfast was a great improvement on the dinner of the preceding day;
but this fact failed to conciliate Mrs. Brand, whom I found alone in the
parlour. Scarcely giving herself time to return my good-morning, she
said, eagerly:
"My dear, would you believe it! They actually had ducks! yes, ducks!" she
repeated with indignant emphasis; "whilst _we_ dined on cold beef, _they_
had ducks! Now, it is a mere trifle--a matter of no consequence; but it
nevertheless happens that _I_ am particularly fond of ducks."
"Ducks!" I echoed, not exactly understanding her meaning.
"Yes, my dear, _they_, Marks, the servants in short, had ducks for
_their_ dinner; I found it out this morning by the merest chance."
Mrs. Langton here entered the room, looking as fresh and lovely as the
morning. She gave her dear Bertha a kiss, which the other returned,
saying breathlessly:
"Edith, they had ducks, the cold beef was good enough for us; they had
ducks."
Edith looked surprised, and, on hearing the story, smiled and said: "Ah!"
with charming grace, "and that she fancied she rather liked ducks, but
was not quite sure." She sat down in the deep embrasure of the window,
and looked out at the park with an abstraction that was not disturbed by
the sound of the opening door, and the appearance of Edward Thornton. He
informed us that Mr. Thornton was laid up with a rheumatic attack.
"Distressing!" abstractedly said Mrs. Brand. "I suppose you know they had
ducks?"
And as we sat down to breakfast, she recapitulated her wrongs. Mr.
Thornton heard her with perfect unconcern, and said "really," then spoke
to me of the beauty of the morning, and of Mr. Thornton's rheumatism.
"You will be sorry to learn," he said, gently breaking the shell of an
egg, "that our excellent relative is completely laid up; I found him in
his study lying on a couch, unable to stir, and in acute pain."
I was sorry in one sense, and glad in another; I had a vague hope that
pain might subdue my obdurate grandpapa, and as soon as breakfast was
over, I hastened to his study; wishing to take him by surprise, I
ventured to enter without knocking. The surprise was mine. Mr. Thornton,
whom I had expected to find groaning on his couch, was standing on the
top of a high flight of steps, reaching down heavy quartos. On hearing
the door open, he turned round sharply, and looked at me scowling. I
rather enjoyed his predicament and said quietly:
"I am glad you are better, Sir."
He growled an inaudible reply, and came down, hobbling and groaning with
every step he took, and darting mistrustful looks at me. I offered him
the aid of my shoulder, which he accepted, leaning on me as heavily as he
could. I helped him to return to his couch, then quietly sat down facing
him. He knew he was at my mercy, and did not tell me to go; but he
surlily rejected my proffered services; but I persisted.
"I can look for any book for you, Sir," I said.
"Look, then," was his ungracious reply.
"What book is it, Sir?"
"Begin with the first volume on the second shelf."
I obeyed, and brought him a heavy tome, which he just looked at, then
threw away, briefly saying:
"Another."
Another I brought him, with the same result; a third, a fourth, and so on
throughout the whole shelf.
"Are you not tired?" he asked with smooth irony.
"Oh, no," I replied, smiling, "shall I begin another shelf?"
"No, you need not," he answered, giving it up, "it is an old treatise on
mineralogy that has long been lost."
I turned to the window; the book I had been reading on the preceding day
still lay there open; I silently handed it to my grandfather, who gave it
and then me a look of profound surprise, followed by a remarkable
smoothing down of mien and accent.
"How did you find it?" he asked, looking at it with evident satisfaction.
"By chance, Sir."
"By chance! Oh! I have another thing missing. Ray's 'Chaos and Creation,'
perhaps you could find that too, eh?"
He looked at me thoughtfully. Anxious to conciliate him, I replied,
eagerly:
"Perhaps I might, Sir."
"Humph! Can you write? I mean write a round hand, not the abominable
slant of most school-girls?"
"Yes, Sir: my handwriting is remarkably round."
"Transcribe this."
He pushed towards me a sheet of hieroglyphics, which I turned over with a
dismay that made him chuckle. Unwilling to give him an advantage over me,
I sat down and at once entered on my task; the decyphering was the worst
part of the business; but after working hard for several hours, I
accomplished it to his satisfaction and to mine. 1 thought to rest; but
Mr. Thornton was differently inclined.
"Can you read?" he asked, "I mean read as you talk, without drawl or
singing?"
I replied I hoped I could. He said we should see, and handed me the
mineralogical treatise. For two hours I read without stopping. At length
he said that was enough. I felt quite faint and exhausted, and asked if I
could leave him. He assented, adding--
"Mind you keep a look-out for 'Chaos and Creation!'"
I promised to do so, and left him much relieved. The day was hot; the air
of the close, dusty, old study felt stifling. I went out into the garden
at the back of the house, and sat down in the arbour. I had not been
there five minutes before I was joined by my cousin, Edward Thornton. He
was beginning to make himself very pleasant and agreeable, when Mrs.
Langton appeared stepping down daintily from beneath the porch, like a
lady in a picture. She had discarded her widow's cap; the warm sunlight
gave a brown tint to her jet black hair, and she looked fresh and fair as
the rose which she held in one hand, whilst the other slightly raised her
sweeping skirt. Mr. Thornton rose and resigned to her his place by me,
which she accepted with a gracious smile. He stood before us, talking in
his easy, agreeable way; I looked and listened, remembering that in this
very spot, seven years before, they had met and parted. They, too,
remembered it; for ere long I had the pleasure of finding that I was made
the medium of their well-bred sneers.
Edward Thornton addressed the chief portion of his discourse to me, and
put several unimportant questions, each, more or less, arrows that
glanced at Mrs. Langton.
"Is it not about seven years ago, that I saw you here?" he observed
carelessly.
"Yes, Sir, exactly seven years."
"It seems a long time, does it not?" he added, addressing Mrs. Langton,
as if to remind her that seven years had passed over her beauty.
"Very!" she replied, smelling her rose, and looking like one for whom
time does not exist.
"I remember you quite well," Edward continued, addressing me, "a small
fair child, with bright golden hair, which has now deepened into brown."
"Do you?" I replied, amused by this little bit of fiction, to which Mrs.
Langton listened, smiling at the slight put on her glossy tresses, dark
as the raven's wing.
"Oh! yes," he continued, "Bertha and I used to call you the little white
rose. Your name is Rose, is it not?"
"No, my name is Daisy; that is to say, Margaret, but at home I am always
called Daisy."
"The name of the sweetest wild flower," he replied, smiling; "there may
be less beauty about it," he continued, "than about the rose, but then it
has a grace and a freshness quite its own."
The Rose looked scornful. Not relishing being thus made the instrument of
Mr. Edward Thornton's pique, I rose, and spite of his entreaties, left
the arbour. Common politeness would not allow him to desert Mrs. Langton;
how they got on together is more than I know. They were studiously polite
at dinner.
When I went up to my room that same evening, I perceived that the little
black trunk had arrived. I opened it eagerly, but searched in vain for a
letter. A fact, however, struck me. It contained the portfolio of Italian
drawings placed there by another hand than mine. I turned them over with
a vague hope. I found nothing but a stray scrap of paper, which I took to
the light. It was one of those rude and hasty sketches with which artists
write down passing ideas: yet, imperfect as it was, I recognised at a
glance the well I had so recently seen and visited. A female figure, in
which I knew myself, sat by it with her hand shading her eyes, as if
watching for something or some one; the disk of the sun, half sunk behind
the far horizon and sending forth low spreading rays, indicated the close
of day. Evidently Cornelius knew this place and wished me to meet him
there at sunset. When? Most probably on the following day. My heart
leaped with joy at the thought of seeing him so soon, and with trust and
hope on perceiving how faithfully he kept his promise.