My first act the next morning was to go and see my grandfather. He
received me with a sufficiently cordial growl, and confident, I suppose,
of the good understanding between us, no longer kept up the pretence of
rheumatic pains in my presence. I again read and transcribed for several
hours, at the end of which Mr. Thornton was pleased to say--"I might be
off if I liked;" and reminded me not to forget "that Chaos and
Creation--" Wishing to sound him still further, I replied--
"Oh! no. I hope to find it before I go."
"Eh?" he sharply said.
"Before I go with Mr. O'Reilly," I resumed, "he means to stay another
week or ten days here."
"Who said you were to go with him?" asked Mr. Thornton.
"No one. But surely, Sir, you will not care to keep an insignificant girl
like me?"
He did not answer; I continued.
"It would be a great deal better to go with him, than to make him come
back and fetch me."
"I'll tell you what," interrupted Mr. Thornton, knitting his black brows
and looking irate: "if that Irishman, who sent the little girl to school,
and who gives the young girl such queer looks, attempts to carry you off,
he'll rue it as long as he lives. I'll teach him," he added,
impressively, "the meaning of the word 'abduction.' See 9th of George
IV."
"Abduction. Sir," I said, reddening, "means carrying off by force."
"And the law construes fraud into force," coolly answered Mr. Thornton.
"See 9th of George IV."
I was much perturbed by this threat. Mr. Thornton did not appear to see
or notice it, and dismissed me with another hint about "Chaos and
Creation."
After dinner--our housekeeping was now much improved and, indeed, quite
stylish--Mr. Edward Thornton and Mrs. Langton vanished, and I remained
with Mrs. Brand, who entertained me, for some time, with the many virtues
of her brother. "A most excellent brother he had ever been to her; and
since he had come into the Wyndham property, she could say that Poplar
Lodge had been as much her home as his--a fact which proved there was
nothing like the ties of blood, for Mr. Brand, she was very sorry to say,
had not behaved at all delicately; and, satisfied with leaving her a few
paltry hundreds a-year, had actually bequeathed to his daughter that
delightful Holywell Lodge--a most exquisite place--to which he well knew
that she had a particular fancy, not because it was beautiful--she was
essentially a person of simple, unsophisticated tastes--but her heart was
bound to Holywell. She had spent her honeymoon there, and she was
astonished that had not proved a consideration with Mr. Brand." We sat by
the window. The trunks of the trees in the park shone warm and red with
the light of the setting sun. I wanted to be off, and said carelessly:
"What a delightful walk Mrs. Langton and Mr. Thornton are now having!"
Mrs. Brand started.
"My dear," she said, quickly, "you do not mean--Edith is in her own room
surely."
"I saw her and Mr. Thornton disappearing behind that clamp of trees."
"Imprudent!" exclaimed Mrs. Brand, looking fidgetty. "She takes cold so
easy. I must really go after her."
She rose, left the room, and hurried off, at once, in the direction I had
pointed out. I waited awhile, then slipped out. My way lay exactly
opposite to hers. I kept within the shelter of the trees. In a few
minutes, I had reached the well; but, to my dismay, I perceived standing
by it, and talking quietly together, the objects of Mrs. Brand's search.
They stood with their backs turned to me. I sank down, at once, in the
high ferns, which closed over me. I knelt stooping, and every now and
then cautiously raised my head to look. They lingered awhile longer, then
left. When they were out of sight, I sat up, shaking from my loosened
hair the dried fern and withered leaves with which it had got entangled.
Startled by a low sound near me, I looked round quickly. A few paces from
me, the ferns began to move, then a man's arm divided them, and, in the
opening appeared the handsome and laughing face of Cornelius. He half sat
up, leaning on one elbow, and looked at me, smiling.
"Are they gone?" he whispered.
I gave a hasty glance around. The sun had nearly set. In its warm and
mellow glow, the park looked silent and lonely. Over all things already
brooded the stillness of evening.
"It's all right," I said, jumping up. "Cornelius, you are tall, and could
be seen a good distance, so please to be quiet."
"You don't mean to say that I am to remain here on my back?" he asked,
indignantly.
"I mean that, if you get up, I shall take flight."
He fumed and fretted, but I was obdurate. On his back I made him lie, and
there I kept him. When he became restless, I threatened to leave him. He
submitted, muttering, "Absurd--ridiculous!" and, turning away his flushed
and vexed face, he would not speak. I knelt down by him, and, smoothing
his hair, asked if he did not feel comfortable, and what more he wanted.
At first, I got no answer, but I stroked him into good humour, for, all
at once, he snatched my hand, and pressing it tenderly to his lips,
informed me he was a savage, and I an angel. I laughed, and said:
"That explains what Mr. Thornton meant by your queer looks. I have always
heard that the eye of a savage has something quite peculiar."
"Queer looks!" echoed Cornelius, reddening; "the queerness is in his
eyes, Daisy. But let him have his say. I have taken no vow; but I am
determined--"
"Cornelius, if you will toss in that extraordinary fashion, I must go."
He groaned, but became once more quiet.
"Since you are so fidgetty," I said, "why did you not come to see me at
Thornton House?"
"Why, Daisy," he replied, rolling a stray lock of my hair round his
finger, "because I am a burglar, and not a swindler. I may rob a man of
his jewel, but I will not cheat him out of it."
"Abduction and 9th George IV," rushed into my head; but I carelessly
said:--
"So I am to be stolen property."
He laughed, and did not contradict it.
"But how will you manage?" I asked.
"It is not settled yet?" he replied evasively; "but you shall know all
the next time we meet here."
"Then why this meeting of to-day, Cornelius?--why this useless danger?"
"Danger!--there is none for me; and if there were, I would meet and brave
it willingly for this sight of your face. Now do not look so like a shy
fawn, though it becomes you charmingly. It was quite pretty to watch you
hidden in the ferns. Every now and then you raised your fair head like a
young Nereid, then dipped it again into that green sea, where I now lie
flat like a dead fish; and yet, Daisy, how pleasant it is to be here with
you!"
"How do you know this place?"
"I sketched it years ago on one of my visits to your father; little
thinking then that the sulky little girl, who would not kiss me, would
one day break every tie for my sake."
All doubt that I might not enter into his plans, or that I could refuse
to accompany him when the moment came, seemed as if by magic to have left
Cornelius. No longer did he, or perhaps could he, anticipate the chance
of a refusal. Yet, now, that I saw more clearly to what consequences his
scheme might lead, I felt I loved him far too much to consent. But he
spoke with so much confidence and hope, that I dreaded undeceiving him. I
could rule him in little things; but when his passions were roused--I had
tested it in the case of William Murray--he was my master. His vehement
feelings swayed me, as a strong wind bows weak reeds before its breath.
If, in the burst of anger and grief that would assuredly follow the
announcement of my resolve not to agree to his plans, Cornelius insisted
on making me accompany him at once, I knew my own weakness well enough to
guess that I could not remain behind. So kneeling by him, and looking
down somewhat sadly at his triumphant face, I said nothing, but indulged
him in his flights of fancy.
The warm glow of day had not yet left earth; the moon had risen, but her
light was pale and indistinct, as it is in the first hours of evening; it
shone with a mild and grey radiance over that quiet spot, fell softly on
the trees that sheltered it, and just touched the stone arch of the well,
whose waters flowed with a low ripple, then spread away vaguely over the
wide park, dotted with dark clumps of trees. The evening was unusually
mild and balmy. I felt it both soothing and delightful to be alone with
Cornelius at this lonely hour, and in this solitary spot; but most
saddening to think we no longer owned the shelter of the same roof, and
were no longer to live within the holy circle of the same home.
At length, I spoke of going. He detained me as long as he could, and
released me with a promise of meeting him there again two days hence. If
I could not come, a letter hidden under a stone that lay half buried in
the grass, was to tell him so. As we parted, he said, fondly:--
"A few days more, Daisy, and there shall be no more meetings, nor
partings either."
I did not dare to reply, but turning abruptly from him, I ran away
through the high grass, without once looking behind.
I had not to read or transcribe on the following day, the best part of
which I spent with Mrs. Brand. She spoke a good deal of Mr. Thornton, and
dropped mysterious hints, wholly lost on my ignorance; but she assured me
she was not at all offended with my reserve, which was quite _de bon
go?t_, and decidedly English.
I was amused at the idea that I should be accused of reserve for not
understanding her sphinx-like mode of speech; I also thought that, for a
lady who seemed fond of everything English, a less frequent use of French
words, to which her own language offered equivalents, would have been
more consistent. But this was one of the little contradictions in which,
as I afterwards found, Mrs. Brand indulged. She was very national, but an
English dressmaker would have thrown her into fits; English manufactures
were irritating to her nerves, and English cooking would have been the
death of her. She also once informed me, that but for her dear Edward,
her health would compel her to reside on the Continent, in which case,
England would, I fear, have been deprived of Mrs. Brand altogether, and
the intercourse between them would have been limited to the transmission
and receipt of the English "paltry hundreds" which Mr. Brand had
bequeathed to his affectionate spouse.
That Mrs. Brand was quite a martyr to sisterly affection, was indeed an
indubitable fact, for in the course of the morning, she observed to me:
"My dear, people may talk about plantations and negro slavery, and
factory girls; but I assure you, that the fashionable world is a wide
plantation, and that we, the slaves who work it, are worked to death. I
came here for a little peace, and behold, I received I know not how many
invitations yesterday, and I must pay I know not how many visits to-day.
Oh! my dear; if it were not for Edward, I would break my chains and fly."
Borne up, however, by the thought of Edward, the slave of the world
managed to drag her chain pretty well, and that same afternoon was even
equal to the exertion of stepping into her carriage for the purpose of
going to work her plantation. Mrs. Langton accompanied her; Edward
Thornton remained at home. He had stretched his elegant person in an old-
fashioned arm-chair, where he read the newspaper, and looked as politely
_ennuy?_ as possible. I sat by the window, looking at the Italian
drawings of Cornelius. I had brought them down on the express wish of
Mrs. Brand, who, giving them a careless look, had said "how pretty," and
thought no more about them. When she left, however, she envied me with a
sigh my privilege of being able to stay at home, and congratulated me on
my indifference to worldly pleasures. As the door closed on her, Mr.
Edward Thornton laid down his newspaper, to say negligently:
"And so, Miss Burns, you really don't care for the world! What a little
hermitess!"
"Do you care about it, Sir?"
"I? no; but I'm tired of it."
I smiled and shook my head incredulously. I rather liked my cousin; but I
could not help thinking that his character of an old man of the world was
more put on than real.
"You don't believe it?" he said.
"No," was my frank reply.
"Now, Miss Burns, what should I care for?"
"Politics?"
"I am sick of them. Standing for a certain borough, and being pelted with
eggs and apples, gave me a surfeit."
"Pleasure?"
"It is too hard work for me."
"Money?"
"I have got it, and therefore do not care for it."
"Horses?"
"Over years ago."
"Years ago!" I thought, "and you have not come into the Wyndham property
more than a year, cousin. Travelling?" I suggested aloud.
"Over too. Do you confess yourself mistaken, and acknowledge that I am
tired of the world?"
"No, Sir!"
"No!"
"No; you read the newspaper."
My cousin opened his fine blue eyes, and looked amused, and seemed to
expect more; but I looked at my drawings, and remained mute; he raised
his head from the back of the high arm-chair on which it was cushioned. I
took no notice of this; he coughed; I never looked up. He took his paper,
laid it down, took it up again, and at length feeling either piqued or
inquisitive, rose and came round to the back of my chair. I allowed him
to stand there, and look over my shoulder, as long as he pleased.
"I wonder where Bertha got these!" he said at length in a tone of
surprise.
"They are mine," I replied quietly, "Mr. O'Reilly gave them to me."
"Are they by him?"
I assented with some pride. My cousin looked astonished, and pronounced
the sketches masterly. He sat down by my side, and looked over the
contents of the portfolio; his remarks showed me that he was an excellent
judge. We looked slowly; and had not done, when Mrs. Brand and Mrs.
Langton returned from their laborious duties.
"Have you seen these, Bertha?" said Edward Thornton to his sister.
"Yes, lovely things," she replied, carelessly.
"Have you?" he asked of Edith, who sat apart, gathered up in her own
loveliness, like a self-admiring rose.
She answered in the negative, and taking up the portfolio, he seemed
inclined to show them to her; but his sister playfully interfered, told
him that as he had already seen them, it was not fair; that she was
passionately fond of drawings, and would look over these with her dear
Edith by whom she accordingly sat most pertinaciously until dinner-time.
Her brother remained by me, and talked of Cornelius, whom he emphatically
pronounced a man of genius. My ear opened to hear him speak so.
"He is more than a man of genius," I replied with some emotion; "he is so
good. At least he has always been so to me; he adopted and reared me
quite as if I had been his own child, and that was very kind."
Mr. Thornton smiled, and spoke of good deeds that brought their own
reward. I hinted that if I was a reward, it seemed hard he should be
deprived of me. He evidently thought this hard, too; and though he did
not say so, I saw he intended influencing Mr. Thornton in my favour. A
fact on which I did not place much hope, for I knew enough of my
grandfather to guess he was not easily governed.
He kept me with him transcribing for several hours the next day; but he
never spoke until I was leaving the room, then he said very coolly:
"You can do the rest after dinner, whilst I go on with that little
business to the wishing-well."
My hand was on the door; I turned round to give him a terrified look. He
laughed as if he enjoyed my fright. I dare say I looked dismayed enough,
for as I left the study, I met my cousin entering, and he gave me an
astonished glance. I passed by him swiftly, and ran up to my room, there
to write a few words, with which I hastened down again. Not suspecting
that my grandfather would see me, or seeing me guess my intention, I went
down the beech-tree avenue; but I had not gone ten steps, when the arched
casement was thrown open, and Mr. Thornton appeared in the aperture, grim
and forbidding.
"Miss Burns," he said, sternly, "will you come back, if you please. I
want you. Sir, I shall thank you not to interfere."
The latter remark was addressed to my cousin, who, standing by him,
seemed to plead or urge something. He bowed stiffly and drew back,
looking offended. I obeyed the summons I had received, and returned to
the study, my eyes overflowing with indignant tears which pride could
scarcely restrain. Edward Thornton gave me a look of sympathy, and left
as I entered. Mr. Thornton eyed me severely.
"You may as well give it up," he said, "for I won't allow it."
I sank down on a chair without replying. He continued:
"If you ever saw a moth singe its wings at a candle, you know the fate of
your friend. Every one knows that though I don't care a farthing for
game, I allow no poaching. We were three of us at the wishing-well the
other evening. Since he would brave me, why I shall just show him that I
have him so," he added expressively uniting his forefinger and thumb,
"and that no later than this evening."
I gave him a beseeching look; he laughed; I began a supplication; he
interrupted with a stern: "I never retract."
I steeled my heart, and took a desperate resolve.
"Mr. Thornton," I said rising and going up to him, "I will submit to
anything, if you will but let Mr. O'Reilly alone. It is because he knows
I am so fond of him that he does all this."
"That's not true, and you know it," roundly interrupted Mr. Thornton.
"It's because he is so fond of you that he can't take his eyes off of
you."
"Well then, yes," I exclaimed, feeling that perfect sincerity was after
all the best policy. "It is because ho likes me. Has he not a right to be
fond of me, just as I of him and his sister? I love them both with my
whole heart; I long to be with them back again, and I hate being here--
and yet I yield--I submit to anything you may exact; but, to the grief of
my loss, I entreat you do not add the torment of a persecution endured
for my sake. If you will but disregard this and any other attempt he may
make to see me, I will pass my word not to see him without your
permission. He has taught me that one's word is a sacred thing; if I give
mine I will keep it, though Grod alone knows how much it will cost me."
My voice faltered and sank, for, as I thought of the pledge I was
offering, I felt scarcely able to speak, and yet I dreaded lest Mr.
Thornton should say no, and persist in seeking out Cornelius. He
cogitated for a while, then said abruptly:
"To spare the time I cannot afford to lose, and for no other reason--I
consent; but mind: as you keep your word, I keep mine."
I made no answer to this remark, but asked if I might not write to
Cornelius to tell him what had passed, and bid him the farewell I was not
to utter. He said yes. I wrote at once, and gave him the letter which he
promised to forward without delay.
Until then, I had not felt my parting from Cornelius. His promise, my own
hopes, the light spirit of youth, had sustained me. But now that I was
pledged beyond recall, hope forsook me like a faithless friend in the
hour of need, and left me to taste in all its bitterness the misery of
absence and separation.