Although I had not thought it necessary to mention to Mrs. Brand how soon
I meant to return to the Grove, she took complete possession of me for
the whole of the next day; but, the following morning, I prevented the
possibility of her doing so again, by starting out of Poplar Lodge before
she had opened her aristocratic eyes. I wanted to see Cornelius, and make
him explain his strange conduct.
I went by the lane where we had parted. It was a very beautiful lane--
green, secluded, and overshadowed by dark trees. It looked fresh and
pleasant on this May morning. The dew glittered on grass, tree and wild
flower; the thrush carolled gaily on the young boughs, and the robin red-
breast looked at me fearlessly with his bright black eye, as he stood
perched on the budding hawthorn hedge. A grievous disappointment waited
me at the end of my journey. The blinds were down--the house was closed
and silent. I rang, and received no reply. I went to the front, with the
same result. For an hour and more I wandered about the lanes; but every
time I came back, I found the house in the same state. At length, I
returned to Poplar Lodge, where my absence had not been perceived.
Mrs. Brand's party had given her a headache. She lay on the drawing-room
sofa the whole day long, and would evidently consider it very barbarous
to be forsaken. I remained sitting by her until dusk, which brought Mrs.
Langton, and relieved me from my duty. I went out on the verandah for a
little fresh air. I had not been there long, when a rustling robe passed
through the open window. It was the beautiful Edith.
"Are you not afraid of taking cold?" she asked aloud; then whispered,
"Say no."
As "no" chanced to be the truth, I complied with Mrs. Langton's wish.
"Oh! that exquisite old thorn!" she sighed; then added, in a low rapid
key: "I have been so angry. I heard such strange things about you and Mr.
Thornton. All the Dresden room."
I laughed.
"What are you two chatting about?" asked the voice of Mrs. Brand from
within.
"I am only telling Miss Burns to mind Captain Craik," coolly replied Mrs.
Langton, "he was quite attentive the other night."
"Really, Mrs. Langton," I observed impatiently, "you forget the gentleman
you allude to could be my father, and is, after all, a middle-aged man."
"A middle-aged man!" echoed Mrs. Langton, looking confounded. "You are
hard to please, Miss Burns; a most elegant and accomplished gentleman--a
middle-aged man!"
"If he were an angel, he is not the less near forty."
"Still talking of Captain Craik," rather uneasily observed Mrs. Brand,
joining us, "Edith, dear, are you not afraid of the tooth-ache?"
"No, Bertha, dear."
"But I am for you. You must come in."
Mrs. Brand slipped her arm within that of her friend, and made her re-
enter the drawing-room. But something or some one called her away, for in
a few minutes, Mrs. Langton was again by me. She came on me suddenly,
before I could efface the trace of recent tears. The evening was light
and clear. She looked at me and said:
"I could have spared you this, Miss Burns. Mr. Thornton--"
"Indeed, Ma'am," I interrupted, "I am not thinking of Mr. Thornton; but I
fear Mr. O'Reilly is vexed with me: that is the truth."
I thought this would rid me of her tiresome jealousy, but it did not.
"Poor child!" she said compassionately, "I see you know nothing. Perhaps
it is scarcely right to betray Bertha to you; but can I help also feeling
for you? Do you know the play of Shakespeare entitled 'Much Ado about
Nothing'?"
"Yes, Ma'am, I know it."
"Do you remember the ingenious manner in which two of the characters are
made to fall in love with one another? Benedick thinks Beatrice is dying
for him, and Beatrice thinks the same thing of him."
"That was vanity, Ma'am, not love."
"Ay, but vanity is a potent passion, and 'Much Ado about Nothing' is a
play still daily enacted on the scene of the world."
I heard her with some impatience; I thought her discourse resembled the
play of which it treated. She saw plain speech alone would make me
comprehend her meaning.
"Our dear Bertha," she sighed, "has quite a passion for match-making. For
instance, she will teaze me about Captain Craik, and says he is mad about
me. I don't mind it, provided she does not say the same thing to him."
"Oh!" I replied, quite startled, "that would be too bad."
"So it would; but I fear it. Captain Craik has been very peculiar of
late."
I felt uncomfortable. It was not to end with Captain Craik we had
travelled over the slow ground of this ambiguous discourse.
"Now do you know." resumed Mrs. Langton, "I cannot help fancying that
Bertha has been indulging in the same little pastime with you and her
brother."
"Not with me," I said, eagerly; "she never even hinted it."
"You are slow at taking hints," replied Mrs. Langton with a sceptical
smile.
"But why should she think of me?" I asked, incredulously; "I am not a
beauty," I added, looking at her, "I have no wealth--no position. Why
should she wish to marry me to her brother?"
"To make a good sister-in-law," answered Mrs. Langton, quietly.
I felt there was something in that, and remained mute with consternation.
"And do you think," she resumed, laughing softly, "he has been quite so
slow to take the hint? Why, child, you have scarcely said a word that he
has not modestly converted into a proof of your passion for him. Remember
how sympathising he was on the evening of the party; he thought: 'Poor
little thing! I must be kind. It is plain she is fretting herself away
for my sake.'"
She spoke with evident conviction. I remembered words and looks, and I
grew hot and faint.
"Oh, Mrs. Langton!" I exclaimed desperately, "what shall I do? how can I
undeceive him?"
"Leave the house at once," she promptly replied.
"Will it not be better to stay for another day or so, just to be cool
with him?"
"He will think it shyness."
"And despair if I run away. No, I must stay to undeceive him."
"And to give him time to inform you in his civil, gentlemanly way, how
deeply he feels for you."
"Then I can show him I don't want his sympathy."
"He will think it pride or pique. Take my advice, Miss Burns. You are in
a false position. Retreat."
She laid her hand on my arm and spoke impressively. But youth is rash; I
scorned the idea of flight. Besides I had no faith in her advice. With
the frank indignation of my years, I felt how meanly my candour and
inexperience had been imposed upon. "So, Mrs. Brand," I thought
resentfully, "you had me here, because you thought I might make a
manageable sister-in-law! Much obliged to you, Mrs. Brand; you will have
your dear Edith, yet. But to go and tell or imply to her brother that I
was in love with him, with a man who might be my father!
"Besides, even if it had been true, how barbarous to betray me! And you,
too, Mrs. Langton," I thought, looking at her, "you too have not thought
it beneath your pride to deceive me: talking ill to me of the very man
you love--as much as you can love--accusing him of profligacy! Then, so
piqued because I said he was middle-aged!--and so kindly anxious to make
me look foolish by running away! Go! no indeed! It is very odd if I
cannot finesse a little in my turn, and, without committing myself, get
out of this spider's web into which, like a foolish fly, I have got
entangled; and it is very odd, too, if I cannot change the web a little,
before I spread out my wings and take my flight back to the home foolish
flies should never leave."
I was thoroughly piqued, and walked restlessly from one end of the
verandah to the other. I set my wits to work; thought rapidly followed
thought; schemes were made and rejected with every second; at length,
both mentally and bodily, I stopped short. "I have it," I thought,
triumphantly; "I am not so dull but that I have noticed certain passages
between a fair lady and a certain gentleman; I have always thought they
would end by marrying; I am certain of it now. I shall act on that
belief; say something; no matter what; he likes my _naivete_--to prove to
my dear cousin that I consider Edith as good as Mrs. Edward Thornton. Let
him like it or not, I shall take his vexation as excellent sport, glide
out of it with a laugh, then beg pardon, apologize, and show him he may
marry the Queen of Sheba, for all it matters to Daisy Burns."
I felt confident of success; and, elated with my scheme, I turned to Mrs.
Langton, and said, gaily:--
"I have such a good idea!--only I cannot tell you. But you shall see how
it will work."
She bit her lip, and gave me a mistrustful look.
"I have warned you," she said; "I warn you again; do not think yourself
equal to Bertha. If she chooses to convince her brother that you are in
love with him, I consider it out of the question that you can prevent
her."
"I shall see that," I replied, indignantly.
"Yes," said Mrs. Langton, "you will have that satisfaction."
"Then what should I gain by running away?" I asked, a little tartly. "The
best thing I can do is to stay, look on, and learn how these matters are
managed."
Mrs. Langton gave me another mistrustful look, and withdrew. I saw she
did not believe in my sincerity; perhaps she did not think it possible to
resist Edward Thornton, and repented having been so frank. Her thoughts
did not trouble me. The more I reflected on my scheme, the better I liked
it. I enjoyed, in advance, the manner in which my cousin would open his
fine blue eyes. I was not vexed with him; but I remembered the Dresden
room, and was determined he should be as fairly undeceived as ever he had
been deluded. Absorbed in these thoughts, I remained on the verandah,
looking at the beautiful garden and grounds beneath. A visitor came, was
received by Mrs. Langton, stayed awhile, left, and still I did not re-
enter the drawing-room, where Mrs. Brand and her friend now sat, working
and talking by lamp-light. At length, scarce knowing why, I began to pay
a vague attention to their discourse.
"I think we are going to have a storm," said the soft voice of Mrs.
Langton; "it will clear the air, perhaps. Doctor Morton says the weather
has been so unhealthy; typhus so prevalent amongst the poor. He mentioned
the case of a labourer who has just died, leaving a widow and nine
children."
"Very sad, indeed," composedly replied Mrs. Brand; "but then you know, my
dear, typhus is generally confined to the poor--which is a sort of
comfort."
"It is not always the case," said Edith; "there have been several deaths
amongst tradespeople."
"Ah! poor things, they have to deal with the poor, you see; but what I
mean is, that it seldom goes higher up; which is a great comfort, you
know; for what good would it do the poor that those above them should
die?"
"None, of course. The doctor also mentioned another case--very sad too--
such a fine young man, he had been told, an artist, I think; but he did
not know his name, who is lying ill--all but given up."
"Really," said Mrs. Brand, "this gets quite alarming. Do you know
whereabouts that unfortunate young man lives?"
Until then, I had listened to them as we listen to speech in which we
take no interest. I was young, full of health; the evening air felt
pleasant and fresh about me; and standing on that cool verandah above a
fragrant garden, I recked not of the fevered dwellings where the poor
perish, and of the sick chamber where even the rich man may be reached by
death; but when Mrs. Langton spoke of the young artist who lay given up,
I felt touched. When Mrs. Brand asked to know where he dwelt, I just
turned my head a little to catch the reply of the beautiful Edith. She
gave it carelessly.
"In a place called the Grove, I believe; is it far off?"
"Two miles away at least," complacently replied Mrs. Brand.
I know not how I entered the room; but I know that the two ladies
screamed faintly, as they saw me stepping in, through the open window.
"Miss Burns, is the house on fire?" exclaimed Mrs. Brand.
"'T is he!" I said, with that dead calmness which many find in their woe.
"I know it is. We live in the Grove, and there is not another artist in
it."
"I am not sure he is an artist," said Edith, rising. "I now think it was
an architect."
"There is no architect in the Grove," I replied; "not one."
"My dear," observed Mrs. Brand, soothingly taking my hand, "it is all a
mistake, depend upon it."
I looked at her, and shook my head.
"The house was close and silent; the blinds were drawn down. I know why
now--lest the contagion should reach me."
Mrs. Brand dropped my hand rather hastily.
"I shall send and inquire at once," she observed. "Pacify yourself, my
dear."
She stretched out her hand to ring the bell.
"You need not," I said, "I am going."
"Oh! but you must not!" cried Mrs. Brand, "think of the danger."
I laughed drearily in her face.
"Of the contagion, my dear?"
"Do not fear, I shall come back, Ma'am," I replied, turning to the door.
She followed me.
"My dear, you must have the carriage."
"I shall go by the lanes," I said impatiently. The carriage was, I knew,
the delay of at least an hour.
"By the lanes, at this hour? I cannot allow it, Miss Burns."
I turned round upon her.
"But I will go," I said, and even in that moment, I wondered the woman
could be so blind as to think her will had the power to detain me.
Without heeding her astounded look, I ran up to my room, took down my
cloth cloak, drew it around me, and drawing the hood over my head, I
hastened down stairs to the garden. As I passed underneath the verandah,
the voice of Mrs. Langton seemed to call me back, but the wind drowned
her words, and I ran fast along the avenue. I had soon reached the iron
gate; I took down the key, opened the door, and entered the lane. As 1
turned my back on Poplar Lodge, I caught a last glimpse of it rising
against a dark sky, with a faint speck of light glimmering from the
drawing-room window.
No other light shone on my path; the sun had set bright and glorious, the
evening had set in clear and serene; but a sudden eclipse had come; one
vast gloom shrouded sky and earth; I never saw summer night like this for
intense, for dreary darkness. I knew the way well; I walked straight on,
swiftly and without pause, meeting no obstacles, fearing none, like one
who passes through vacant space.
Once I thought I heard a voice calling on me faintly in the distance
behind; but I heeded it not, I did not answer, I did not look round; I
went on as in a dream. Raised beyond the body by the passion of my grief,
I felt not the ground beneath my feet; all I felt was that the wind as it
swept by me with a low rushing sound, seemed to bear me on through that
sombre and melancholy night, as a spirit to its viewless home. At length,
the air became of a dead stillness; it was as if I had suddenly entered a
silent and sultry region in which there was no breathing and no life. I
stopped short; I looked round to see that I had not mistaken the way; a
streak of fiery lightning passed through the darkness of the sky; for a
moment I caught sight of an open space, in which I stood, and saw before
me two long lanes diverging from a half ruined gateway, and vanishing
into depths of gloom whence seemed to come forth the peal of far thunder
that died away in low faint echoes.
I knew the spot well; I had not missed the right path; I was half way on
my journey.
But as if this first flash had only been a signal, the brooding storm now
broke forth. Before it fled at once the silence and the gloom of the
hour. A low, wild murmur ran along the ground, then rose and lost itself
in the wide and desolate hollow of the night; trees tossed about their
dark boughs, and groaned lamentably like vexed spirits. As the sound of a
loosened flood came the rushing rain, the wind rose ever deepening in its
roar; and above all rolled the full thunder, louder than the deafening
voice of battle, whilst, cleft with many a swift and silent flash, the
dark sky opened like a sea of living fire, below which stretched a long,
low moving shore of livid clouds.
I stood still and looked; not with fear--to love and fear for what we
love, is to be raised beyond all dread--but I felt dazzled with the
ceaseless lightning, and dizzy with the tumult of the tempest; the heavy
rain beat full in my face and blinded me; the strong gale rose against me
in all its might. I could not move on; I could not turn back, seek
shelter, or proceed; for a moment I yielded to the burst of the storm,
and let the elements wreak their fury on my bowed head. But a thought
stronger than even their power, more fearful than their wildest wrath,
was on me. I drew down my hood, wrapped my cloak closer around me, and
again went on drenched with the pouring rain, and often arrested, but
never driven back by the impetuous blast.
The storm was violent and brief. Soon the wind fell; the rain grew less
heavy; the lightning less frequent and vivid; the thunder slowly
retreated; the sky cleared, and melted into soft clouds, behind which,
for the first time, shone the watery moon. She looked down on me with a
wan and troubled face, boding sorrow; her dim light filled the path I now
followed; on either side, like gloomy giants, rose the dark trees; the
rain had ceased, but as I passed swiftly beneath the dripping boughs,
they seemed shaken by an invisible hand to dash their chill dew-drops in
my face. The smell of the wet earth rose strong on the humid air; in the
ditch by me, I heard water flowing with a low, gurgling sound, and every
now and then I came across a shallow pool lit with a pale and trembling
moonbeam.
The storm had not terrified me, but now my courage sank. This chill calm
after the fury of the tempest; this sound of water faintly flowing,
following on tumult so loud, seemed to me to speak of sorrow, death and
utter desolation. The nearer I drew to the end of my journey, the more my
heart failed me. As I turned down into the lane that led home, the
church-clock struck twelve; every stroke sounded like a funeral knell on
my ear; then a dog began to howl plaintively. I turned cold and sick--as
a child, I had heard that this was a token of death. Oh! with what slow
and weary steps, I drew near that door towards which I had hastened
through all the anger of the storm, and which my heart now dreaded to
reach. As I stood by it, my limbs trembled, my very flesh quivered, my
blood seemed to have ceased to flow, my heart to beat, cold dew-drops
gathered and stood on my brow, and something, an inward struggle, an
agony without a name rose to my lips, and made one gasp for breath, but
could not pass them. Twice I stretched out my hand to ring, and twice it
fell powerless. I sank down on my knees; I uttered a passionate prayer: I
asked--what will not the heart ask for?--for an impossible boon. "Even if
he is to die. Oh God, do not let him die; even though he shall be dead,
do not let him be dead!"
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.