My father was dead. He who had kissed me a few hours before,--whose
return--God help me, unhappy child!--I had expected, but whose caresses
had ceased for ever, for whose coming I might listen in vain,--my father,
who loved me so very dearly, was dead.
Of what had befallen me, of the change in my destinies, this was all I
clearly understood, and this, alas! I understood but too well. When
Cornelius came to me, as I sat alone in the back parlour, where Sarah had
taken and left me, when he said, "Margaret, you must go with Sarah!" I
neither refused nor resisted. I asked not even why or where I was going.
I had been a proud and obstinate child, I was now humble and submissive.
I felt, in a manner I cannot define, it was so acute and deep, that my
power was over. He who knew not how to deny aught to my entreaties or
tears was lying in the next room, cold and inanimate: nor voice, nor
embrace of his child would move him now.
Sarah took me to the imaginary step-mother with whom she had once
terrified me. Miss Murray was a pale, fair-haired, invalid lady of
thirty, who resided in a neat hive-looking little place, called
Honeysuckle Cottage; there she dwelt like a solitary bee, sitting in her
chair and working the whole day long, with slow industry, or conning over
her ailments in a faint, murmuring voice, that reminded one of the hum of
a distant hive. She disliked sound, motion, and light; and kept her
floors soft, and her windows shrouded and dim. Pets were her horror,--
they made a noise and moved about; flowers she tolerated,--they were
quiet and silent. She neither went out nor received visits, but lived in
a hushed, dreamy, twilight way, suited to her health, mind, and temper.
We found Miss Murray already apprised of my father's death. She sat in
her parlour, with a soft cambric handkerchief to her eyes; near her stood
her servant Abby, suggesting consolation. A lamp with a dark green shade,
burned dimly on the table.
"I cannot survive it, Abby, I cannot," faintly sighed Miss Murray; "a
friend--"
"The best friends must part, Ma'am."
"A friend, Abby, who understood my constitution so well. Abby, who is
that?"
"Please, Ma'am," said Sarah, leading me in, "Mr. O'Reilly will take it so
kind if you--"
"You need not mention it, Sarah, I understand; the subject is a painful
one. You may leave the dear child to me. I am sure she will forbear to
distress me, in my weak state, by unavailing regrets. No one can have
more cause than I have, to regret the invaluable friend to whom I owe
years of existence."
"She doesn't cry!" said Abby, looking at me.
"She never cries," emphatically observed Sarah; "that child is dreadful
proud, Ma'am."
"She is quite right," gravely remarked Miss Murray; "tears are most
injurious to the system. Come here, my dear, and sit by me."
She pointed to a low stool near her chair. I did not move. Sarah had to
lead me to it; as I sat down apathetically, she made a mysterious sign to
the lady.
"Not insane, surely?" exclaimed Miss Murray, wheeling off her chair with
sudden alarm and velocity.
"Oh dear no, Ma'am! rather idiotic; always thought so from her dreadful
stubbornness."
"Sad," sighed Miss Murray, "but quiet at least. Good evening, Sarah.
Abby, pray keep a look-out for that dreadful boy: my nerves are unusually
weak."
The two servants left on tiptoe, and softly closed the door. I remained
alone with Miss Murray.
"My dear," she began, "I hope you are not going to fret; it would be so
unchristian. I have lost a kind father, an invaluable mother, an
affectionate aunt, the dearest of brothers--" The list was interrupted by
the door which opened very gently, to admit a lad of eleven or twelve,
tall, strong, fair-headed, rather handsome, but looking as rough and rude
as a young bear. This was her nephew William. His father had died some
six months before bequeathing him to the guardianship of his aunt, who
immediately committed him to school for bad behaviour, and to whom his
periodical visits, during the holidays, were a source of acute distress.
On seeing him enter, Miss Murray turned up her eyes like one prepared for
anything, and faintly observed, "William, have you seen Abby?"
"Yes," was his sulky reply.
"Then let me beseech you," she pathetically rejoined, "to respect my
feelings and those of this dear child."
He looked at me, but never answered. She continued, "Don't behave like a
young savage,--if you can help it," she kindly added.
William scowled at his aunt, and thrust his hands into his pockets by way
of reply.
"You have passed through the same trial," pursued Miss Murray, "and,
though I cannot say that your language has always been sufficiently
respectful towards the memory of my lamented brother--"
"Why did he leave me to petticoat government?" angrily interrupted
William; "you don't think I am going to be trodden down by a lot of
women. I come in singing, not knowing anything, and Abby calls me a
laughing hyena; and I am scarcely in the room before you set me down as a
savage! I won't--there!"
This must have meant something, for Miss Murray bewailed her unhappy
fate, whilst William doggedly sat down by the table, across which he
darted surly glances at me.
"I do not mean to reproach the memory of my dearest brother," feelingly
began Miss Murray, "but really if he had had any consideration for me,
and my weak state, he ought to have taken more care of himself, and tried
to live longer. William, what do you mean by those atrocious grimaces?"
"I wish she wouldn't;" said William, whose features worked in a very
extraordinary manner; "I wish she wouldn't."
Miss Murray followed the direction of his glance, and looked round to
where I sat a little behind her.
"I declare the unfortunate child is crying," she exclaimed, in a tone of
distress,--"sobbing too! William, ring the bell,--call Abby. My dear, how
can you? Oh! Abby, Abby," she added, as the door opened, and Abby
entered, "look--is there no way of stopping that?"
"Doesn't she cry though?" observed Abby, astonished.
I had bowed my head on my knees, and I wept and sobbed passionately. Miss
Murray, after vainly asking for the means "of stopping that," declared I
should go to bed. I made no resistance; Abby took my hand to lead me
away; when William, exclaiming, "It's a burning shame, that's what it
is," flew at her and attempted a rescue. A scuffle followed, short but
decisive. William was ignominiously conquered; he retreated behind the
table, his hair in great disorder, his face crimson with shame.
"Oh! the young tiger!" cried Abby, still out of breath with her victory;
"that boy will end badly, Ma'am!"
William gave her a look of scorn. Miss Murray, who had wheeled back her
chair, from the commencement of the conflict, observed, with feeling
reproach, "William, you shall go back to school to-morrow. Abby, put that
child to bed; allow me to suggest the passage for your next battle."
Abby slammed the door indignantly, and muttering she would not fight in a
passage for any one, she took me to her room, undressed me, and put me to
bed. My weeping had not ceased.
"Come, Miss," she said, a little roughly, "crying is no use, you know."
She stooped to give me a kiss; I turned away with passionate sorrow. What
was to me the caress of a stranger on the night that had deprived me for
ever of my father's embrace?
"Proud little hussy!" she exclaimed, half angrily.
With this she left me. Ere long she returned, and lay down by my side;
she was soon breathing hard and loud. I silently cried myself to sleep.
I awoke the next morning, subdued by grief into a mute apathy that
delighted Miss Murray when I went down to breakfast, and made her hold me
up as a model to her nephew.
He replied with great disgust, "He was not going to make a girl of
himself, to please her and Abby."
"But you could respect the child's feelings by remaining silent,"
remonstrated his aunt, gently sipping her tea.
"Why don't you eat?" asked William, addressing me.
"I am not hungry."
"All children are not voracious, like you, William," said Miss Murray.
"Have you got an aunt?" he inquired, ignoring her remark.
"No!" I answered laconically, for his questions wearied me.
"Lucky!" he replied, with a look and sigh of envy.
"Dreadful!" murmured Miss Murray, putting down her cup,--"not twelve yet;
dreadful!"
"Who is to take care of you?" continued William.
Miss Murray was one of the many good-natured persons who dislike
uncomfortable facts and questions. She nervously exclaimed, "Do not mind
him, my dear!"
"Don't you like them?" pursued William.
I gave him no reply.
"Quite right," approvingly observed Miss Murray; "take example of that
child, William."
"She is a sulky little monkey!" he indignantly exclaimed, and, until his
departure, which took place in the course of the day, he spoke no more to
me.
A week passed; the only incident it produced was that I was clad in
mourning from head to foot. I continued to charm Miss Murray by a
listless apathy, which increased every day. I either sat in the parlour
looking at her sewing, or in a little back garden, on a low wooden bench
near the door. Once there, I moved no more until called in by Abby. Thus
she and Sarah found me late one afternoon, at the close of the week. I
took no notice of their approach. They looked at me, and sagaciously
nodded their heads at one another. A mysterious dialogue followed.
"Eh?" inquiringly said Sarah.
"Yes!" emphatically replied Abby.
"Never!" exclaimed Sarah.
"Oh dear, no!" was the decisive answer.
Sarah sighed, sat down by me, asked me how I was; if I knew her; and
other questions of the sort. I neither looked at her nor replied. She
rose, held herself up as a warning to Abby "not to place her affections
on Master William;" to which Abby indignantly replied "there was no
fear;" then solemnly forgave me my ingratitude.
As they re-entered the house, I thought I heard the voice of Cornelius
O'Reilly in the passage. My apathy vanished as if by magic. I was roused
and rebellious. Cornelius O'Reilly had not come near me since my father's
death: at once I guessed his errand was to take me away with him. I
looked around me: a back door afforded means of escape; I opened it,
slipped out unperceived, then glided along a lonely lane. In a few
minutes I had reached Rock Cottage, unseen and unmissed.
The home is an instinct of the heart, and as the wounded bird flies to
its nest, I fled for refuge to the dwelling which had sheltered me so
long.
The garden-gate stood open, but the front door and windows were shut. I
went round to the back of the house; my heart sank to find that there too
all was closed and silent. I sat down on the last of the stone steps,
vaguely hoping that some one would open and let me in. I listened for the
coming of a foot, for the tones of a voice; but sounds of life there were
none. Above me bent a lowering sky, sullen and dark; the wind had risen;
the pine-trees at the end of the garden bent before the blast, then rose
again, seeming to send forth a low and wild lament; the tide was coming
in, and the broken dash of the waves against the base of the cliff was
followed by their receding murmur, full and deep.
An unutterable sense of woe, of my desolate condition, of all that had
been mine and never could be mine again, came over me; my heart, bursting
with a grief that had remained silent, could bear no more. I gave one
dreary look around me, then clasping my arms above my head, and lying
across the stone steps, I wept passionately on the threshold of my lost
home. At length a kind voice roused me.
"Margaret, what are you doing here?" asked Cornelius.
I neither moved nor replied. He sat down by me and raised me gently. I
gazed at him vacantly. His handsome face saddened.
"Poor little thing!" he said, "poor little thing!" He took my cold hands
in his, and drew me closer to him. Subdued by grief, I yielded. I had
refused his presents, shunned his caresses, been jealous, proud, and
insolent, hated the very thought of his presence in my father's house,
and now he came to seek me on the threshold of that house, to take me--a
miserable outcast child--in his embrace.
The thrill of a strange and rapid emotion ran through me. I disengaged my
hands from those of Cornelius, and, with a sudden impulse, threw my arms
around his neck. My cheek lay near his; his lips touched mine; I mutely
returned the caress. I was conquered.
I was a child, how could I but feel with a child's feelings, entirely? I
kept back nothing; I knew not how or why, but I gave him my whole heart
from that hour.