Cornelius O'Reilly had too much tact not to perceive at once the
ascendency he had obtained over the proud and shy child, who, after
rejecting his kindness for years, had yielded herself up in a moment. He
looked down at me with a thoughtful, amused smile, which I understood,
but which did not make me even change my attitude. I felt so happy thus,
from the very sense of a submission which implied on my part dependence--
that blessed trust of the child; on his, protection--that truest pleasure
of strength; on both, affection, without which dependence becomes slavish
and protection a burden.
The temper of Cornelius was open and direct; he claimed his authority at
once, and found me more docile than I had ever been rebellious: it was no
more in my nature to yield half obedience than to give divided love.
"We must go, Margaret," he said, in a tone which, though kind, did not
admit of objection.
I rose and took his hand without a murmur.
We returned to Honeysuckle Cottage, where we found Miss Murray calmly
wondering to Abby "what could have become of the dear child."
Cornelius inquired at what hour the stage-coach passed through Ryde.
"Half-past nine, Sir," replied Abby.
"Margaret, get ready," said Cornelius, looking at his watch, a present of
my father's.
I went upstairs with Abby, who dressed and brought me down again in
stately silence.
"It shall be attended to, Mr. O'Reilly," gravely observed Miss Murray to
Cornelius, as we entered the parlour.
He heard me, and, without turning round, said quietly, "Margaret, go and
bid Miss Murray good-bye, and thank her for all her kindness."
"Will you not also give me a kiss?" gently asked Miss Murray, as, going
up to her, I did as I was bid, and no more.
I looked at Cornelius; the meaning of his glance was plain. I kissed Miss
Murray. She drew out her handkerchief, wished for a niece instead of a
nephew, then shook hands with Cornelius, and, sinking back after a faint
effort to rise, she rang the bell.
Abby let us out. Cornelius quietly slipped something in her hand, then
looked at me expressively.
"Good-bye, Abby," I said; and I kissed her as I had kissed her mistress.
"Well, to be sure!" she exclaimed; but Cornelius only smiled, took my
hand, and led me away.
For a while we followed the road that led to Ryde, and passed by Rock
Cottage; but suddenly leaving to our right my old home and the sea, we
turned down a lonely lane on our left. Dusk had set in, and our way lay
through solitary fields, fenced in by hedges and dark spectral trees,
behind which shone the full moon, looking large and red in the thick haze
of evening mists. We met no one; and of cottage, farm, or homestead,
howsoever lonely, token there seemed none. A sombre indefinite line, like
the summit of some ancient forest, rose against the dark sky, and bounded
the horizon before us. I looked in vain for the hills of Ryde. I turned
to Cornelius to question him; but he seemed so abstracted that I did not
dare to speak. We walked on silently.
A quarter of an hour brought us to the end of the lane, which terminated
in a high brick wall, overshadowed by tall trees for a considerable
distance. Through a massive iron gate, guarded by a dilapidated-looking
lodge, we caught a glimpse of a long avenue, at the end of which burned a
solitary light. Cornelius rang a bell; a surly-looking porter came out of
the lodge, opened the gate, locked it when we were within, pointed to the
right, then re-entered the lodge,--the whole without uttering a word.
The avenue which we now followed, extended through a dreary-looking park,
and ended with two old iron lamp-posts, one extinguished, broken, and
lying on the ground half hidden by rank weeds, the other still standing
and bearing its lantern of tarnished glass, in which the flame burned
dimly. The two had once formed an entrance to a square court, with a
ruined stone fountain in the centre, and beyond it an old brick
Elizabethan mansion, on which the pale moonlight now fell. Heavy, brown
with age, dark with ivy, it rested with a wearied air on a low and
massive arcade. It faced the avenue, and was sheltered behind by a grove
of yews and cypresses that rose solemn and motionless, giving it an
aspect both sombre and funereal. No light came from the closed windows;
the whole place looked as dark and silent as any ruin. We crossed the
court, and Cornelius knocked at the front door, which projected slightly
from both house and arcade.
"Do you live here?" I asked.
"No, child; surely you know I live in London with my sister Kate!"
As he spoke, a small slipshod servant-girl unbarred and partly opened the
door. She held a tallow-candle in one hand; the other kept the door ajar.
Through the opening she showed us the half of a round and astonished
face.
"Mr. Thornton--" began Cornelius.
"He won't see you," she interrupted, and attempted to shut the door, but
this Cornelius prevented by interposing his hand.
"I am come on business," he said.
"Where's the letter?" asked the little servant, stretching out her hand
to receive it.
"Letter! I have no letter, but here is my card."
She shook her head, would not take the card, and, in a tone of deep
conviction, declared, "it was not a bit of use."
"I tell you I am come on business!" impatiently observed Cornelius.
"Well, then, where's the letter?"
There was so evident a connection in her mind between business and a
letter, that, annoyed as he was, Cornelius could not help laughing.
"I wish I had a letter, since your heart is set upon one," he replied,
good-humouredly; "however, I come not to deliver a letter, but to speak
to Mr. Thornton on very important business."
"Can't you give the letter, then?" she urged, in a tone of indignant
remonstrance at his obstinacy.
Cornelius searched in his pockets; no letter came forth. "On my word," he
gravely observed, "I have not got one; no, not even an old envelope."
"You can't come in, then!" she said, looking at him from behind the door,
as sharp and as snappish as a young pup learning to keep watch.
"I beg your pardon, I will go in," replied Cornelius with cool civility.
"If you don't take that there hand of yours away," cried the girl with
startling shrillness, "I shall set the light at it."
"Indeed! I am not going to have my poor fingers singed!" said Cornelius,
very decisively; so saying, he stooped and suddenly blew out the light.
She screamed, dropped the candlestick, and let go the door: we entered;
the girl ran away along the passage lit with a faint glimmering light
proceeding from the staircase above.
"Do you take me for a housebreaker?" asked Cornelius; "I tell you I want
to speak to Mr. Thornton on business."
She stopped short, looked at him with sullen suspicion, and doggedly
replied, "Master won't see you; he won't see none but the gentleman from
London."
"I am from London," quietly said Cornelius.
She stared for awhile like one bewildered, then opened a side-door whence
issued a stream of ruddy light, and muttering something in which the word
"London" was alone distinguishable, she showed us in and closed the door
upon us.
We found ourselves in a large room, scant of chairs and tables, but so
amply stocked with books, globes, maps, stuffed animals, cases of
insects, geological specimens, and odd-looking machines and instruments,
that we could scarcely find room to stand. A bright fire burned on the
wide hearth, yet the whole place had a mouldy air and odour, and looked
like a magician's chamber. A lamp suspended from the ceiling, and burning
rather dimly, gave a spectral effect. Its circle of light was shed over a
square table covered with papers, and by which sat a singular-looking
man--one of the numberless magicians of modern times, clad, it is true,
in every-day attire, but whose characteristic features, swarthy
complexion, and white hair and beard, needed not the flowing robe or
mystic belt to seem impressive. He was too intent on examining some
important beetle through a magnifying glass to notice our insignificant
approach, more than by a certain waving motion of the hand, implying the
absolute necessity of silence on our part, and on his the utter
impossibility of attending to us. At length he looked up, and fastening a
pair of piercing black eyes on Cornelius, he addressed him with the
abrupt observation: "Sir, I am intensely busy, but you are welcome; pray
be seated."
Cornelius looked round: there was but one chair free, he gave it to me,
remained standing himself, and, turning to Mr. Thornton, observed, "I am
come, Sir, on the matter I mentioned in my letter of Wednesday last, and
which you have not, I dare say, had leisure to answer."
Mr. Thornton did not reply; he sat back in his chair looking at Cornelius
from head to foot.
"Sir!" he said, in a tone of incredulous surprise, "you are young--very.
I don't know you."
Cornelius reddened, and stiffly handed his card, which Mr. Thornton
negligently dropped.
"I cannot say I have ever heard of Cornelius O'Reilly," he remarked; "but
I have been years away. You may be famous for all I know; but, I repeat
it, you are very young, Sir."
He spoke with an air of strong and settled conviction.
"I claim no celebrity," drily replied Cornelius, "and my age has nothing
to do with my errand. I am come to--" here he stopped short, on
perceiving that Mr. Thornton, after casting several longing looks at his
beetle, had gradually, like a needle attracted by a potent magnet, been
raising the magnifying glass to the level of his right eye, which it no
sooner reached, than he made a sudden dart down at the table; but, when
the voice of Cornelius ceased, he started, looked up, and said, with a
sigh of regret, "You came to have some difficult point settled? Well,
Sir, though I have only been three days in England, I do not complain;
but you see this fascinating specimen; I beseech you to be brief." He
laid down the magnifying glass, and wheeled away his chair from the reach
of temptation.
"I am come to give, not to seek, information," quietly answered
Cornelius.
"You bring me a specimen," interrupted Mr. Thornton, his small black eyes
kindling. "A Melolo--!"
"A specimen of humanity," interrupted Cornelius,--"a child."
"A child!" echoed Mr. Thornton, whose look for the first time fell on me;
"and a little girl, too!" he added, throwing himself back in his chair
with mingled disgust and wonder.
"She is ten,--an orphan; and I have brought her to you as to her natural
protector," composedly observed Cornelius.
Mr. Thornton looked unconvinced.
"She may be ten,--an orphan; but I don't see why you bring her to me."
"You do not know?"
"No, Sir; I am said to be a learned man, but in this point I confess my
ignorance."
Without heeding his impatience, Cornelius calmly replied, "I have brought
her to you, Sir, because she is your grand-daughter."
Mr. Thornton gave a jump that nearly upset the table; but promptly
recovering, and feeling irritated, perhaps, in proportion to his
momentary emotion, he observed, in an irascible tone, "I am amazed at
you, Sir! Not satisfied with introducing yourself to me as a scientific
man from London,--a fact directly contradicted by your juvenile
appearance,--you want to palm off your little girls upon me! My grand-
daughter!--Sir, I have no grand-daughter."
The look of Cornelius kindled; but he controlled his temper, to say,
quietly, "If you had taken, Sir, the trouble to read a letter which I
regret to see lying on your table with the seal unbroken, you would have
learned that this is the child of Mr. Thornton's daughter, who has been
dead some years, and of Dr. Edward Burns, who died the other day, killed
by a fall from his horse."
Mr. Thornton did not answer; he took a letter lying on a pile of books,
broke the seal, read it through; then laid it down, and looked
thoughtful.
"Well, Sir!" he observed, after a pause; and speaking now in the tone of
a man of the world, "I acknowledge my mistake, and beg your pardon. But I
never read business letters, for one of which I took yours."
He spoke very civilly, but said not a word concerning the subject of the
letter; of which, quite as civilly, Cornelius reminded him.
"The statements made in that letter require some proof," he observed,
"and--"
"Your word suffices," interrupted Mr. Thornton, very politely. "I am
satisfied."
Cornelius bowed, but persisted.
"I have not the honour of being personally known to you, Sir; I would
rather--"
"Sir, one gentleman is quick to recognize another gentleman," again
interrupted Mr. Thornton; "I am quite satisfied."
He bowed a little ironically; and again Cornelius bent his head in
acknowledgment, observing, with a smile beneath which lurked not
ungraceful raillery,--
"I am delighted to think you are satisfied, Sir, as there remains for me
but to ask a plain question;--there is nothing like plain, direct dealing
between gentlemen. I am on my way to town, and somewhat pressed for time.
I have called to know whether George Thornton, of Thornton House, will or
will not receive his little grand-daughter."
There was no evading a question so distinctly stated. Mr. Thornton looked
at me with a darkening brow. "Sir," he morosely replied, "George Thornton
had once a daughter of his own, whom he liked after his own way. He took
a liking, too, to a young Irish physician, who settled in these parts,
and who, I can't help saying it was a very clever fellow, and had, for
his years, a wonderful knowledge of chemistry. 'I'll give Margaret to
that man,' thought George Thornton; and, whilst he was thinking about it,
the Irish physician quietly stole his daughter one evening. George
Thornton made no outcry; he simply said he would never forgive either one
or the other, and he never did."
"Your daughter's child is innocent," pleaded Cornelius.
"She is her father's child,--and his image, too; but no matter! I believe
you are on your way to town, Sir?"
"Yes, Sir, I am."
"And you called--?"
"To leave the child: such was my errand."
"Your errand is fulfilled, Sir; you may leave the child; I shall provide
for her."
"The late Doctor Burns has left some property--"
"I will have nothing to do with the property of the late Doctor Burns."
Mr. Thornton was anything but gracious, now; but, without heeding this.
Cornelius turned to me; he laid his hand on my head:
"Good bye! child," he said in a moved tone, "God bless you!"
He turned away; but I clung to him. "Take me with you!" I exclaimed;
"take me with you!"
"I cannot, Margaret," gently replied Cornelius, striving to disengage his
hand from mine.
"I won't stay here," I cried indignantly.
"You must," he quietly answered.
I dropped his hand, and burst into tears. He looked pained; but his
resolve did not alter.
"It cannot be helped," he said. "Good bye! I shall come and see you."
He held out his hand to me; but I felt forsaken and betrayed, and turned
away resentfully. He bent over me.
"Will you not bid me good-bye?" he asked.
I flung my arms round his neck; and, sobbing bitterly, I exclaimed, "Oh!
why then won't you take me with you?" He did not answer, gave me a quiet
kiss, untwined my arms from around his neck, exchanged a formal adieu
with my grandfather, and left me as unconcernedly as if, little more than
an hour before, he had not taken me in his arms, and cherished me in that
lonely garden, where I, so foolishly mistaking pity for fondness, had
given him an affection he evidently did not prize, and which, as I now
began to feel, had no home save the grave of the dead.