I remained alone a few minutes, at the end of which Mr. Thornton, whose
voice I heard in the next room, returned with the two Misses Clapperton.
They had brought my bonnet and cloak, put them on, bade me good-bye, and
kissed me kindly; then Mr. Thornton, who looked on with evident
impatience, took my hand, and hurried me off. A carriage stood waiting at
the door of Alhambra Lodge; my grandfather lifted me in, and closed the
door on me. The carriage drove rapidly away. I sat in it alone, mute, and
still amazed. After passing through roads, streets, and along terraces
unknown to me, the carriage entered a secluded-looking square, and drew
up before a plain house. A demure-looking servant answered the coachman's
knock, and was followed by a middle-aged widow lady, who helped me down
with a smile, saying cheerfully--
"This way, dear."
I entered with her, and at once looked round for Mr. Thornton. He was
nowhere to be seen.
"Please, Ma'am," I said, "is Mr. Thornton come?"
"I am so glad," she replied, seeming much relieved, "I felt afraid he was
not coming. No, my dear, he is not come yet, and to tell you the truth,
seeing you so suddenly, I could not understand it; but of course he'll
explain all. This way, dear; upstairs, dear; mind the turning of the
staircase, dear."
She took my hand and led me up carefully, as if I were a baby. She had a
very soft hand, and its touch was gentle and timid. When we had reached
the second-floor landing, she paused, and opened a door that led into a
front bed-room, large and airy, and overlooking the dull square below.
"Don't you think, dear?" suggested the lady, with hesitating kindness,--
"don't you think you had better let me take off your things?"
"I can take them off, Ma'am, thank you."
"Can you? Very well, dear; is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing, Ma'am, thank you."
"Very well. You will not look out of the window, will you? you might fall
out, you know, and be killed."
I promised not to look out; she called me a dear child, and left me. In a
few minutes I joined her below. I found her sitting alone in a dull and
sombre English-looking parlour. She seemed flurried on seeing me, and
spoke as if she had intended to go and fetch me, for fear, I suppose, of
any accident on the way; but satisfied that all was right, she subsided
into what appeared to be her habitual placidity. She had a kind face,
that had been pretty, and was still pleasant, though it wore a somewhat
uneasy expression, as if its owner were too much troubled with
conscientious scruples and misgivings.
"Do you know, Ma'am, if Mr. Thornton will soon come?" I asked, after
vainly waiting for my grandfather to make his appearance.
"He is gone, my dear," she replied, calmly. "I said you were taking off
your things, and he said he had nothing to say to you; but you may be
quite easy; it is all settled."
"Am I to stay with you, Ma'am?"
"Yes, my dear; I am to take care of you and educate you. My name is Mrs.
Gray. I live in this house. It is very airy; very salubrious. Mr.
Thornton was particular about that, and I am sure I would not have
deceived him for anything. Then there is the square, where we have of
course the privilege of walking when we like. Besides, I have received a
very good education myself, so that I am fit to teach you. I think we
shall be very happy together, dear," she added, with a smile, to which
neither in word nor in look my heavy heart could give response.
Mrs. Gray saw this, and looked discouraged at once. She hoped we should
be happy together; she trusted we should; she thought she might say it
should not be her fault if we were not. She was evidently getting very
uncomfortable, when I diverted her by a question.
"If you please, Ma'am, was it on account of what I said, that Mr.
Thornton took me away from the Misses Clapperton?"
"Ah, the Misses Clapperton. I really don't know, dear. Who are the Misses
Clapperton?"
"They receive a few private pupils; they live at Alhambra Lodge."
"Alhambra Lodge, and they receive private pupils, dear me!"
"Do you know, Ma'am, why I was not left there?"
"I dare say, my dear, it was because Mr. Thornton did not approve of
their method of teaching; there is a great deal in method."
"Do you know, Ma'am, if Miss O'Reilly will call next Sunday?"
"Miss O'Reilly? that is an Irish name, is it not?"
"Yes, Ma'am, she is Irish, and so is her brother. They were born at a
place called Bally Bunion."
"Bally Birmingham--how odd! One would think Birmingham could have done
without the Bally. Were you too born at Bally Birmingham, my dear?"
"No, Ma'am, I was born in England."
"Don't you feel much more comfortable to know that?"
"I don't know, Ma'am; but can you tell me if Miss O'Reilly will call next
Sunday?"
Mrs. Gray looked perplexed.
"Really," she replied, "I don't know, but I am sure if she does call, I
shall be very happy to see her, and to offer her a cup of tea. I always
have tea at five exactly."
She spoke earnestly, as if she feared her hospitable feelings might be
doubted. I saw she knew nothing, and questioned her no more.
Mrs. Gray was one of those quiet Englishwomen who seem to enjoy dullness
for its own sake. She lived in a dull neighbourhood, in a dull square, in
a dull house, and, as I soon found, she led as dull a life as she could
devise. We rose early, breakfasted together in the gloomy parlour, then
went to the lessons, which lasted until our two o'clock dinner. She was
an intelligent educated woman, but a nervous, timid teacher; and what
with her sensitiveness and her fear that she was not doing her duty by
me, she managed from the first day to render both herself and her pupil
somewhat uncomfortable. After dinner we took a short walk in the square,
or in a neighbouring walk planted with dusty elms, and called the Mall.
We took tea at five exactly; I sat up until bed-time, preparing my
lessons for the next day, whilst Mrs. Gray worked, or slyly read novels.
At first she was as secretive about it as if she were still a school-
girl, and I a stern schoolmistress; but when she saw that I was not
ignorant of the nature of the brown circulating-library volumes that now
and then peeped out of her work-basket, she gave up the concealment part
of the business, and informed me that though she did not approve of
novels generally, she thought herself justified in making exceptions.
Her taste for fiction was shared by Miss Taylor and Mrs. Jones, the only
friends she saw constantly. Once a week they came to tea with us, and
twice Mrs. Gray took tea with them. They were very quiet, inoffensive
women, with the organ of wonder large. I could see that they considered
me from the first as a sort of living novel, a "Margaret the Orphan," a
"Child of Mystery," etc. I entered Mrs. Gray's house on a Wednesday; the
same evening they took tea with her, and I detected both the looks and
signs they exchanged, and overheard whispered remarks of "How strange!"
"Most mysterious!" "You don't say so!" and the like.
If Jane and Fanny Brook had overpowered me with their boisterous ways,
the slow and quiet life I led with Mrs. Gray depressed me even to a sense
of pain. I felt it much during the first few days, and waited impatiently
for the Sunday. It came, but brought not Kate. I sat by the window the
whole day long, eagerly watching for her through the iron railings that
fenced in our abode, but she came not. As dusk closed around the dull
square and brooded heavily over its melancholy trees, my last hope
vanished. At first I thought she was offended with me and would not come,
then it occurred to me that she might not know where I was.
"My dear," earnestly said Mrs. Gray, "pray leave that window; you will
take cold. Miss O'Reilly, I dare say, will call to-morrow."
"Had I not better write to her, Mrs. Gray, and tell her I am with you?"
"No, my dear," replied Mrs. Gray, looking fidgety, "you must not do that,
if you please. I dare say she will call tomorrow; pray leave the window."
I obeyed the gentle injunction, but I had no faith in the hope held
forth; I did not think Kate would come, and indeed she did not, nor on
the following Sunday either. I again asked Mrs. Gray if I could not write
to Miss O'Reilly, who, I felt sure, did not know where I was.
"My dear," nervously said Mrs. Gray, "I fear that if Miss O'Reilly does
not know it, it must be because Mr. Thornton did not wish her to know it.
I should be very happy to see her, and I dare say she is a very charming
person; but I must go by Mr. Thornton's wishes."
All my entreaties could not induce her to alter her resolve. If I could
have disobeyed her injunction I would, but open means I saw not, and
hidden ones I had not the wit to devise; so I availed myself of the only
permission she gave me--that of writing to Mr. Thornton, asking his leave
to see my friends. Mrs. Gray sent the letter to his solicitors, but
either it did not reach him, or he did not think it worthy his attention,
for he never answered it. I saw how foolish I had been to place myself
under his control, and the thought that I had myself done it, and was
perhaps severed for ever from Cornelius and Kate, ended by affecting my
health. In my grief I had said that if I only knew how they were, I
should not mind so much not seeing them. Mrs. Gray eagerly caught at
this, and offered to ascertain the matter. I gave her the names of the
chief tradespeople with whom Miss O'Reilly dealt, and she set off one
afternoon on her errand. She stayed away two hours, and returned with a
cheerful face.
"Well," she said, sitting down and smiling at my eager look, "I have
learned everything. I called in at Parkins the baker, and asked Mrs.
Parkins if she knew an Irish family of the name of MacMahon (that was not
a story, you know, dear, because there are Irish MacMahons; indeed I knew
three myself, though I cannot say they lived in the Grove), to which Mrs.
Parkins replied, she did not know any MacMahons, and the only Irish
family who dealt with her were a Mr. and Miss O'Reilly; Mrs. O'Reilly
that was to be, would, she hoped, also give her her custom in time; I
asked what sort of a person she was. Fair and handsome, and Mr. O'Reilly
and his sister dark, but also very handsome. I said I did not think they
could be the MacMahons, who were all red-haired; and thanking Mrs.
Parkins, I came back. I hope, my dear, you will not fret after such good
tidings; for if Mr. O'Reilly is going to get married, he cannot be very
poorly nor his sister either; and I am sure you are too sensible to care
about the bride-cake; so it is all right, you see."
Alas! yes, it was all right, and I felt how little I must now be missed
in the home where I had once been petted and indulged so tenderly. They
were going to marry; there was nothing to fear or hope now. Mrs. Gray,
unaware of the jealousy that had been the source of all my misery,
continued to descant on this agreeable state of things, and altogether
derived some innocent enjoyment from the part she had acted, and the
spice of adventure it had thrown in her monotonous life.
It was a sort of comfort to know that Kate and Cornelius were well, but
it passed with time; and at length my ardent entreaties and solemn
promises not to betray my presence by word, sign, or look, wrung from
Mrs. Gray the favour of being taken one evening to the Grove, so that, in
passing by the house, I might perhaps catch a glimpse of the faces I
loved. Chance, or rather the kind power that disdains not to indulge our
human weakness, favoured me.
The evening was grey and mild, as it often is in the English summer. The
Grove was lonely. Mrs. Gray and I kept in the shadow of the trees, on the
side of the street facing Kate's house; and walked up and down two or
three times. The front parlour was not lit; I could see nothing of what
passed within, but in the stillness of that quiet evening I once or twice
caught the tones of the voice of Cornelius. I started to hear them.
"My dear," nervously said Mrs. Gray, "had we not better go?"
"Not yet, Ma'am," I entreated; "Deborah will soon bring up the lamp, the
window will remain open awhile, and then I shall be able to see them,
whilst they, you know, cannot see me."
All happened as I had said; Deborah brought up the lamp, laid it down on
the table and left the window open. Now I could see. The lamp burned with
a clear and steady flame, that illumined the whole room; the pictures
stood forth on the red paper of the walls, and on that sombre yet clear
back-ground appeared, vivid and distinct, the figures of Cornelius, Kate,
and Miriam. She sat reclining back in her chair, and looking up at him as
he stood behind her, laughing and talking pleasantly. I saw less of Kate,
who sat a little in the back-ground, bent over her work. They seemed both
cheerful and happy, for whilst I stood looking at them, half blinded by
tears, Cornelius suddenly turned away from Miriam, went up to the piano,
opened it, and sat down to sing the 'Exile of Erin.' What with hearing
his voice again, and with standing there listening to him, myself an
exile from his home, and, alas! from his heart, I wept. As the song
closed with its mournful cadence, Kate rose, shut the window, and drew
down the blind, thus excluding me from both sight and sound.
"Don't you think, dear, we had better go now?" whispered Mrs. Gray,
gently leading me away from the spot where I still stood looking and
listening, though there was no more to see or hear.
I yielded apathetically, and my companion hurried me away, nervously
looking behind every now and then, and declaring, "She had never gone
through anything to equal this, never!" Indeed by her two friends it was
considered quite an adventure, and served to enhance the mystery with
which it pleased their imagination to surround me.
I had longed passionately for the favour Mrs. Gray had granted, but to
have obtained it only added to my secret torment. I had now been six
weeks with the kind lady, but what with the dull monotonous life I led in
that dull house and the grief of being severed from those I loved so
dearly, I again became languid, if not ill. Mrs. Gray's instructions were
to let me want for nothing; she at once called in a physician, who gave
me plenty of bitter physic to drink, and ordered me to take more
exercise. We lived within half an hour's walk of Kensington Gardens, and
every fine day Mrs. Gray conscientiously took me there to spend the
interval between dinner and tea. She sat down on one of the benches and
read, whilst I wandered away at will.
Those gardens are very beautiful. They have verdure, water, rare fowl,
singing birds, flowers wild and cultivated, warm sunshine, deep shade,
and brooding over all that solemn charm which lingers around ancient
trees and woodland places. I was then studying botany, and my chief
pleasure was to look out for wild flowers or linger in some solitary
spot. I remember one well,--a solemn grove of elms and beeches, sombre
and quiet as a cloister. I often sought its gloom, led by that instinct
which makes the stricken deer fly to the shade. When I sat down at the
moss-covered base of those venerable trees, something of the soothing
calmness of pure nature seemed to fall on my spirit, with their vast
shadow. Above me sang the thrush and blackbird, whom I had so often heard
in the lanes around my old home. They were happy; to me their song
sounded neither gay nor joyful, but wild, sweet, and mournful as that of
the enchanted bird heard by bonny Kilmeny in the glen.
One day, in my search for botanical specimens, I wandered further than
usual. At length I came to a circular hollow enclosed by fine old trees,
of which one lay extended on the earth, uprooted in a recent storm. Its
vast boughs were beginning to wither, and its huge roots rose brown and
bare, for the first time beholding light; but of these signs, though I
noted them as we will note things even when our very hearts are stirred
within us. I thought not then; for at once I had seen and recognized
Cornelius, who sat on the trunk of the tree sketching.
Absorbed in his task he did not see me, and I stood mute within a few
paces of him, looking at him with my flowers in my hand. Through the
trees behind me the sun streamed in a few bright rays, that sent my
lengthened shadow on the grass. Cornelius saw it and looked up; the
pencil dropped from his hand and he turned very pale. Had he moved, or
had I? I know not, but the next moment I was locked in his embrace. What
I said or did, I cannot tell; he kissed me again and again with many an
endearing epithet. For some time neither spoke.
"Oh, my poor lost lamb!" he said, as I lay clasped in his arms too happy
for speech, "where have you been all this time?"
"I have been at Mrs. Gray's; how is Kate?"
"She is well, but unhappy about you. Who is Mrs. Gray? Where does she
live? Is she kind? Why are you so pale?"
"I am not well; I take physic every morning; Mrs. Gray is very kind; she
lives in Auckland Square, number three."
"I know the place; but why, you naughty child, did you not write to let
us know where you were?"
"Mrs. Gray would not let me. I wrote to Mr. Thornton, and he never
answered; but Mrs. Gray was very kind; once she went to Parkins, and
found out that you and Kate were quite well, and another time she took me
to the Grove, and I saw you both through the open window; it was in the
evening; you sang the 'Exile of Erin;' I stood with Mrs. Gray listening
on the other side of the street."
"And you never even came to the door?"
"Mrs. Gray would not have allowed it; besides--"
"Well, what is it?"
"You know," I replied, shunning his look, "what you said to me before I
went to Miss Clapperton's."
He did not answer, but when I again looked at him, the glow my words had
called up had not left his face.
"You are not here alone?" he observed after an embarrassed pause.
"Oh no! Mrs. Gray is sitting on one of the benches there beyond. Do you
want to speak to her?"
"Of course I do," he replied, chucking my chin in his old way.
He took my hand, picked up his sketch-book and drawing materials, and
walked with me to where Mrs. Gray sat. She was absorbed in the
catastrophe of a third volume, which she nearly dropped, as she saw me
appear before her, holding the hand of Cornelius. At first she was quite
agitated, but the free and easy manner of the young man soon restored her
composure. He did his best to render himself agreeable, and carefully
shunned every allusion that could alarm her. I had seen him give her two
or three keen looks as if to read her character, before he entered into
conversation, after which he went on like one master of his subject. He
talked pleasantly for about half an hour, then left us: as I kissed him,
my lips opened to ask when we should meet again, but his look checked me.
I saw him take the direction that led to the Grove, and my eyes followed
him until he was out of sight.
"A very agreeable young man, very," observed Mrs. Gray, giving me shy
looks I could not understand; "don't you think so, dear?"
"I don't know, Ma'am. I have known--"
"Yes, yes," she interrupted, "you have known others quite as agreeable;
why, so have I. Once I remember, as a girl, that my sister and I often
met in our walks a pleasant old gentleman, whom we called--not knowing
his name--Dr. Johnson. Suppose we call this young landscape-painter
Claude Lorraine."
"Oh, Ma'am! his name is--"
"My dear," impatiently interrupted Mrs. Gray, "how should you know his
name? did you ask it, or did he tell you?"
"Oh no, Ma'am!"
"Very well, then, how can you know it?"
I saw that Mrs. Gray wanted to keep on the safe side of truth, and, of
course, I was glad enough to indulge her. She perceived that I had at
length taken the hint, and talked freely of Claude Lorraine, who appeared
to have produced a very favourable impression.
For the remaining part of the day, and on the whole of the following
night, I was restless with joy and hope. Something too appeared to be the
matter with Mrs. Gray; for we dined half an hour earlier than usual, and
went out the very minute the meal was over.
"Where are we going to-day, Ma'am?" I asked.
"I think we had better go to the Gardens," she replied carelessly.
To the Gardens we at once proceeded. Mrs. Gray sat down on her usual
bench, drew forth her book, and told me she thought it would do me good
to walk about. I eagerly availed myself of the permission, and ran at
once to the fallen tree. Yes, there he sat, and with him, as I had
expected, was Kate.
She did not say much, but as she took me in her arms and kissed me, I hid
my face in her kind bosom, feeling too happy for aught save tears.
"Oh, you naughty child!" she said, giving me two or three reproachful
kisses; "how could you do it?"
"Kate, it was Mrs. Gray--"
"Yes, I know; Cornelius has told me all, but I don't care about Mrs.
Gray, you are to come with me this very minute."
"But Mrs. Gray--"
"Nonsense! Mrs. Gray won't break her heart about you; and you don't look
well at all."
"That is she, coming up to us, Kate."
And so it was. Mrs. Gray had got impatient, or perhaps alarmed, and
fancied that Claude had carried me off. She was thrown into another
flurry on seeing Miss O'Reilly; but Cornelius undertook to bring her
round, and succeeded so well that ere long she sat down by Kate, with
whom she chatted pleasantly, whilst I and Cornelius walked about. It
seemed to me that but a few minutes had thus passed, when came the
parting moment, and Mrs. Gray summoned me with a "My dear, is it not time
to go?" The following day was Sunday, and on that day we never walked in
the Gardens. With many kisses, caresses, and many a pang of secret
regret, and many a look behind, I parted from my two friends. They were
scarcely out of sight when Mrs. Gray exclaimed--
"There are very strange things in life--very. Now I should no more have
expected to meet in Kensington Gardens an old friend--than--than--really
--than anything!"
"An old friend, Mrs. Gray!"
"Why, of course; the lady to whom I spoke."
"Miss O'Reilly!" I exclaimed; then immediately felt dismayed at my own
imprudence.
But Mrs. Gray was getting bold, and replied, very calmly--
"Yes, I believe her name is O'Reilly; but I do not see anything wonderful
in that; as I believe O'Reilly is a very common Irish name."
"And you know her, Mrs. Gray?" I said, eagerly.
"I may safely say I have known her years. For it is now twenty years
since I met her at an evening party; I had forgotten her name, but not
her face, and being greatly pleased to see her again, I asked her to come
and take tea with me to-morrow evening."
"Did you meet her brother at that party, Ma'am?" I asked eagerly.
"Has she got a brother, my dear?" calmly inquired Mrs. Gray.
"Yes, Ma'am, the gentleman who was with her."
"Ah, indeed! the artist we saw yesterday--peculiar! No, my dear, I cannot
say I met him."
I saw with some disappointment that Cornelius was not included in the
invitation; but I tried to look to the morrow without ungrateful
repining; it came, and brought Kate alone, but not the less welcome.
I have often wondered at Mrs. Gray's motives for acting thus; but her
character was an odd mixture of sincerity and craft, of daring and
timidity. She was kind-hearted enough to like obliging me and woman
enough to cherish a feminine pique against Mr. Thornton for not being
more frank and explicit with her; besides her life was so dull that a
little gentle excitement and mystery were not things to be rejected
lightly; and then, as she was in independent circumstances, and had taken
me more for society than for profit, she was naturally less apt to regard
the consequences of her conduct.
Kate now came to see me freely, and yet I was not happy. Her brother, who
had seemed so pleased, so glad when he met me in the Gardens, came not.
"Oh, Kate!" I said, very sadly, "he does not care for me after all."
"Nonsense, child! I tell you he was miserable when he found that Mr.
Thornton had taken you no one knew where; why, he got thin with hunting
up and down for you; he had no peace himself and gave none to others.
Whereas, on the day he met you, he came in looking as gay as a lark, and
exclaiming the first thing, 'I have got her, Kate!'"
"Yes, but he does not come."
"Men are so. He is fond of you, and he neglects you, that is their way,
child."
This gave me little comfort, but at length one morning when I least
expected him, Cornelius suddenly called to see me, and to give me, with
the consent of Mrs. Gray, my long-promised walk. He kissed me carelessly;
his face looked worn; his way of speaking was short and dissatisfied. As
we left Mrs. Gray's house and turned round the square, he asked where I
wished to go, in a way that implied that, on taking me out for this walk,
he rather thought to get rid of it than to please either himself or me. I
replied timidly, that I did not care where we went.
"Are you getting shy with me?" he asked, giving me a keen and surprised
look.
I answered "No," with a consciousness that I should have said yes.
Cornelius looked at me again, but did not speak until we had for some
time walked on in silence. He then observed abruptly--
"How do you like being at Mrs. Gray's?"
"Pretty well."
"Viz. not much."
"I do not complain, Cornelius, she is very kind."
"And she gives you a very good character, and I have assured her she told
me nothing new."
He had laid his hand on my shoulder, and he looked into my face with all
the kindness of old times. I replied in a low tone--
"It was very kind of you, Cornelius, to say so."
"I only said what I thought; you need not thank me for it."
He spoke impatiently; I did not reply, and there was another long pause.
"Are you tired?" at length asked Cornelius, who was leading me through
streets and bye places of which I knew nothing.
"A little."
"And there is not even a shop where I could make you rest; why did not
you say so sooner?"
"I did not like to delay you."
"The next thing will be, that you will call me Mr. O'Reilly. Well, it is
your own fault, and you will have to walk further before you rest, for I
am taking you into the country."
We walked on until the houses grew thinner and began to skirt green
fields. The sun was hot, and I found it pleasant to enter a cool and
shady lane. There was a bank on which I could have rested, but Cornelius
seemed to have forgotten my fatigue; he walked on, looking so abstracted
that I did not dare to address him. At length we reached the corner of
the lane, and turned into one so exactly like that leading to our old
home, that I stopped short.
"Come on," coolly said Cornelius.
I did go on; every step showed me I had not been deceived; I recognized
the hedges, the trees, with a beating heart. At length we came to the
door I knew so well. Cornelius opened it with a latch-key, and without
giving me a look, led me in. We crossed the garden, passed by the sun-
dial, stept in beneath the ivied porch, and entered the front parlour,
where, by the window, in the cool shade of green Venetian blinds, Kate
sat sewing.