CHAPTER XII.

Years give us strength to suffer. I was no longer a weak and sickly child. I grieved, but my sorrow was not more than I could bear. I was young, and hope soon returned to me, and whispered that, after all, this trial, though bitter, could not last for ever; that I might succeed in conciliating my grandfather; and, should I fail in the attempt, that a few more years would make me my own mistress.

My cousin Edward sympathised with me, wondered what could be Mr. Thornton's motives for such strange severity, and what sort of a heart he had thus rudely to break the tender and filial tie which bound me to my adopted father. I thought him very kind; and my only comfort was to look with him over the sketches of Cornelius.

Next to seeing him, it was pleasant to hear him spoken of. I seldom uttered his name myself, but I could sit for hours, listening patiently, just for the chance of its being mentioned now and then. This was the charm which lay for me, in the presence of Edward Thornton, which made me regret his absence and welcome his return. He seemed flattered by my evident preference, his sister looked on approvingly, and Mrs. Langton brushed past me haughty and disdainful.

At the end of a week, Mr. Edward Thornton announced to me, one evening that we chanced to be alone, his intention of leaving Thornton House early the next day. He was going to London; he promised to call on Cornelius and Kate, tell them he had seen me, and write to me how he had found them. Then he rose, and bade me farewell.

"When do you come back?" I asked, with a sigh.

"I do not come back," he said, gently.

"Oh! but what shall I do?" I exclaimed, dismayed at the prospect of having no one to talk to me of Cornelius, and my eyes filled with involuntary tears.

Mr. Edward Thornton looked embarrassed and hinted that his sister remained behind. I did not answer--a pause followed. Then my cousin hoped that, if my grandfather permitted it, I would accompany Mrs. Brand when she left Thornton House for Poplar Lodge. I knew the place well: it stood within a comparatively short distance of the Grove. My heart beat, and my face flushed, at the thought of catching a stray glimpse of Cornelius and Kate.

"Oh, I shall be so glad--so happy!" I exclaimed, eagerly.

My cousin protested that the joy and happiness would be his; and, respectfully kissing my hand, he bade me a tender adieu. On the very day of his arrival in town, he called at the Grove, and, with a promptitude that touched me, wrote to me, by the same day's post, that he had seen Miss O'Reilly, who seemed quite well, and sent her love to me; but that he had missed her brother. More he did not say, and with this much, I had, perforce, to content myself.

His absence made me feel very lonely. We were a strange household, and led a strange life. My grandfather did not think it necessary to trouble himself about his uninvited guests. He never sought our society, or appeared at our table. Mrs. Marks tacitly resented our intrusion by retiring to the stronghold of her high room, whence she occasionally amused herself with ringing her alarum-bell, and now and then emerged to make a descent upon Charlotte below. She saw that Mr. Thornton wanted for nothing, and allowed us to shift as we liked. We went on very well. Mrs. Brand's servant daily foraged for our support, and Mrs. Langton's French maid, with Charlotte as a subordinate, condescended to cook us the exquisite soups and ragouts of her country. Thus we lived most luxuriously in that old wainscotted parlour, where there were scarcely three chairs fit to sit upon.

Mrs. Brand and Mrs. Langton did not feel the inconvenience; both before and after the departure of Edward Thornton, they lived in a round of visits and country gaieties. People, I believe, must not have known that I existed, for I was never included in the invitations they received; and the peculiar life my grandfather led, had so thoroughly estranged him from his neighbours, that not one of them ever crossed the threshold of his dwelling. What kept two such gay ladies in so gloomy an abode, was, for some time, more than I could tell, or find out, spite of the mysterious hints which Mrs. Brand dropped now and then.

My cousin had been gone a week, when Mr. Thornton was suddenly called away on business. He placed his study under my care, with the strict, but, as it seemed to me, unnecessary prohibition of allowing any one to enter this sacred place. He still employed me as reader and amanuensis, and had left me plenty of manuscripts to transcribe. I sat writing by the open window, when the sound of the opening door made me look up. I saw Mrs. Brand. She came in with a mysterious air, and locked the door after her. I rose, and with some embarrassment, informed her of my grandfather's orders.

"I am not at all astonished," she replied, calmly.

"I am sorry to be the bearer of such a message," I said, with some emphasis.

"True," she sighed, sitting down as she spoke, and her eye wandering keenly over the whole room. I reminded her that Mr. Thornton's orders admitted of no exception. She shook her head, raised her handkerchief to her eyes, withdrew it after a decent pause, and observed, mournfully:--

"Bound as I am to Mr. Thornton by the ties of blood--bound, I may say, by the ties of affection--it is melancholy--My dear, is he to be long out?"

"I don't know, ma'am; but he said--"

"Yes, dear, I know. Bound by the ties of affection, it is melancholy even to allude to the mysterious calamity which has befallen him. I have with pleasure noticed your reserve."

"Indeed, Ma'am, I am ignorant--"

"Quite right, dear, quite proper. Of course you have noticed peculiarities of thought, speech, and conduct. No one, indeed, has had so good an opportunity as you have possessed; but you have discreetly abstained from comment. You had heard of dungeons, chains, whips, strait- waistcoats, and keepers; you did not know that there are places where the afflicted are happier far than when allowed the indulgence of their own wayward wills; indeed, where they are only restricted in one or two trifling matters, for their own good of course."

She sighed as she concluded.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," I said, much astonished, "you mistake; I never thought anything of the sort, and never for a moment connected the places you mention with Mr. Thornton."

"I see; you thought of keeping it quiet in the family; very amiable, but impracticable."

"No, Ma'am, I did not think of that either."

"But, my dear, you must have noticed so many things; indeed you have had rare opportunities, for instance, the change from amiability to moroseness."

"I don't think Mr. Thornton ever was amiable, Ma'am."

"My dear! the most amiable of men."

"Then not in my time, Ma'am."

Mrs. Brand gave me a perplexed look, then observed--

"Do you really think, my dear, Mr. Thornton is of sound mind?"

"I am sure of it."

"My dear, you take a weight from my mind. Edith would have it that he did such strange things when she was here--write such oddities. I wonder what there is in those papers."

She stretched forth her hand; I drew away the papers from her reach, and said, quietly--

"There is nothing odd in these papers, Ma'am. They are merely about mineralogy."

"Mineralogy!" she exclaimed, eagerly, "my dear, if a lawyer were to see them he might detect what you cannot of course perceive--the scientific madness."

"The what, Ma'am?"

"'The scientific madness,' you deaf little fool," said the sarcastic voice of my grandfather.

Mrs. Brand jumped and I started. We looked round, he was nowhere in the room. He laughed ironically; we turned round and saw his head rising above the window-sill, on which his chin just rested.

"So," he said, addressing his cousin, "you are kind enough to trouble yourself about me in my absence. Eh!"

Mrs. Brand, the first moment over, was too thorough a woman of the world to allow herself to be disconcerted.

"Yes, Mr. Thornton," she said, rising with sorrowful dignity, "your ill- used relatives think of schemes for your benefit; they know their duty to you, and though they should be misunderstood, they will persist in that duty. Good-bye, my dear child, I leave you with regret to the fatal consequences of your blindness."

She walked out of the room as she spoke. The head of my grandfather sank down and vanished, and in a few minutes his whole person appeared at the door of the study; he stood there eyeing me from head to foot.

"Why did you let her in?" he asked sternly.

"I could not help it, Sir."

"You should have turned her out."

"Sir."

"Turned her out. Are you getting deaf?"

He seemed in a very bad temper, sat down with his hat on, and hunted for something amongst the books and papers on his table, grumbling all the time. A knock at the door disturbed him; he opened it himself.

"Miss Burns is engaged," he said sharply, in reply to something, then re- entered the room, slamming the door and muttering to himself.

In a few minutes, there was a sound of carriage wheels rolling down the avenue.

"A happy riddance!" grumbled Mr. Thornton. "Will you soon have done that transcribing?"

"By dinner-time, Sir."

He glanced over my shoulder at what I had done, signified his approbation, and told me, as the others had taken themselves off, I might stay and dine with him. Accordingly, in an hour's time, we had a frugal and silent meal on an end of the table cleared away for that purpose. When the repast was over, Mr. Thornton went to a cupboard, opened it, and brought forth a bottle of old-looking wine, then laid it down and glanced at me significantly. I shook my head, and said I never took wine.

"Then you are a little fool," he replied good-humouredly, "for there is nothing better; and this is glorious old port, too."

He sat down, poured himself out a tumbler full, and, reclining back in his deep arm-chair, began enjoying slowly the only indulgence he granted to his solitary life. The genial influence of the generous vintage soon became apparent. The sternness of his mouth relaxed; his brow smoothed down; his piercing eyes softened into a sort of careless and jovial good- humour; and when he laid down his glass, it was to thrust his hands in his pockets, and chuckle to himself at the discomfiture of Mrs. Brand.

"Scientific madness, eh--and wanted to hook you into it, and that little bit of mineralogy, too--much the lawyers would have made of it! I am a lucky man; every creature I have to do with tries to cheat or outwit me; that Irish friend of yours, you--"

"Excuse me, Sir," I interrupted, reddening; "cheating implies trust, and you did not trust us. Mr. O'Reilly is the slave to his word. He kept his to you; I had none to keep. You never asked him if he liked to give me up; you never asked me if I liked being here. Do not wonder he did his best to get me back, and I to get away."

I spoke warmly; Mr. Thornton projected his nether lip, and shrugged his shoulders impassionately.

"You ridiculous little creature," he said, "why should I ask you if you liked the medicine which I your physician knew to be good for you? Don't you see that Irishman would have got tired of the young girl, as he once did of the little girl, and sent her off somewhere? I spared him the trouble."

"Indeed," I replied indignantly, "he would not have got tired of me! If I were his own child, Cornelius could not be fonder of me than he is."

Mr. Thornton looked deep into me, and at first said nothing.

"If you were his own child--eh!" he at length echoed. "Fudge!"

"Fudge, Sir! And why should he not like me? He reared me, he taught me, he watched by me when I was ill; he did everything for me. Why then should he not like me?"

I sat within a few paces of my grandfather; he stretched out bis arm, placed his hand under my chin, raised my face so as to meet his bended gaze, and again seemed to read me through.

"Silly thing!" he said, a little contemptuously, and dropped his hand, which I immediately caught, and imprisoned in both mine.

"Oh, Sir!" I exclaimed, "I have kept my word; I will keep it still; but pray let me go and see them--pray do. Where can the harm be in that? Oh! pray, do let me!"

In my eagerness, I could scarcely speak, and the words trembled on my lips.

"So," he said, "that is what you have been getting pale about, is it?-- and fretting, eh?"

I could not deny the imputation. He took his hand from me, frowned, and looked displeased.

"Margaret Burns," he observed, sharply, "you are a fool, and I am a still greater fool not to let you rush on your fate. However, I am not going to do it; so just make up your mind to stay here."

With that he rose, took the paper for which he had come back, and left me, bidding me not to forget that "Chaos and Creation."

He did not come back for three days, which I spent alone in Thornton House. It rained from morning until night, and I felt dull and miserable. I passed the best part of my time in the study, reading; and there my grandfather found me on his return.

The afternoon was not far gone, and the weather seemed inclined to improve. The rain had ceased; yellow streaks of sunlight pierced the gray sky, and lit up the wet park. I sat by the window, through which streamed in a doubtful light; a book lay on my lap unread, and with my two hands clasped upon it, and my head low bent, I was absorbed in a waking dream, when the sound of the opening door roused me. I looked up, and saw Mr. Thornton, in his travelling dress, standing on the threshold, his two hands resting on the head of his cane, his eyes attentively fixed upon me. I said something about his return, and rose. He did not answer, but came in slowly, and began taking off his great coat; then suddenly pausing in the operation, he turned to me, and said abruptly:

"What is it about?"

"What, Sir?" I asked, astonished.

"That you are crying for?"

I hung down my head, and did not reply.

"Has anything or any one annoyed you, whilst I was away?" he asked, in the same short way.

"No. Sir."

"Then what are you crying for?"

"Oh, Sir, you know!" 1 said, with involuntary emotion.

"The old story, eh?" He walked up and down the room with his coat hanging half off from one arm; then suddenly stopping before me, he said: "Since you will be a fool, why be one and have your way. That friend of yours has not yet left Leigh; if he will come here, and comply with a condition that I shall exact, he may take you with him when and for as long as he likes."

I could scarcely believe my senses. I gazed incredulously at Mr. Thornton, who told me not to be bewildered, but see about it. I needed no second bidding, and ran out of the room at once. I met Charlotte on the staircase.

"Charlotte," I said, breathlessly, "can you take a letter for me to Leigh immediately?"

Before the girl could answer, Mrs. Marks, standing on the landing where I had first seen her, chose to interfere.

"Charlotte must get Mr Thornton's dinner ready," she said, majestically.

"Very well," I replied more quietly; "Richard can do it."

"Richard is out," she observed with evident satisfaction.

"Then I can do it myself," I said impatiently.

I ran up-stairs, got ready, and went off at once. It was only when I had passed the lodge, that it occurred to me Mr. Thornton had not perhaps intended me to be my own messenger; but it was too late to retreat; besides I could not resist the temptation of seeing Cornelius again, so I cast thought behind me, and went on.

My heart beat fast as I reached Rock Cottage. The garden-gate stood ajar; the door was open too; I entered and looked into both the parlours, then passed on to the garden, hurried along the gravel path, and caught a glimpse of him going down to the beach. I thought to call him back, but changed my mind, and followed him silently. The path wound away to the sands, sunk between sharp and rugged rocks. Down these, the gate and garden left behind me, I ran lightly. I soon outstripped him, and stood awaiting his approach on a point of rock that projected over the path. He walked with folded arms and eyes bent on the earth. When he was within a few paces of me, I dropped lightly down before him. If I had fallen from the sky, he could scarcely have looked more astonished. He did not speak, but took my hands in his, as if to make sure of my identity.

"I am no spirit," I said, "but real flesh and blood."

The blood rushed up to his brow.

"You are come--come back to me after all!" he exclaimed ardently. "I knew you would." And stooping, he pressed me to his heart with a passionate fondness that made me forget all save the joy of seeing him again. I know not what we said in that first moment. I felt one with him then, and his words of endearment and gladness are irrevocably blended with mine in memory. All I distinctly remember, is finding myself sitting with him in the back-parlour of Rock Cottage, my two bands clasped on his shoulder, my eyes raised up to his, and my ears drinking in with delight every word that fell from his lips. He called me by every fond name he could think of; blessed me over and over, and ended by saying eagerly: "Had we not better go at once, my darling?"

I started and woke from my dream.

"Cornelius," I replied, hesitatingly, "I have not run away--I am come to see you."

He looked transfixed.

"To see me!" he said at length; "and do you think I will let you leave me? No, Daisy, you have placed in my way a temptation mortal man could not resist. I tell you that I have you, and that I will keep you."

He took my two hands in his. I tried to disengage them; but though his grasp was so gentle I scarcely felt it, it held me completely captive. He smiled at my useless efforts; then said with some reproach:

"Oh, Daisy! the little girl whom I carried in my arms seven years ago, was willing enough. I had not, even in jest, to hold her hands. She clasped them around my neck lovingly and trustingly, laid her hand on my shoulder, and had but one fear--lest I should leave her behind."

He released me, and added, in his most fervent and beseeching accents:

"Come with me, Daisy; come with me. If you ever cared for me, show it now--come with me. Don't drive me to do something desperate--I tell you that I will never leave Leigh without you. Come with me!"

He had again clasped his arms around me, and held me within a circle more potent than that of any magic spell. I laid my two hands on his shoulders, and smiled up at him, as I replied:

"I should have told you at once, but I was so glad, that I forgot it; and you are so impatient that you won't hear me out. Mr. Thornton has changed his mind--he says I may be with you and Kate again--all on a condition."

"What condition?" he promptly asked.

"I don't know--he will tell it to you himself, and you will agree to it-- won't you, Cornelius?"

"No," he replied, impatiently; "this is a snare. Besides, why submit to a condition when I have you here without one? Oh, Daisy! now is the moment. Fate, or rather Providence, has made us meet--we must not have the madness to part again. I have missed one opportunity--I will not miss another. Trust to me. Cast by all thought, all fear--look not behind or before you. Come, Daisy, not to-morrow--not to-night--but now! Come with me--come!"

He rose, as if to lead me away that very moment; but he still held me fast, and that clasp which the passion of the moment only rendered more secure, his flushed face, eager looks, and feverish accents, all breathed the most vehement and ardent entreaty.

Subdued by his resolute tenderness, I yielded, but for a moment only; the next, I rallied and resisted. I made a desperate effort, and, both bodily and mentally, asserted my freedom.

"No, no, Cornelius," I cried, agitatedly, "I cannot go with you. I, too, have passed my word, and I must keep it--I must keep it; and you must not ask or tempt me to break it--indeed, Cornelius, you must not."

I spoke as I felt, with much distress. Cornelius calmed down at once, and entreated me to be pacified.

"I had forgotten your promise;" he said, "seeing you here, I had but one thought [] to possess and secure that which I had lost. I will submit to Mr. Thornton's conditions, and take you back to him this moment. What more would you have?"

In his earnestness, he again took my hand. My lips parted to thank him, but the entrance of our old servant checked the words. She muttered indistinctly, as was her wont, then kept the door open, and admitted--Mr. Thornton.

For a moment, he stood still on the threshold, and looked confounded. Neither Cornelius nor I spoke.

"So," he said at length, "I fancy I leave you safe at home writing a letter, and give myself the trouble of coming here to have some private talk with Mr. O'Reilly; and you are actually here before-hand with me."

"I could find no one to send the letter by, Sir," I replied, quite dismayed. "I am sorry if I have done wrong."

"Wrong!" echoed Cornelius, looking displeased, and drawing me towards him as he spoke.

I saw his proud and hasty temper would ruin all; I hastened to interfere.

"I have been speaking to Mr. O'Reilly," I said, quickly, "and he has promised to abide by the conditions. You know, Cornelius, you have promised," I added, turning towards him.

He could not deny it, but reddened, and bit his lip. Mr. Thornton said nothing, but sat down, and looked at us with a keen and attentive gaze, which Cornelius did not seem to relish.

"You wished to speak to me, Sir," he said, at length.

"Yes, Sir," composedly answered my grandfather, "I came here for that purpose, just as you came to me on the same errand seven years ago. Sir, I am a plain man, and I shall speak plainly. I think it is a strange thing that since you in some manner forced this young girl upon me, you are ever doing all you can to get her back--ay, and a very strange thing."

He looked at him fixedly. Cornelius returned the gaze, and the question:

"Is it a stranger thing, Sir, than that you, who accepted this young girl so reluctantly, should since always show yourself so anxious to keep her?"

"Perhaps not," drily replied Mr. Thornton; "but I meant to be brief. What I have to say is this: When I placed her with Mrs. Gray, I never intended, Sir, that you should see her face again. I had my motives. The physician having, however, pronounced her consumptive, I thought, if she was to die, she might as well be humoured. But when I returned, a few weeks ago, I learned that the little thing was alive and well; that you, too, had returned from your travels, and had turned out a most vigilant and attentive guardian; and it occurred to me that I might as well remind you of your promise. For this, too, I had my motives. You redeemed your word honourably, without taking advantage of your position or influence; but it was the old story all over--no sooner was she out of your hands, than you were half mad to have her back again. She, too, wanted to be off; and, to show me what a tyrant I was, and what a victim I made of her, she got thin and sallow with all her might. Sir, I give in; on the condition I shall name presently--she may dispose of herself as she thinks fit. But this time, as well as before, you owe me no thanks. It is to gratify her I do it."

"And this time, as before, it is to please her I submit to a condition," haughtily replied Cornelius.

I still stood by him and gave his arm a warning and entreating pressure. My grandfather calmly resumed:

"She is young, and much under your influence. I wish her to remain quite free, and shall be satisfied if you will promise not to make a present of her to any bosom friend of yours that might take a fancy to her, you understand."

"Yes, Sir, I understand." replied Cornelius, with subdued irritation, "but I decline pledging myself for her."

"I do not require it," said Mr. Thornton, a little ironically, "I care not a rush on whom the silly thing bestows herself, but I like fair play, and want her to give herself, and not to be given--or taken either. If she runs away without your knowledge, depend upon it I shall not accuse you. I ask you to pledge yourself for yourself--do you object?"

"No, no," I replied eagerly for him, "Cornelius does not object. Bless you, Mr. Thornton, _he_ does not want to give me away. Of course he does not. You don't, Cornelius, do you?" I added, looking up in his face, and passing my arm within his.

My grandfather laughed sarcastically. Cornelius looked exasperated. He seemed to be undergoing a sharp, inward struggle; at length he yielded.

"For her sake, Sir," he said, addressing Mr. Thornton, "and hers alone, I yield; I give you the promise you require. Allow me to add that you either trust me a great deal too much, or far too little."

He spoke with such defiant pride, that I looked half frightened at my grandfather; but he only smiled and rose. I saw he was going, and left Cornelius to bid him adieu.

"Good-bye!" he said, roughly; yet when I passed my arm around his neck, and, for the first time touched his cheek with my lips, he looked more astonished than displeased; but he had so long broken with the charities of life, that to return the embrace probably did not occur to him. All he did was to look from me to Cornelius, and say, with a careless nod:

"She's a pretty little thing," having delivered which opinion, he turned away and left us.

Scarcely had the door closed on him, when Cornelius broke out.

"Oh, Daisy!" he exclaimed, "what have you made me do! And why must I, who hate the mere thought of interference and subjection, thus hold you on the good-will and pleasure of another."

He paced the room with agitated steps. I saw his pride suffered, and following him, I did my best to soothe him; at length I succeeded; he stopped short before me, looked down at me with a smile, and said:

"I almost forgive your perverse old grandfather everything, for the sake of his last words. You are a pretty little thing--and better than you are pretty," he added fondly.

"Then mind you appreciate me," I replied.

He said there was no fear that he should not.

We left Leigh the next day, and Cornelius, according to the philosophic injunction of Kate, locked up the house and brought the key in his pocket.