CHAPTER XV.

There is a way of leaning back in an open carriage which only those accustomed to its use can attain--a sort of well-bred indolence--of riding over the world--of indifference to its concerns, which requires long and constant practice. Mrs. Brand possessed that art in the highest degree. Walking in the street, she would have seemed a thin, faded, insignificant woman; but, reclining in her carriage, with her _ennuy?_ air, her carelessness, and her impertinence, she was stamped with aristocracy.

We had soon reached Poplar Lodge. It stood about a mile from the Grove, by the lanes, and twice that distance by the high road. I knew the place well--it was small, but the most beautiful residence in the neighbourhood. It stood in the centre of lovely pleasure-grounds--a white and elegant abode, filled with all that could charm the fancy and attract the eye. Pictures, statues, books, furniture, simple yet costly, were there, without that profusion which mars the effect of the most beautiful things. Mrs. Brand perceived my admiration, and led me from room to room with careless ostentation. At length, we came to a small gallery, filled with exquisite pictures.

"There are not many," she said, negligently, "but they are good. All modern, and almost all English. The blank spaces which you see will, I dare say, be filled up from this year's Academy."

My heart beat fast. I thought at once of Cornelius, and I saw his three pictures already hung up in my cousin's gallery.

"And so you like Poplar Lodge," observed Mrs. Brand, taking me back to the drawing-room. "Well, it is a pretty place. And don't you think," she added, sighing as she glanced around her, "that Edward's wife will be a happy woman?"

"I don't know, Ma'am; but I know she will have a lovely house, and delightful chairs, too," I added, sinking down, as I spoke, into a most luxurious arm-chair.

"My dear, she will have what one who speaks from experience can assure you is far above such worldly comforts--a devoted husband."

Mrs. Brand's cambric handkerchief was drawn forth, unfolded, and raised to her eyes in memory of the departed.

"And Mrs. Langton and this place will suit one another so well," I said, looking round the luxurious drawing-room. "I can fancy her wandering about those grounds as lovely as a lady in a fairy tale, or passing from one beautiful room to another, like a princess in her palace. She will be the crowning piece of perfection of Mr. Thornton's dwelling."

Mrs. Brand hastily removed her handkerchief, and assured me:

"That was over--quite over; a most unfortunate affair. It had once been her darling wish to see her friend and her brother united; but even she had felt it was impossible. They had felt it themselves, and had agreed to forget the past."

I smiled at the idea of this hollow truce.

"Besides," pensively continued Mrs. Brand, "I have strong reasons to believe his affections are engaged elsewhere. I hear him coming in; you will notice at once how pale and low-spirited Edward looks."

The entrance of Edward prevented my reply. He started with astonishment on seeing me, and greeted me with a mixture of embarrassment and tender courtesy that surprised me a little. He asked after Mr. Thornton's health.

"I hope he is well," I replied, smiling; "but I am your neighbour now. Is it not delightful?"

I meant delightful to be again with my friends; to my amusement he smiled and bowed.

"Miss Burns has been admiring your pictures," said Mrs. Brand.

Mr. Thornton was happy if anything at Poplar Lodge had afforded me pleasure.

"Anything!" I echoed, "why it is everything. From his appearance I could not have believed the late Mr. Wyndham had such exquisite taste."

Mrs. Brand laughed, and informed me the place was bare in Mr. Wyndham's time. Mr. Thornton's modesty, alarmed at the indirect compliment he had received, induced him to change the subject of discourse by showing me a handsome collection of drawings. We were engaged in looking over them, when Mrs. Langton, who was also on a visit to her dear Bertha, entered.

"Those two are always so fond of drawings!" said Mrs. Brand, rising to receive her.

I looked up, and saw the beautiful Edith glancing at us across the table. She had left by her weeds, and looked wonderfully lovely in a robe of changing silk. She stood with her hand clasped in that of her friend, and her beautiful arm partly left bare by her falling sleeve. Her face was turned towards us; her dark hair, braided back from her fair brow, wound in a diadem above it; her cheeks were flushed like roses; her blue eyes were full of light and softness. "Mrs. Brand," I thought, "you may do what you like, your Edith shall reign here yet."

She graciously expressed her pleasure at seeing me again; and gently sinking down on a divan, looked lovely, until we went down to dinner.

I spent the next day, Saturday, shopping in town with Mrs. Brand, and thought it rather hard work. Sunday I claimed and obtained to pass at the Grove. I came upon Cornelius suddenly, as he sat in the back-parlour by the open window; his elbow on the sill, his brow resting on the palm of his hand. Before he knew of my presence, my arms were around his neck, and my lips had touched his cheek. He started, then returned the embrace with lingering tenderness; and Kate, who came in, laughed at us both, and said one might think we had been years apart.

It was foolish to be glad to see him again after so short a separation; I knew it, but could not help it. He, too, seemed glad; I had never seen him in better spirits; and seldom had I spent even with him, a pleasanter day. With regret, I saw approach the hour that should take me back to Poplar Lodge. Cornelius said he would accompany me by the lanes. They looked very lovely on that mild spring evening, and we talked pleasantly and happily as we walked along. At length we reached the end of a long lane that brought us to a grated iron door--the back entrance of Poplar Lodge.

We stopped short; the place and the moment stand before me like a picture still.

The lane was lonely, and hushed rather than silent. The heavy clouds of night were gathering slowly in the lower sky. In its serener heights, the full moon had risen, and now looked down at us between two of the large poplar trees that had given its name to my cousin's abode. I stood by Cornelius, one arm passed in his, his other hand clasping mine.

"When will you come back?" he asked, bending over me.

"Next Saturday, I hope."

"Not before?"

"No, Cornelius, I could not, you know."

"Can't you try?"

"Indeed, Cornelius. I am afraid I cannot. You know I long to be back with you and Kate."

"Very well, then; Saturday let it be. And yet, Daisy, why not Friday?"

"Cornelius, I assure you I think it would be taken amiss if I were to leave on Friday."

He submitted, gave me a quiet kiss, and rang the bell. A white figure emerged from a neighbouring avenue, and Mrs. Langton, recognising me through the iron grating, took down the key that always hung by the door, and admitted me, smiling. I introduced Cornelius somewhat awkwardly. He stood with the light of the moon full on his face and figure. I caught Mrs. Langton giving him two or three rapid and curious looks, but she only made a few civil and commonplace remarks. He answered in the same strain, bowed, and left us.

"And so, Miss Burns," softly observed Mrs. Langton, as she closed and locked the gate, "that is your adopted father--as Mr. Edward Thornton calls him, I believe."

"Yes," I said, quietly, "Cornelius is, indeed, my adopted father; but he does not like me to consider him so."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, no: he does me the honour to hold me as his friend."

Mrs. Langton suppressed a rosy smile, and talked of the beauty of the evening as we walked through the grounds to the Lodge.

Mr. Thornton was out, and Mrs. Brand whispered confidentially that my absence might be the cause. He came in, however, sufficiently early, and as I sat apart rather silent, his sister felt sure I suffered from low spirits, and gave him the duty of enlivening me. He smiled, bowed, and settling himself in a comfortable arm-chair by me, entered on the task. But I remained obstinately grave, until, from topic to topic, he came to the Academy.

My cousin gave me the tidings that it was to open in two days. He hoped I would accompany Mrs. Brand. He knew my judgment was excellent, and felt anxious to have my opinion of several pictures he had already secured, and of others he intended purchasing.

"Oh, I shall be so glad!" I exclaimed, with an eagerness that made him smile.

I reddened at the thought that my motive had been detected, and tried to repair my blunder; but do what I would, I could not help betraying my pleasure. I laughed, I talked, I was not the same.

"Have I really succeeded so well?" whispered my cousin.

The spirit of mischief is not easily repressed at seventeen. I looked up at him, and answered saucily--

"Better than you think."

Mr. Thornton laughed, and declared I was the most delightfully original and _naive_ girl he had ever met with.

It rained the whole of the following day, which we spent at Poplar Lodge, to the great disgust of the slave of the world. But the next morning rose lovely and serene. At an early hour we were at the doors of the Royal Academy. I knew that the pictures of Cornelius were accepted; on that head I therefore felt no uneasiness, yet my heart beat as we ascended the steps of the National Gallery. A glance at the catalogue dispelled all lingering fear. As my cousin placed it in my hands, he accompanied it with a pencil case, and a whispered entreaty to mark the pictures I approved. I looked up at him, smiling to think he had chosen a judge so partial. We had no sooner entered the first room than Mrs. Brand was overpowered with the heat. When she recovered, she thought she should go and look at the miniatures with her dear Edith. She knew we did not like the miniatures, and requested that we should go our own way. She and her dear Edith would go their own way. We resisted this a little, but Mrs. Brand was peremptory, and at length we yielded and parted from them. Absorbed in the engrossing thought "Are they well hung?" I performed my critical office very inaccurately; but having been so fortunate as to single out two of the pictures Mr. Thornton had purchased, I escaped detection, and received several warm compliments on my good taste. He was informing me how much he relied upon it, when we suddenly came to the two Italian pieces of Cornelius.

"What do you think of these?" I said carelessly.

"Poor, very poor," he replied, and passed on.

I heard him mortified and mute; all my hopes dispelled at once by all this sweeping censure. The pictures of Cornelius poor! Those two beautiful Italian things, which would have filled so well the blank spaces in the gallery! I was astonished and indignant at Mr. Thornton's bad taste. He might mark his own pictures now, I would have nothing more to do with him; he was evidently conceited, impertinent, insolent, and he had neither heart nor soul, for he could not appreciate the beautiful.

Unconscious of my feelings, my cousin went on criticising.

"What are they all looking at?" he said, drawing near to where a crowd had gathered around one of the lower paintings.

"At some stupid picture or other," I replied, impatiently. "It is always the stupid pictures that the people look at."

He smiled at the petulant speech, and, spite of my evident indifference made way for me through the crowd of gazers; but I turned away, I would not look. With an ill-repressed smile of contempt, I listened to the "exquisite," "beautiful," "a wonderful thing," which I heard around me.

"Yes," I thought, scornfully, "much you know about it, I dare say."

"I really think we must mark this one," whispered my cousin. "What do you say?"

I looked up ungraciously, but the book and pencil-case nearly dropped from my hands as I recognized "The Young Girl Reading."

"Don't you like it?" asked Mr. Thornton, smiling.

Oh! yes, I liked it! and him whose genius had created it, and whose master-hand had fashioned it; ay! and for his sake I liked even those who gazed on it, in a fast increasing crowd; and as if I had never seen it before, I looked with delighted eyes at the work of Cornelius. There was something in the admiration it excited I could not mistake. It was genuine and true. He was at length, after seven years of toil, known and famous. Sudden repute must have something of a breathless joy, but it cannot possess the sweetness of a slow-earned and long-coming fame. I felt as if I could have looked for ever; but the crowd was pressing eagerly behind us: my cousin led me away.

"I see you will not mark it," he gaily said, taking the catalogue from me.

"Do you really like it?" I asked, stammering.

"Do I like it? Why it is a wonderful picture! the most perfect union I have ever seen of the real and ideal. It is not sold, is it?"

I replied I thought not. He said he hoped not; that he should be quite concerned to miss it; and he proceeded to pay the genius of Cornelius very high and handsome compliments. I heard him with beating heart and swimming eyes; I felt too happy; it was not more than I had expected ever since the return of Cornelius from Italy; but for being anticipated, his triumph was not to me less glorious and delightful. I could think of nothing else; my eyes saw, but my mind could receive no impressions. Whatever picture I looked at became "The Young Girl Reading" with the crowd around her.

Mr. Thornton thought the heat affected me, and proposed joining his sister. We soon found her with Mrs. Langton. They looked dull and tired. As we entered the carriage, Mrs. Brand asked, with her air of _ennui_, how I liked the pictures, and if I had been amused.

"More than amused," I replied, warmly.

Mr. Thornton half smiled, and looked into the street; Mrs. Brand shut her eyes, and reclined back with an air of satisfaction, and Mrs. Langton flushed up like a rose. I looked at the three, and thought them odd people.

On the following evening, the slave of the world was to receive and entertain her master; in other words, to give a party. I had virtuously resolved not to be amused, and not to enjoy the pleasure I could not share with Cornelius; but when the time came, I forgot all about it. It was my first party, and what a party! The rooms were always beautiful, and when lit up, looked splendid. Then this constant rolling of coming and departing carriages; this pouring in of fashionable, well-dressed people; their flow of easy speech, greetings and smiles, gave the whole something so luxurious and seducing, that I felt enchanted.

Mrs. Langton, who looked exquisitely lovely in white silk--I wore my blue dress--kindly took me under her patronage. She was a world-known beauty, and whenever she went out, drew crowds around her. We were soon surrounded with adorers. All could not reach the divinity, and a few condescended to offer up incense at my humbler shrine. Two young Englishmen, rosy and bashful; a Dane as pale as Hamlet, and a Spaniard, fell to my stare. We also had an occasional dropping of grave gentlemen in spectacles, or dashing, military-looking men, whiskered and mustachioed, with an apparition of fair ladies, duly attended, who smiled and nodded at Mrs. Langton as they passed smelling bouquets or fanning themselves, but who took care not to linger in such dangerous vicinity.

I felt amused and entertained; but my real pleasure began with the daucing. I was fond of it, and I had plenty of pleasant partners. As I once came back to my seat, flushed as much with enjoyment as with the exercise, Mrs. Langton, who would not discompose her beauty by dancing, stooped over me, and gently whispered:--

"You little flirt, one would think you had received world incense all your life. Look opposite," she added, in a still lower tone. I followed the direction of her gaze, and saw in the embrasure of a door, standing and looking at me, with sorrowful attention, Cornelius.

"He has been there these two hours," said Mrs. Langton, smiling, "and you never even saw him, which I hold very unkind to me; for, thinking you would like to meet your friend, I asked a card from Bertha, and did not mention the name to her, lest you should not enjoy the surprise. And here am I actually obliged to tell you all about it."

I know not what I said to her, I felt so disturbed. I knew that I had surrendered myself rather freely to the pleasures of the evening, and he had seen it all, I had never even perceived him. I looked at him across the crowd that divided us. He caught my eye, and turned away abruptly. I rose, and gliding swiftly through the guests, I tried to join him; but he eluded me. I went from room to room, without being able to reach him. At length, I lost sight of him altogether, and gave up my useless search. I had reached the last room, a pretty little French sort of boudoir, adorned with exquisite Dresden ornaments, and thence called "Dresden" by Mrs. Brand. It was now quite solitary. I sat down, sad and dispirited, on a low couch, and was immediately joined by Mr. Thornton, who had been following me all the time, and gently rallied me on the chase I had led him. He sat down by me, and informed me that he had been wanting to speak to me the whole evening; but I had been so surrounded, that he had found it quite impossible to get at me. I coloured violently: if he had noticed it, what would Cornelius think?

"I wanted to tell you," confidentially observed Edward Thornton, drawing closer to me, "that I have secured 'The Young Girl Reading.' She is mine," he added, with rather a long look of his fine blue eyes.

"You have bought it," I exclaimed joyfully.

"And paid for it," he answered smiling.

"How delightful!" I said, "I mean that you have bought it," I added, fearing I had exposed the poverty of Cornelius by the hasty remark.

He smiled again, and passed his slender fingers in his brown hair.

"Where will you hang it?" I asked eagerly.

"In the long vacant place of honour, between my Wilkie and my Mulready."

For these two great artists, Cornelius felt a warm and enthusiastic admiration. I thought of his pride and triumph when I should tell him this, and I glowed with a pleasure I cared not to conceal.

"Mr. Thornton!" I exclaimed, turning on him flushed and joyous, "you have made me as happy as any crowned queen."

"Why have I not a crown to lay it at your feet?" he very gallantly replied, taking my hand, and pressing it gently as he spoke.

At that moment, through the door which Edward Thornton had left partly open, I thought I caught sight of Cornelius for an instant; the next he had disappeared in the crowd. I snatched my hand from my cousin, started up, ran to the door, opened it wide, and looked eagerly; but Cornelius had again vanished. I returned much disappointed to Mr. Thornton, who seemed amazed at my precipitate flight.

"I had seen Mr. O'Reilly," I said, apologetically.

"Mr. O'Reilly! Ah, indeed."

"Yes; and I wanted to speak to him. It was for that I came here, you know."

My cousin gave me a puzzled look, then suddenly recovering, said hastily:

"Of course, it was. Mr. O'Reilly, as you say."

"I am sure, you think it odd," I observed uneasily.

He denied it with a guarded look. I thought it worse than odd, and my eyes filled with involuntary tears. Mr. Thornton rose and sympathised respectfully.

"My dear Miss Burns," he whispered drawing nearer to me, "I am truly grieved; but your kindness, your frank condescension, made me presume-- indeed, I am grieved."

I heard him with surprise. "Decidedly," I thought, "we are all wrong," and aloud I observed gravely:

"Mr. Thornton, is there not some mistake? I am talking of Mr. O'Reilly."

"And so am I," he answered promptly.

"And I should like to see if I could not find him."

He offered me his arm with a polite start, and an air of tenderness and homage that perplexed me; but though we went all over the rooms, Cornelius was not to be found. As the guests began to thin and depart I lost all hope, and releasing my cousin from duty, sat down in one of the nearly deserted rooms. Mrs. Langton at once came up to me, and asked if I had seen my friend. I replied that I had caught sight of him from the little Dresden room, when I was there with Mr. Thornton.

"In the Dresden room," she said, looking astonished; "and do you really, a fair maiden of eighteen, venture to remain alone in a Dresden room? alone with so gay and gallant a gentleman as Edward Thornton? Don't you know, dear?" she added, edging her chair to mine, and lowering her voice; "he is quite a naughty man! Did you never hear of him and Madame Polidori, the singer--no?--nor of Mademoiselle Rosalie, nor of Madame?--"

I stopped the list by gravely hoping she was mistaken. She assured me she was not, and wanted to resume the subject, but it was one in which I took neither pleasure nor interest; and I listened so coldly, that she reddened, bit her lip, and left me.

The guests were all gone. As she bade the last adieu, Mrs. Brand sank down in a chair by the open window, and sighed to her brother:

"Ah! Edward, as our own English Wordsworth so finely says:

'The world is too much with us--'"

The rest of the sonnet was lost, I suppose, in the whisper that followed. Mr. Thornton seemed to pay it but faint attention; his look was fixed with intent admiration on Mrs. Langton, who stood by a table turning over the leaves of an album with careless grace.

"What a night!" resumed Mrs. Brand; "with that moon and that starry sky, one might forget the world, the vain world for ever, Edward."

Edward still looked at the beautiful Edith, and seemed inclined to make a move in her direction, out of the reach of the moon and the starry sky. But his sister looked at me, and whispered something. He bowed his head in assent, and came up to me. He seemed for some mysterious reason to think it incumbent on himself to be very kind and sympathetic, and to speak to me in a tender and soothing tone. Wrapped up in thinking of Cornelius, I paid his words but faint attention; but as my cousin stood with his hand on the back of my chair, I saw Mrs. Langton look at us over her shoulder in silent scorn. I looked at her, too, and as she stood there in all her wonderful beauty, I marvelled jealousy could make her so blind, as to lead her to fear for a moment a plain, humble girl like me.