CHAPTER XVII.

I think I could endure years of trouble and toil for the joy of that moment. My heart overflowed; I looked at Cornelius, then threw my arms around his neck, and burst into tears. My hood fell back, and with it my loosened hair.

"Daisy!" he cried, for he had not recognized me till then. "Good God!" he added with sudden terror, "has anything happened to you?"

"Nothing, Cornelius; but I am too happy--too happy--that is all."

He drew back a little; looked at my drenched garments and bare head, as he closed the door, and led me in.

"Daisy," he asked, anxiously, "what has brought you here at such an hour, in such a plight?"

"I thought you were ill, dying, Cornelius! I felt beside myself, and ran home to you like a wild thing."

We stood beneath the porch. Cornelius still held the lamp; its light fell on his pale, troubled face. With the arm that was free he drew me towards him, and looked down at me with mingled grief and tenderness.

"Oh, Daisy!" he exclaimed, "whilst I sat within, sheltered and unconscious, have you, indeed, been exposed to the fury of this pitiless storm--and for my sake?"

I shook back the hair from my face, and looking up into his, smiled.

"Cornelius," I said, "if weary miles had divided us; if rivers had flowed across the path; if I should have walked bare-footed over sharp stones, I would have come to you to-night. I could not have kept away; I feel that my very heart would have flown to you, as a bird to its nest."

"For Heaven's sake, go up to your room at once," he observed, uneasily. "Here is the light."

I took it, and gaily ran up-stairs. I felt light with gladness--a new life flowed in my veins, a new vigour beat with my heart. I blessed God with every faculty of my being: as sincerely as if the miracle I had asked for, had been accomplished. I had soon changed my things, and went down very softly, not to waken Kate. The door of the back-parlour was ajar, and there I found Cornelius, standing by a newly-kindled fire. As I gently closed the door, I said, smiling:

"I have made no noise. Kate never woke--how is she?"

"She complains of a head-ache. The heat of the day, I suppose."

"Yes," I replied, sitting down, taking his hand, and making him sit down by me on a little couch which he had drawn before the fire. "Yes, every one was out this morning, when I called and found the house shut up. Oh, Cornelius! how I thought of that with terror and dismay, as I came along the lanes."

"The lanes!--you came by the lanes?" cried Cornelius, turning pale: "alone along that desolate road, where a cry for aid never could be heard! Daisy, how dare you do such a thing? How could they allow it?"

"Cornelius, who would be out on such a night to harm me? As to daring, I would have dared anything. Mrs. Brand remonstrated, and sent, I believe, a servant after me; but I outstripped him easily. Terror lent me her wings."

"I thought you felt no fear?"

"No fear of man, but a most sickening cowardly dread of fever. Oh, Cornelius! if I had found you ill, or in danger of death, what should I have done, what would have become of me?"

The mere thought was a torment that again sent the freezing blood to my heart. I shivered, and drew close to him.

"There! you are quite pale again," said Cornelius, anxiously. "Oh, Daisy! do you then love me so much--so very much?"

I looked up, and smiled at the question. But his face was burning, and expressed mingled pleasure, doubt, and pain.

"Oh!" he continued, taking my hands in his, and speaking hesitatingly, "what am I to think of the girl who forgets her friend?"

"I knew you were vexed and angry about the party," I interrupted. "I saw you."

"And then, on the first false alarm, who returns to him so kindly, on a stormy night, by a dreary way, fearless though alone."

"Now, Cornelius, what have I done that a good sister, or friend, or daughter, would not do?"

Cornelius dropped my hands, and said, abruptly: "Do you not feel chill?"

"Not with that fire. Do you know, Cornelius, now I am here again with you and Kate, I don't see why I should go back to Poplar Lodge. Suppose you ask me to stay. Well, what are you doing?"

He had stood up, and was pouring out a glass of wine, which he handed to me.

"Take it," he said.

"To please you, Cornelius: but I do not want it. The sight of your face at the door was more reviving than wine to me."

I just tasted the wine, and handed him the glass. He drank off its contents. His hand, in touching mine, had felt feverish, and he looked rather pale.

"You are unwell," I said, uneasily.

"Unwell!" he echoed, gaily. "I never felt better."

He poured himself out another glass of wine, but I took it from him.

"You must not!" I exclaimed, imperatively. "Oh, Cornelius! be careful," I added, imploringly.

He laughed at my uneasiness; but there was something dreary in the sound of his laughter, which I did not like.

"I tell you I am well--quite well," he persisted; "but I feel uneasy about you, Daisy. How this night will fatigue you! I dare not tell you to go to your room, lest it should be too chill; but will you try and sleep here?"

"On condition that, when I am asleep, you will go up, and take some rest yourself."

He promised to do so; and, to please him, I laid my head on the pillow of the couch. He removed the lamp from my eyes, but in vain I closed them, and tried to sleep. Every now and then I kept opening them again, and talking in that excited way, which is the result of over-wrought emotion.

"Cornelius," I said, "I am now quite resolved to stay with you. I should feel too miserable to be even a day away. Always thinking about typhus, you know."

"Sleep, child," was his only reply.

I tried; but awhile afterwards I was again talking.

"And the Academy!" I said, "and 'The Young Girl Reading'! Are the other pictures sold?"

I half-rose on one elbow to look at Cornelius, who sat a little behind me. Without answering, he made me lie down again, and laid his hand on my eyes and brow. He possessed, perhaps, something of mesmeric power, for unconsciously I fell asleep; but mine was not a deep or perfect slumber. I was aware of a change that I could not understand or define. I felt, however, some one bending over me, and a long and lingering kiss was pressed on my brow.

"It is Cornelius going up-stairs," I thought even in my sleep, but without awakening. My next remembrance is that I looked up with sudden terror, and that I found myself face to face with Kate, who sat by the table weeping bitterly. I looked for Cornelius and saw him not.

"Kate, Kate!" I cried, starting to my feet, "where is he? What has happened?"

She shook her head and never replied.

I crossed the room and opened the door of the front parlour; it was empty and in confusion; I ran to the front door, opened it, and looked down the moonlit street.

"Cornelius!" I cried, "Cornelius!"

I paused and listened; all I heard was the sound of a carriage rolling away in the distance. My voice died on my lips in broken accents; my arms fell by my side powerless and dead. He was gone! gone without a word of explanation or adieu. In this one circumstance I read a remote journey and a long absence, and yet I would believe in neither. I re-entered the parlour where Kate still sat in the same attitude. I went up to her.

"So he is gone to Yorkshire to see Mr. Smalley?" I said agitatedly.

"He is gone to Spain," she briefly answered.

My heart fell.

"To Spain! for a few months, I suppose?"

"For years!"

"I don't believe it!" I cried, angrily; "he could not, would not do such a thing. You want to frighten me, Kate, but I don't believe you; no, I don't."

"You do; in your heart you do; in your heart you know it."

I did know it; for I gave way to a burst of passion and grief, and spoke to Kate as I never before had spoken.

"Gone! gone to Spain, and for years! Kate! how dare you let him go and not tell me?"

She looked up at me; her eyes flashing through her tears.

"And how dare you speak so to me, foolish girl? Is Cornelius anything so near to you as he is to me? Did you rear him, sacrifice your youth to him, and then find yourself cast aside and forsaken, as I am this day?"

"He reared me," I cried, weeping passionately. "Claim him by all you have sacrificed to him, my claim is all he has been to me! Oh! Kate, why did he go?"

"What right have you to know?" she asked, with a jealous bitterness that exasperated me.

"Every right," I replied, indignantly. "What have I done to be so treated?"

"What have you done? Why, you have done that I believe there is nothing so dear to him as you are; that his last request was, that instead of going with him, I should stay with you and wait your wakening; that his last kiss was that which he gave you as you slept. If you want to know more, here is a letter for you. Ask me not another question; I shall not answer. I have no more to say, and I have enough of my own grief."

She handed me a folded paper. I opened it and read:--

"Forgive me, Daisy, if I forsake you thus by stealth; but partings are bitter things. I wished to spare you some pain, and myself a severe though useless trial. I had promised to leave you and Kate no more; but you must have noticed how restless my temper has been of late; indeed, there is in my blood an unquiet fever which only liberty and a life of wandering can appease. Good bye, Daisy, God bless you! May you be happy, ay, even to the fullness of your heart's wishes."

Kate need not have asked for my silence. I laid down her brother's letter without a word, not a syllable could I have uttered then; I was hurt; hurt to the very heart. Cornelius had forsaken me cruelly; he had done to the girl what pity would never have let him do to the child; he had left me in my sleep, without one word of adieu.

I felt the shock and bitterness of this sudden separation, and more bitterly still the desertion. How could I, after this, think that Cornelius cared for me? He had liked me, amused himself with me, but I had never been to him that living portion of the heart which we call a friend. I could bear his absence, but that he should not care for me, that he should have been trifling with me all along, I could not bear. I paced the room up and down, vainly trying to keep in my sobs and tears. As I passed by the table, a folded paper caught my attention, I seized it eagerly with that vague hope which clings to everything. In this case it was not deceived.

"Oh! Kate, Kate!" I cried, throwing my arms around her neck in a transport of joy too deep not to make me forget the few sharp words that had passed between us.

"Well, what is it?" she asked, amazed.

"He'll come back; he'll come back; he has forgotten his passport. Oh! I am so glad! so happy; he can't travel without it, you know. I defy him to go to Spain now."

I laughed and cried for joy. She sighed.

"And if he does come back," she said, "it will be to go away again."

"We shall see that," I replied indignantly. "I will not let him, Kate. He has accustomed me to have my way of late, and in this I will have it."

She shook her head incredulously; but I was confident and did not heed her; a low rumbling sound down the street had attracted my attention.

"There he is!" I cried joyfully; and with a beating heart I ran to the street door. I opened it very softly, and keeping it ajar, I listened. The sound had ceased, and for a moment all I heard was the voice of Kate whispering in my ear--

"Daisy, if you let him go this time, I shall never forgive you. Do not mind what I said; keep him; you can if you wish."

I had not time to think on her words or ask her for their meaning; a quick and well-known step was coming up the Grove--the garden gate opened--no bell rang, but a hand tapped lightly at the parlour shutters. I opened the door wide and Cornelius, for it was he, came up to me.

"I have forgotten my passport," he said, in a low tone; "it is on the table in the back-parlour. Is she still asleep?"

Before I could reply, the moon, that had kept hid behind a dark cloud, came forth bright and undimmed; her light fell on my face; I saw him start.

"Will you not come in, Cornelius?" I said quietly. But he stood there at the door of his own home, mute and motionless as a statue. "Well then," I continued, "I must go out to you; perhaps before you cross the seas again, standing on the threshold of your dwelling, you will not refuse to grant me what you did not think fit to give me within it--the luxury of a last adieu--of a last embrace!"

I stepped out to him as I spoke; but he made me re-enter the house, and followed me in.

"Daisy," he said, with a sigh, "I wished to leave whilst you were away, and fate brought you back; I stole away whilst you were asleep, and I was compelled to return and find you awake. I thought to spare us both some pain. I cannot; be it so; you shall have your wish."

His voice plainly said: "Your wish, and no more."

"Very well," I replied, quietly; for though I was resolved he should not go, I knew better than to startle him.

We re-entered together the back parlour; Kate had left it; but the lamp still burned on the table. Cornelius sat down by it; his face was pale, watchful, determined. I saw he was fully on his guard, and prepared to resist unflinchingly to the last. I was as determined to insist and prevail. Oh! daily life, that art called tame and reproved as dull, how is it that to me thou hast ever been so full of strange agitating dramas, I sat down by Cornelius; I passed my arm within his, and looking up into his face, I said:

"When, a few hours ago, I felt so glad to see you safe, Cornelius, I knew not I was looking my last for a long time."

He did not answer; I continued:

"Oh, if I had known we were going to part, how differently I should have spent this evening! I would not have talked away so foolishly, but have asked you so many questions--settled so many things! whereas now I have only a few minutes, and can think of nothing save that you are going away, Cornelius."

He quailed, but only momentarily; if his lip trembled a little, his unmoved look told of unconquerable resolve.

"You, it seems," I resumed, "had nothing to say to me, Cornelius, or you could not have wished to go away thus?"

He drew forth his watch, and said, briefly:

"I must go soon, Daisy."

"Kate says you are to be years away--is it true?"

His silence was equivalent to an assent.

"Well then, give me the farewell of years," I said, passing my arms around his neck, and compelling his face to look down at mine.

He seemed a little troubled, and made a motion to rise. I detained him.

"A little longer," I entreated; "I have thought of some things about which I wish to question you."

"Pray be quick, Daisy."

"Why do you go to Spain?"

"For change."

"You are tired of us?"

"I am tired of a quiet life."

"Go to France, Cornelius."

"Why so?"

"It is nearer."

"Daisy, I must really go now."

"A little longer; I have something else to say."

"What is it?"

"I have forgotten; but give me time to remember."

I laid my head on his shoulder as I spoke.

"Daisy," he asked, "what have you to say?"

I wept without answering; but saw his eye vainly looking over the table in search of something.

"I have it," I said aloud, "I have it, and I will not give it to you, Cornelius, for you must not, no, you must not go."

"I knew it," he resignedly exclaimed, "I knew it would come to this; and yet," he added, looking down at me rather wistfully, "it is of no use, Daisy; I must go, and I will go too."

"No, Cornelius, you will not; you never could have the heart to do it. Besides, why go?"

"For change."

"Change! what is change? If I were an artist I would make variety enough in my own mind to be the charm of daily life; and whilst I painted pictures, I would not care a pin for Spain or Italy. If I were an ambitious spirit, I would not go just when my fame was beginning, when glorious prospects were opening before me. If I were a brother, and had a good sister, who loved me dearly, I would not forsake her. If I were a kind-hearted man, and had adopted a poor little orphan girl, reared her, indulged her, made her my friend, and promised not to leave her, I would not break her heart by running away from her; but when she said to me: 'Stay, Cornelius!' I would just give her a kiss, and say: 'Yes, my pet, by all means!'"

But in vain. I looked up into his face; he did not kiss me; he did not call me his pet; his lips never parted to say, "Yes, by all means!" His head was sunk on his bosom; his arms were folded; his downcast look never sought mine. I left my place by him to sit down at his feet and see him better. I read sorrow on his face, great sorrow, but no change of purpose. I took one of his hands in mine, and gazing at him through gathering tears:

"Cornelius," I said, "are you still going?"

He did not reply.

"Are you still going?" I asked, laying my head on his knee.

He remained silent.

"Are you still going?" I persisted, rising as I spoke, and pressing my lips to his cheek. He never moved; he never answered. The blood rushed to my heart with passionate force. I threw back rather than dropped his hand; I stepped away from him with wounded and indignant pride. "Go then!" I exclaimed, with angry tears, "go, here is your passport; take it and with it take back your broken promise and friendship betrayed."

"Betrayed!" he echoed, looking up.

"Yes, betrayed; I do not retract the word. Want of confidence is treason in friendship, and you have had no confidence in me--why in this house, where as a child I had obeyed you, and could have obeyed you all my life, why did you of your own accord raise me to an equality which was my boast and my pride, when in your heart you meant to treat me as a child to be cheated into a parting? You gave me an empty name; I will have the reality or I will have nothing, Cornelius."

I turned away from him as I spoke; he rose and followed me.

"Daisy," he said, "what do you mean?"

I looked round at him over my shoulder, and replied, reproachfully:

"I mean that you do not care for me."

"I do not care for you!"

"No; you have secrets from me; William never had any secrets; he liked me more than you do, Cornelius."

An expression of so much pain passed across his face, that I repented at once.

"You cannot believe that?" he replied at length; "you would not say it if you were not very angry with me, Daisy, and yet you know, oh! you know well enough I cannot bear your anger."

"Can't you bear it, Cornelius?" I answered turning round to face him, "then don't go; for if you do, I shall be so angry--indeed, you can have no idea of it!"

"None, whilst you speak and look so very unlike anger. Oh, Daisy! which is easier: to part from you in wrath or in peace?"

"Why part at all? why go?" I replied passing my arm within his, and looking up at his bending face in which I read signs of yielding.

"Why remain?"

"Because I wish it," I said, making him sit down.

"Is that a reason?"

"The best of all--for it will make you stay."

He did not say yes; but then, he did not say no.

"Stay! stay!" he repeated with an impatient sigh. "What for? You do not want me."

"Indeed, I do," I replied, triumphantly, "I want you much, very much, just now."

"What for?"

"To advise me about Mr. Thornton."

"Ah! what of him?" exclaimed Cornelius, with a sudden start.

"Nothing," I replied, sorry to have said so much.

He gave me a look beneath which I felt myself reddening.

"He too!" he said, biting his lip and folding his arms like one amazed, "he too! And I was going, actually going, actually leaving you to him."

He laughed indignantly and rose; I eagerly caught hold of his arm.

"Oh, I am not going," he exclaimed impetuously, throwing down his hat as he spoke. "Catch me going now. No, Daisy," he added, resuming his place by me, and laying his hand on my arm as he bent on me a fixed and resolute look, "though I was fool enough to let him have the picture, he shall not find it quite so easy to get the original."

"Oh, Cornelius!" I exclaimed, feeling ready to cry with vexation and shame, "that is not at all what I mean."

"Another," he continued with ill-repressed irritation, "it is the strangest thing, that young or old, boys in experience, or worn and wearied with the world, they all want you."

"Cornelius, how can you talk so! it is Mrs. Langton whom Mr. Thornton likes."

"Mrs. Langton!"

"Yes, Mrs. Langton, the great beauty."

"So much the better," he replied with a scornful and incredulous laugh, "for he shall not have you, Daisy."

"He does not want me," I said desperately; "but if he did, it would be time lost. For I am sure I don't want him."

"You do not like him!" observed Cornelius, calming down a little.

"Very much as a cousin. Not at all, otherwise."

"And you will not have him, will you, Daisy?"

He spoke with lingering doubt and uneasiness.

"I tell you I shall not have the chance," I replied impatiently. "Oh, Cornelius! will you never leave off fancying that everybody is in love with me?"

I could not help laughing as I said it.

"Yes, laugh," he said reproachfully, "laugh at me, because like the poor man of the parable told by the Prophet to the sinful King, 'I have but one little ewe lamb; I have nourished it up, it has eaten of my meat, drank of my cup, lain in my bosom, and been unto me as a daughter.' Laugh because I cannot help dreading lest the rich man's insolence should wrest her from me!"

"No, Cornelius, I shall laugh no more; but indeed you need not fear that sort of thing at all. Neither for Mr. Thornton, nor for any other member of his sex do I care, and when I say that," I added, reddening a little, "you know what I mean."

"Too well!" he replied, in a low, sad tone. "Good bye, Daisy. God bless you!"

I remained motionless with surprise and grief. He rose; Kate entered the room.

"Oh, Kate!" I cried desperately, "after all but promising to stay, he is going. Speak to him, pray speak to him!"

She shook her head and stood a little apart, looking on with quiet attention.

I silently placed myself before her brother, but he looked both sad and determined.

"You cannot have the heart to do it: you cannot!" I exclaimed, the tears running down my face as I spoke; "you cannot!"

"Daisy," he replied, in a tone of mingled pain and reproach, "where is the use of all this? If I could stay, indeed I would; but though I love you so much, that every tear you now shed seems a drop wrung from the life blood of my heart, believe me when I declare that though you should ask me to remain on your bended knees, I should still say no."

"Then I shall try!" I exclaimed, despairingly; but before I could sink down at his feet, he had caught hold of both my hands, and compelled me to remain upright. Hope forsook me.

"Cornelius," I said, weeping, "will you stay?"

"No!"

"Cornelius!" I exclaimed, more earnestly. "Will you stay?"

This time he did not answer, but his half averted face showed me a profile severe, resolute, and inexorable.

"You cannot weary me," I said again; "will you stay?"

He turned upon me pale with wrath.

"Oh! blind girl--blind to the last!" he cried, his white lips trembling. "You ask me to stay--to stay!"

"Yes, Cornelius, again and again!"

All patience seemed to forsake him. His eyes lit, his features quivered; he grasped my hands in his with an angry force, of which he was himself unconscious.

"Come," he said, striving to be calm, "do not make me say that which I should repent. Let us part as it is--do not insist--do not provoke me to forget honour and truth."

I could see that Cornelius was angry with me; that my obstinacy provoked him beyond measure; but his wrath was the wrath of love; it could not terrify me. I even felt and found in it a perilous pleasure, that made me smile as I replied:

"But I do insist, Cornelius."

His lips parted, as if to utter some vehement reply; then he bit them with angry force, and knit his brow like one who subdues and keeps down some inward strife. Kate quietly stepped up to us.

"The knot that will not be unravelled must be cut," she said. "He will stay, Daisy, if you will be his wife."

The words seemed sent, like a quivering arrow, through my very heart. Cornelius looked confounded at his sister, who only smiled; then he turned to me, flushed and ardent. As I stood before him, my hands still grasped in his--his face still bent over mine, half upraised--his look, overflowing with passion, reproach, love, anger, and tenderness, sank deep into mine, with a meaning that overpowered me. And yet, as if spell- bound by the strange and wonderful story thus, at once revealed to me, I could not cease to hear it. Kate had not spoken--she still spoke in words that echoed for ever. To speak myself, look away, return once more to the daily life beyond which that moment stood isolated, were not things in my power. I felt like one divided from Time by that immortal Present.

"Oh, Daisy!" vehemently exclaimed Cornelius, "how you linger! 'No' should have been uttered at once; 'yes' need not tarry so long. Speak--answer. Must I stay or depart?"

He spoke with the feverish impatience that will not brook delay.

"Stay!" broke from me, I knew not why nor how; but with the word, my head swam; my limbs failed me; there was a chair by me, I sank down upon it. Cornelius turned very pale, dropped my hands, and walked away without a word. Kate came to me.

"Daisy," she said, taking my hand in her own, "what is it? Are you faint? Have this," she added, handing me the glass of wine which, at once, her brother had poured out.

"No," I replied, "water."

She gave me some. I drank it off, but it did not calm the fever which she took for faintness. I clasped my brow between my hands, to compose and concentrate thought; but my whole being--my mind, faculties, soul, body, and heart, were in tumult and insurrection. I could hear, see, feel--know nothing of that inward world of which I called myself mistress. I rose, terrified at the sudden storm which had broken on my long peace.

"Daisy, do not look so wild!" said Kate; and taking me in her arms, she wanted to make me sit down again; but I broke from her. I passed by her brother without giving him a look, ran up to my own room, and locked myself in like one pursued.