CHAPTER V.

We went down to the beach. A deep line of shade still extended at the foot of the cliffs; the sky had not a cloud; the sea lay calm beneath; it looked one of Nature's happy days. I said so to Cornelius, adding, in the fulness of my joy, "How kind of Kate to tell you to take me!"

"Yes," he replied, wilfully misunderstanding me, "she always was a good sister."

"Now, Cornelius, you know very well she did it to please me."

He smiled without looking at me.

"One to please you, Daisy, and a great deal more to please me. You will ascertain it thus: state that D is to C in K's estimation, what 1 is to _x_ in figures: then multiply by C (that's me) and divide by D (that's you), and you will know all about it."

"I don't want to multiply by you and to divide by myself, to know why Kate told you to take me."

"She's as obstinate as the other one," said Cornelius, stopping short to look at me.

I replied, "Is she?" and we went on, until a promontory of steep rock barred our passage.

"We must cross that," I said.

"Humph! Can you manage it, Daisy?"

"Can you, Cornelius?"

He told me I was very saucy. I laughed and ran up the rocks so fast, he could scarcely overtake me. When we reached the highest peak, we stood still, and thence looked down on a wild narrow spot below, shut in between cliff and wave. Long ridges of sharp rocks, stretching out far into the sea, and impassable when the tide was full, enclosed it on either side. The cliffs at the back stood steep and perpendicular within a few yards of the breaking surf, but the strata of earth that ran through them in slant and undulating lines, gave them a distant and receding aspect, which, like the glamour of enchantment, vanished with a closer view; then they suddenly rose on the eye, near, stern, and threatening. Undermined by the high spring tides, rocks had fallen from above, and now lay thickly strewn about the beach, as if tossed there by the sea in angry or sportive mood. From the deep gap thus made in the cliff descended a narrow stream, which spread on a flat advancing ledge of rock, fell again a wide and clear stream of sparkling water, into a basin which itself had made, and thence glided away with a low splash and faint murmur, through worn-out old stones green with slime, until it lost itself for ever in the great rush of the wide waters.

We descended silently; when we stood within the enclosed space, Cornelius said--

"Of all wild and barren spots this is the gem."

"It is sterile, Cornelius, and that is its beauty."

It was indeed a desolate place. Shell-fish in serried ranks, and weeds in dark and slippery masses, clung to the sea-washed rocks. A few crabs and shrimps had remained captive in the shallow pools of water, where they waited the returning tide. Long algae, all wet and tangled, and light feathery sprigs, delicate enough to be wreathed in the green hair of pale mermaids, were strewn on the beach, but other tokens of life and vegetation there were none. The sea breeze, which moaned along that wall of rock and cliff, fanned and stirred not one blade of yellowish grass on its way. Here ceased the freshness and verdure of earth; here began a nature other than that of the poets, yet not without its own beauty, contrasts, and harmonies.

"It is grand, but wonderfully dreary," said Cornelius, "let us go back, Daisy."

"Not yet. Do you see that hollow nook perched up there between earth and sky, close by the fountain?"

"Well, what about it?"

"There is a very fine prospect from it."

"How do you know?"

"I often go there."

"You!" he exclaimed, with an astonished look that amused me, "and pray how do you get there?"

"Look!"

I sprang up a steep path in the rock; every step of it was familiar to me; I had reached the hollow, and was laughing down at Cornelius, before he recovered from his amazement. He followed me lightly, but chid me all the way.

"What could tempt you to do such a mad thing and to come to such an eyrie as this?" he asked as he stood by me in the wide hollow and under the broad shelter of an overhanging rock.

"Look at that glorious prospect, Cornelius," I replied, sitting down and making him sit down by me.

I remember well both the day and the spot. The blue sky, the sea of a blue still more deep, the yellow beach, the brown wall of rock, gave back the same ardent glow; the place seemed enchanted into the quietness of noon, save when some solitary raven suddenly left a cleft in the rock and, descending with a swoop, hovered a black speck over the beach in search of prey. We sat pleasantly within reach of the cool spray of the spring; a breeze from above brought us the sweet scent of unseen fields of gorse in bloom; below us the sea boiled in white and angry surf amongst the rocks, and thence spread away in seemingly unbroken smoothness, until it met and mingled with the distant horizon.

"What do you think of my eyrie, Cornelius?" I said, after a long pause.

"So you come here often?" was his reply.

"Yes, very often."

"What can attract you to such a wild spot?"

"Its wildness."

He looked me in the face and smiled. I resumed--

"I was born by the sea, Cornelius, and I love it, ay, very dearly; this barren spot seems pleasanter to me than any sunny landscape. I could listen for hours to the wind sweeping down the coast and the dash of the heaving waves. Could not you?"

"No," he answered, frankly, "sea-side is to me the grand historic style of nature. I like the calm, homely woodlands and quiet valleys."

"Yes, but you are going to sketch that little fall of water?"

"Am I?"

"For what else did I bring you to see it? Let me go down first, and take my hand."

I held it out to him; he tossed it back to me with a laugh.

"Do you imagine I want it?" he asked, looking piqued; "I have gone sketching in mountain-passes where there were paths more steep than in any English Leigh, let me tell you."

He insisted on preceding me. It amazed me to see how he kept looking back, looking to my steps. He reached the bottom first, and stood still to receive me. Spite of his remonstrative "Daisy!" I ran down the rest of the way. I paused on reaching the last ledge, and standing a little above him, I uttered a triumphant "There!" then lightly stepped down to where he stood.

"Yes," he replied admiringly, "I see: your head is steady, your foot as light and sure as that of any mountain maid. Ah! if I had but had you for a companion, when I was sketching alone in the Alps!"

"Will you have me now, and though these are not the Alps, sketch."

He sat down on one of the fallen rocks, opened his sketch-book, and began to draw the little fountain and the stern crags around. I sat by him to watch his progress; he made little; he was ever looking round at me, and breaking off into speech that had nothing to do with sketching.

"How old are you?" he once asked.

"Seventeen; ten years younger than you are."

He resumed his task, but his pencil was soon idle again; his eyes once more sought my face.

"Am I too near?" said I, "shall I sit behind?"

"No, indeed."

"What are you thinking of?"

"I am thinking that it is getting very hot."

His look sought the downs above. I said, I knew green nooks such as he would like. So we wound our way up the heights, and were soon in the open country. The scenery around Leigh was soft, woodland, pastoral, and no more. Yet Cornelius seemed to like those green slopes, fertile fields, and wide pastures; those shallow valleys, white homesteads, and fragrant orchards looking down from above, with now and then, in the open space between the dark outskirt of low woodland, and the golden green of sunlit scope opposite, a glimpse of azure hills melting soft and indistinct on the far horizon. But though he confessed it was very pretty, he found nothing to sketch.

"Let me take you to an old ruin further on," I said, zealously, "it is so picturesque!"

"How much further on, Daisy?"

"Only three or four miles."

"A mere trifle! but suppose we stay here?"

We stood in a hollow, sheltered by a few stunted trees.

"There is nothing to sketch here," I said.

"So much the better; I want rest."

"Then I know of a better resting-place close by."

He submitted to my guidance, and I led him into an open plain, exposed to all the heat of a burning sun.

"Why, Daisy," said Cornelius, looking round, "what made you come here? There is not a hedge: no, not so much as a poor little bush. Let us go back."

I pointed to a group of trees, partly hidden by a rising of the ground.

"It is there," I said.

He gave a look of regret to the shady hollow we were leaving behind us, and followed me over the scorching plain. At length the group of trees was reached. I entered it first; then, as he followed, I turned round and looked to enjoy his surprise, for we now stood on the grassy banks of the clear little stream which passed through Leigh; trees flung their shadow above; waters flowed beneath; silence and freshness filled the whole place.

"Well!" I said triumphantly.

"Well," he replied, "it is a pleasant place, that is true enough."

And he threw himself down on the grass with evident delight. It was a pleasant place. Many a day has passed since I beheld it; yet if I but close my eyes with my hand over them, I seem to see it again as I saw it then on that summer noon, when I went out walking with Cornelius.

It had the first charm which such a spot need have--perfect solitude. You might sit or linger for hours, unheeded and undisturbed in that green nook, shut in between the dark mass of trees which separated it from the open country, and the stream on which their heavy shadow ever fell. Beyond extended a wide and ancient park, a wild-looking desert of dark heath and high green fern, with sombre groups of trees that seemed the vanguards of aged forests, and paths deepening down like Alpine dells and ravines. I took off my bonnet and scarf, and fastening them to the bending branch of an old, hoary willow, I sat down by Cornelius. The sandwiches were produced, and done full justice to; but when the repast was over, Cornelius exclaimed--

"Kate might as well have given us a stone or osier bottle of some sort. We have nothing to drink."

"Nothing! why there is a whole river."

"Water!" he replied with a slight grimace; "but how are we to get at even that?"

I did not answer, but clasping the trunk of the willow with one arm, I bent over the stream to dip my other hand into it. With a start of alarm Cornelius held me back.

"That river, as you call it, is deep and swift, Daisy. How can you be so imprudent?"

"There is no danger where there is no fear. Unless that willow-tree breaks I am safe."

He persisted however in holding me fast with his arm passed around me, as I stooped again, and brought forth my hand full of water, as clear and sparkling as crystal.

"Look!" I said, "and tell me if you ever saw such water, even in Italy?"

"The true test lies in the taste."

He raised my hand to his lips, drank the little it contained, then said with a smile--

"Rather a shallow cup, Daisy."

"Well, but did you ever taste such water?"

"Never--it is as exquisite--"

"I told you so."

"As exquisite as water can be, which is not saying much."

Necessity however compelled him to have more of it; he brought it up himself, for he positively refused to let me try again. Our meal being now fairly over, I wanted him to indulge in a siesta, a habit which he acknowledged having taken during the hot noons of Italy; but he would not.

"I do not feel in the least inclined for it, Daisy; pleasant though it may be to sleep away here an hour or two, I fancy it must be more pleasant still to lie awake and dream."

It was indeed the very place for day-dreams. It lay in a gentle curve of the stream, and far as the eye might look it could see above nothing but the overhanging branches of old and majestic trees, with sudden glimpses of bright blue sky, and below the same trees and sky ever imaged again in glassy depths. The reflection was so distinct and vivid that the water almost seemed to flow between two forest solitudes, one above the other beneath the wave, but both beautiful, wild, and lonely, and yielding the same delightful sense of coolness which shade and water always give.

In the park beyond the sun shone with burning heat, and even the blue sky had caught a golden glow; but here the breeze was pleasantly chill, the trees sheltered us from its strength, and left us all its vivifying freshness. It came every now and then, sending through my veins a thrill of vague delight, for earth has many sounds and murmuring voices which are to me a part of her beauty, and it woke them every one. The rustling of leaves in the trees above blended with the faint ripple of the flowing waters below; birds broke forth into snatches of song, or flew away with flapping of wings; then there were strange undefined sounds of short twittering, low monotonous hum, and sudden splash mingling into nothing continuous, ever interrupted and ever renewed, faint, indistinct, but soft and soothing as a dream.

And as I sat at the foot of the old willow, half bending forward and looking at the stream which flowed almost beneath me, so steep was the bank, and so near the edge did I sit, I felt as if its scarcely audible murmur, as if its scarcely visible flow, were slowly wrapping me in a dream of bliss. I was steeped in happiness; it was sweet, it was delightful to know that Cornelius was come back, that he was sitting there by me. I did not look at him; there was no need. Besides, strangely enough, it seemed more pleasant by far to feel his presence in my heart, than to gaze on him for hours with my eyes. He had been two long years away--severed by the sea, by Alps, by strange skies, strange lands, strange languages, and now, if I wished, I had but to put forth my hand to touch him as he sat by me beneath the same shade, gazing on the same clear brook. How he felt I know not; but I know that gradually my reverie deepened, until at length external objects seemed to fade away, and I remained sitting there gazing at the dark water, and fully conscious but of two things--the presence of Cornelius, and the low gliding of the stream. Happy day!--happy moments! I felt as if I could have sat there, even as the waters flowed--for ever.

The sound of a tramp, swift and light, on the heath of the park, made me look up; a herd of deer, with heads erect and startled looks, were floating past like a vision. They vanished down a beaten track leading to some favourite haunt. I looked at Cornelius, and smiled; but he had heard, he had seen nothing. He sat by me on the grassy bank, half-leaning on one elbow; his brow rested on the palm of his hand; his dark and heavy hair partly shaded his face. I followed the direction of his glance; it was fixed on the stream, not with abstracted or dreamy gaze, but as if beholding something there that charmed attention irresistibly. I looked down rather curiously, and saw nothing, save my own face reflected in the placid wave, and seeming, Oread-like to bend forth from a background of dark foliage. He detected my change of attitude, for he looked up immediately. I laughed, and said--

"I know what you were doing, Cornelius."

He did not answer.

"You were studying 'effects' again."

"Precisely," he replied, smiling; "effects of light and shadow."

"Are you always studying effects, Cornelius?"

"Whenever I can get them. To look is the delight, ay, the very life, of an artist."

The words awoke within me a train of thoughts that made my heart beat and my blood flow with a warmer glow. I could not keep silent. I looked up and said--

"Oh! Cornelius, what a great painter you will yet be! How much fame and honour await you! Well, why do you smile so?" I added, somewhat annoyed: "is it not true?"

"Because, as you speak, your cheeks flush, and your eyes kindle. You look like a young sybil just now, Daisy."

"A sybil in white muslin!" I replied, laughing in his face; but remembering how disrespectful this was, I became suddenly grave again. He seemed anything but offended, and listened like one whose ear has caught a pleasant sound.

"Do you know," he said, "I think this is the first time I ever heard you laugh outright. I remember your smile, but not your laugh. Oh, Daisy, are you sure you are the same? When I hear your voice, I think of my pale, sickly child. When I look, I am perplexed to see a tall, slender girl-- fair as a lily, fresh as a rose, demure as a young Quakeress, yet who looks kindly at me, like an old acquaintance. Speak!--say something that will throw a sort of bridge from the past to the present."

"The only bridge I can give you is, that you have been two years away; that I am now always well, instead of being always ill; and that, as I began at the wrong end, by being dull as a child, I now mean to make up for the lost time by being as merry and as mad as I can."

"How old are you?"

"You have already asked me. Subtract ten years from your own age and you will know."

"What is ten years?"

"A mere trifle, like the walk awhile ago."

"Then in another year you will be eighteen."

"And you twenty-eight."

"You are very tenacious of that ten years' difference," he said a little impatiently. "What is age--any one's age? I don't care about yours; all I care about," he said smiling, "is to find you so changed from what you were."

"In one or two things I certainly am changed, as you will perceive, if you close your eyes and promise not to look."

"Why so?"

I would not tell him, so he complied, looking rather curious. I rose so softly that he could not hear me; the stream was neither wide nor deep; besides at this spot it suddenly grew narrower; I lightly sprang over; as I alighted safely I said--

"You may look now."

He turned pale on seeing me on the other bank.

"Daisy," he cried, "how could you do such a thing!"

"Could you not do it, Cornelius? it really is not so difficult. Try."

He refused, and said he was very angry. I laughed.

"No, Cornelius," I said, "I see in your face you are only surprised. I mean to astonish you still more; you said you had never heard me laugh, I am at least certain that you never heard me sing. Pray open your ears, for I mean to sing you a song."

I sat down in the high ferns, so high that they almost hid me, and I sang him the song of her who loved the lad at the sign of the Blue Bell. He heard me, his chin in his hand, his look on my face; seeing me so fearless, his own uneasiness had vanished.

"Well!" I said.

"Well," he replied, smiling, "it is as wild and sweet a ditty and as pleasant a voice as one need wish to hear on a summer noon. Sing me something else."

"No, it is your turn now."

He lay down at the foot of the willow, and in his clear rich voice, he sang me that pleasant song of Burns--it had always been a favourite of his--of which the burden is 'Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the birks of Aberfeldy?'

I listened, thinking how delightful it was to hear that voice again. When its last tones had died away, I thanked him, and said--

"This is not Aberfeldy, but we have the birks."

"And the bonnie lassie too."

"To be sure; but will you just move a bit?"

"Why so?"

"I want to get back again, and the spot where you are lying is the only convenient one."

"Thank you for the information. I was wondering what sort of punishment I could devise for you: it is now settled; you shall stay there."

"And be taken up for trespassing?"

"Why not?"

"Or for poaching?"

"Why not?"

At length he relented, but said I was to sing him another song; then another, and so on, until I had sung him every song and ballad I knew. The intervals of rest were filled up with talking, laughing, and jesting at one another across the stream. I had never felt so merry, seldom so happy; yet once I could not help observing remorsefully--

"And Kate, who is alone at home, and thinks you are so busy sketching!"

"Why did she make me take you with me?"

"Do I prevent you from sketching, Cornelius?"

"Of course you do; but for you I should have travelled for miles, and come home at night groaning beneath the load of crags, lonely fountains, cottages, farm-houses, snug little woods, ruins, etc. Instead of which, here I am lying on my back, looking up at trees and sky, and losing all my precious time in listening to 'Auld Robin Gray,' 'The Exile of Erin,' 'Charlie, you're my darling,' and I know not what else. Oh, Daisy, Daisy! are you not ashamed of yourself?--sing me another song."

"Indeed, Cornelius, I do not know another."

"Then I must have mercy on you."

He moved away, but kept a keen, watchful look fastened on me. There was however no need to fear. In a second I was by his side. He chid me for form's sake, then smiled, stroked my hair, and passing his arm around me, said--

"The other one could not have done as much, could she, Daisy?"

"What other one, Cornelius?"

"The one I carried in my arms from Leigh to Ryde."

"No, Cornelius, she could not, and that was why Providence sent her so kind a friend."

I forget his answer, but I remember that we sat again on the grassy banks and lingered there until the little brook shone red and burning in the light of the broad round sun that slowly sank down behind us, filling with fiery glow the space between earth and sky.

Oh! surely it was a lovely thought in the worshippers of southern lands, to link an act of prayer with the close of day and the setting of the sun. If ever there was an hour for thanksgiving, praise, and adoration, it was this. When should we, poor travellers towards the dark goal of time, find fitter moment to pause, take breath after the journeying of another day, and give a look back to the past, a hope to the future, an aspiration to heaven? At that moment meet, to part almost as soon as met, the splendour and beauty of the day and the soothing solemnity of eve. We can give thanks at once for the gladness that is going, and for the silent rest of coming night. It is the very time for intense and brief worship; for aspiration purer than prayer; for the _Sursum corda_. I did raise my heart in that hour. Was the word too earthly? I know not; God who gave us hearts that love so warmly alone can tell; but as I sat there by Cornelius, my head, in attitude familiar of old, resting on his shoulder, I thanked Him who had given him to me, for the gift, and blessed Him who had sent him back for the return.

At length we rose, and left the spot where half a day had passed in enjoyment so pure. We followed a green path where we met, and soon outstripped a friendly couple whom we left, slowly lingering in the cool shadow of the winding lane. They looked like lovers, or a newly married pair--young, happy, oblivious of time, and heeding not the passing of hours. Cornelius gave them a stealthy look, and repressed a half smile. I smiled without disguise, for in the gladness of my heart I thought--"the lady may be fair, and the lover may be devoted, but she cannot be more happy than I am now--to feel within mine the arm of Cornelius; and sure am I, that he whom she seems to like so well, is not half so good, ay, nor half so handsome, as he who reared me."

And thus, arm-in-arm, we walked on through landscape scenes that would have gladdened the genial heart of Rubens. The warmth of the setting sun, the rich verdure of the undulating plains, the herds of fair cattle grazing by the green banks and full waters of a calm river, made one feel as if gazing on a land of untroubled peace and untold abundance.

But, oh! how glorious o'er the sea, was the hour thus beautiful on land. We reached the extremity of the downs as the sun began to dip in the broad ocean. Blue, green, purple, and burning gold glanced through every wave; the receding coast slowly vanished through glittering mists; the masts of distant ships rose on the golden horizon like the turreted castle of some enchanted region. As we descended a winding path that gently led to the beach, the sun set and the glorious pageantry suddenly vanished. The first pale stars glittered from the depths of the grey sky; the sea looked of a darker and colder blue, and returned to her fathomless bed with a faint murmur; a chill breeze rose, swept along the coast, then died away again; on all things silence set, and the high arch of heaven rose deep and solemn over the plain of the receding sea. Oh! brief life of ours, how beautiful is thy dwelling-place! How deeply did I then feel in my heart, the presence of that Great Spirit which broods over and hallows all it has given to the eye of man to scan!

We silently walked homeward along the beach, now grey, quiet, and lonely. A low, large moon hung over the silent downs, from which even the melancholy cry of the plover had died away. Everything seemed subdued to repose, and even in the low rush of the breaking waves, as they rose and fell ever again on the shore, there was a murmur inexpressibly soft and soothing to the ear. We did not speak until we reached the foot of the cliff on which Rock Cottage rose. A light burned in one of the windows and spoke of pleasant welcome. Cornelius looked up and said--

"It is a wild-looking place, quite an eagle's nest, and yet there is a strange sense of home about it."

We went up the path, and found the little wooden gate unlocked as usual. Miss O'Reilly came out to meet us, with a shawl thrown over her head. She seized on her brother; I slipped away to my room. When I came down again, in the grey dress after all, I found Kate presiding over a tea-table covered with provisions sufficient for a whole legion of famished travellers, and Cornelius laughing at the extent of her preparations. When the meal was over she took up his sketch-book.

"Oh, Kate!" I cried, "don't look--it is such a shame--he would not sketch at all; he began the little fountain and did not even finish it. Is it not too bad?"

She sat with the open sketch-book on her lap, but looking at us with a pleased, happy smile.

"Yes," she said at length, "it is a shame--but he will do better to- morrow."

"Must we go out again to-morrow, Kate?" I asked, a little hesitatingly.

"To be sure you must--that is, if you both liked it to-day well enough to wish to begin again."

I sat by him--he looked down--I looked up, and we exchanged a conscious smile.

"Yes," he said, laying his hand on my head; "I think we both found it a pleasant day."

"Delightful, Cornelius, delightful!" I exclaimed, with a warmth that made Kate smile, brought a transient glow to his brow, and won me a tacit and quiet pressure of the hand that was free. I only spoke as I felt. Pleasant days I had known before and was to know again, but none in which, oblivious of the past and heedless of the future, I surrendered myself so freely to the charm of the present time. I laid it all to the return of Cornelius. I had yet to learn from experience that this singleness of enjoyment, this simplicity in receiving happiness, belong almost exclusively to the pleasant season of youth, and--pity that it should be so--only to its first fresh untroubled hours, before the coming of grief or the wakening of passion.