CHAPTER VIII.

I sat to Cornelius as usual on the following day, but not a word did we exchange concerning what had passed. In the course of the afternoon he said he no longer wanted me; I left him, glad of a little solitude and liberty. He joined me in the garden as dusk was falling. He found me sitting on the bench studying Tasso. He asked me if we should not read together. I assented, but twice my tears fell on the page: he closed the book, and said sadly:

"Daisy, you need not weep; I release you from your promise."

I started slightly: he continued:

"I did not think your feelings were so deeply engaged, or I should never have put you to such a test. Come, do not weep; your time for tears is past; see your friend as much as you like, and let your pale, unhappy face reproach me no more that, unable to render you happy myself, I would not let another do it."

I could bear no more; every word he uttered pierced mo with a sharper pang. I hid my face in my hand and exclaimed:

"Cornelius, you are too good; I do not deserve this; I have seen William; he has but just left me."

I looked up, he turned rather pale; but never spoke one word.

"You are angry with me," I said.

"Angry with you!" he repeated, smiling sadly, but so kindly, that, impelled by the same sense of refuge which I had so often felt in my childish troubles, I threw my arms around his neck, and exclaimed in a voice broken by tears:

"Oh, Cornelius, I am so wretched."

"I am not angry, indeed I am not," he replied, sighing deeply.

"Oh! it is not that, Cornelius; William is again gone away, and if you knew all--Oh, what shall I do!"

I cried bitterly on his shoulder. He half rose as if to put me away; but he sat down again with fixed brow and compressed lips.

"What shall you do?" he echoed, "what others have done--you shall bear it."

I looked up, amazed at the stern bitterness of his tone, at the cold and inexorable meaning of his face, which had turned of a sallow paleness.

"But Cornelius," I exclaimed, much hurt, "I like him--"

"I don't believe it," he interrupted, biting his lip. "It is a dream--a fancy--the dream of a girl, of a mere child; all girls think they are in love; you have done like the rest."

I felt a burning blush overspread my face; my look sank beneath his; the hand which he had taken and still held, trembled in his; he dropped it and said:

"And is this the end of it all, Daisy? and do you really like that rough sailor, a mere boy too? Oh, Daisy!"

I conquered my scruples and my shame.

"Cornelius." I said, looking up at him, "I must speak to you openly once for all. I wanted to do so yesterday; you would not hear me then; pray hear me now."

"Why so?" he replied, with evident pain, "I know enough, more than enough."

"You do not know all."

"Then I can guess."

"No, I do not think you can."

"Well then, speak, Daisy, and do not linger."

"William, as I told you, has not long left me; he came to bid me good- bye, and also--but I must begin from the beginning."

"What else was it that he came for?" asked Cornelius.

"Let me first tell you the rest."

"Never mind the rest. What else did he call for?"

"I must go on my own way. I want you to judge of my conduct, as well as to know the issue. Do you remember yesterday all I told you concerning my acquaintance with William?"

"Every word."

"You are sure you have forgotten nothing?"

"Daisy," he exclaimed vehemently, "will you never tell me what he came for?"

His look, his tone, commanded a reply.

"To ask me whether I would not promise to marry him some day," I replied in a low tone.

There was a pause, during which I could hear the beating of my own heart.

"Well," at length said Cornelius, "did you give him that promise?"

"Guess!" I answered, and that he might not read the truth in my face, I averted it from his gaze.

"Guess!" he echoed, with a groan, "imprudent girl, I guess but too easily. Oh, Daisy! how could you pledge yourself, how could you promise that which may be the misery of your whole life."

"Cornelius, I did not promise."

"But you love him!" he exclaimed with a sort of despair, "and love is surer than vows."

In the reply which I then should have made, there was no cause for shame, yet my eyes sought the ground, my face burned, and I hesitated and paused. When I at length looked up, dreading to meet the glance of Cornelius, I perceived that his eyes were riveted on William Murray, who had come up the steep path unheard, and now stood leaning on the low wooden gate, looking at us sadly and gravely. I was the first to break the awkward pause that followed.

"I thought you were gone. William," I said, rising, and taking a step towards him.

"I could not make up my mind to it," he replied, giving me a look of half reproach. "I could not go without bidding you once more good-bye."

He held out his hand to me; I gave him mine across the gate. He took it, and keeping it clasped in his, he turned to Cornelius, and said with repressed emotion:

"I don't know why I should be ashamed of it--I am not ashamed of it--Mr. O'Reilly, I love her with my whole heart. I don't think there is another girl like her; at least I am very sure there is not another one for me. I think she likes me; but, hard as I begged, she would promise me nothing-- she could not she said without your knowledge or consent; I said I wanted nobody's knowledge or consent, to like her. We parted rather angrily; but I thought better of it, and came back to speak to you, since she wished it. And look! even here in your presence, she takes her hand from me, lest you should not like it."

I did, indeed, withdraw my hand from his, as he spoke, partly because from friendship William had gone to love, partly because I had met the look of Cornelius, which disturbed me.

"Mr. O'Reilly," said William, looking at him very fixedly, "do you object?"

"No," coldly answered Cornelius.

William opened the gate, and stepped in with a triumphant look.

"Do you hear that, Daisy?" he exclaimed.

"Do not misunderstand me," quietly said Cornelius. "I do not object; but if Daisy wishes for my advice, I certainly advise her not to enter at seventeen into an engagement destined to last her whole life. The human heart changes; it will often loathe the very object of its former wishes, and often, too, learn to long too late for that which it once dreaded as utter misery."

"_I_ shall not change!" exclaimed William, giving him an impatient look: "but of course if you advise Daisy against promises, there will be none. I need none to bind me to her; and if she will only promise to try and like me--"

"And why should she?" sharply interrupted Cornelius; "what have you done for her to deserve such a promise? What proof has she that you will always deserve it, even as much as you do now?"

"I'll tell you what, Mr. O'Reilly," said William, with sparkling eyes, "my opinion is, that though you make a fair show, like most of your countrymen, it is all a humbug, and that you want to keep Daisy for yourself!"

Cornelius laughed scornfully, as if disdaining to resent the petulant jealousy of a boy; but I saw his colour rise, and his brow knit slightly. I hastened to interfere; I stepped up to William; I looked up in his face; I took his hands in mine, and pressed them to my heart.

"William," I said sadly, "why did you come back? I wish I had spoken more plainly: I love you, but not, indeed, as you mean; I love you as my friend, as a brother, but not otherwise."

"Not otherwise!" he said, seeking aw look; "that is hard, Daisy, not otherwise."

I turned my head away.

"And yet we have been such good friends!"

"And are still, William."

"Then be my best friend."

"Gladly."

"Well! what is to marry but to be best friends? Do I not like you more than any other creature? Would I not know you among a thousand? Have I a thought I would not tell you? Not one. And, indeed, I think you, too, like me more than you think now."

"No, William, I do not."

"Do not be in such a hurry to reply," he answered, with a wishful look; "it may take you longer to find out, than it did me."

In his earnestness he had forgotten all about the presence of Cornelius. His importunity wrung the truth from me.

"William," I said, "this cannot be; I might promise to try to like you as you wish; but I could not keep that promise. There is a power and a charm that binds me to home, a tie that links me to Cornelius and to Kate, and which I cannot break even for your sake. Believe me, whilst I remain with them, I can love you very dearly; but if I were with you I should be too home-sick and too heart-sick to think of you, William. If we went out together, I know that even with my arm within yours, or your hand in mine, my eyes would ever be seeking out for them, my feet leading me to their dwelling. I like you, William, I like you dearly, but I cannot give you my whole heart."

William gave me one look; the tears rushed in his eyes; he dropped my hands.

"God bless you, Daisy," he said, and turned away. The gate closed on him; he slowly descended the path. I did not call him back, but sitting down on the bench, I hid my face in my hands and wept bitterly. I felt and felt truly that we had parted to meet no more; that my faithful companion and friend was lost to me, and the pleasant tie of my childhood and youth broken for ever.

For awhile Cornelius let me weep; then he did his best to soothe and console me. The very sound of his voice brought comfort to my heart; my tears lost their bitterness, at length they ceased to flow, and I could hear and speak with calmness.

"And so," said Cornelius, bending over me, his right hand clasping mine, his left resting on the back of the bench behind me, "and so it was only friendship after all which you felt for William Murray."

"You seem surprised, Cornelius."

"There was every appearance and every chance against it."

"I don't grant the chance."

"Because you have lived an isolated life, and know not that the first thing a youth and maiden, situated as you and William were, think of, is to get engaged as fast as they can."

"Was that what you thought yesterday, Cornelius?"

"Why did you not undeceive me?"

"Why did you not ask?"

"I did not like to put the question."

"Nor I to speak unquestioned. I had never dreamed that William, with whom I was so free, so friendly, with whom I played, picked up shells, and ran about, could think of such a thing. How could you, Cornelius?"

"Why not? he was your friend, and a fine young man, too."

"Yes," I replied, "and as good-looking as a very fair man can be. But his looks have nothing to do with what I mean, Cornelius."

"What is it you mean?"

"That he is a mere boy; Kate always called him a boy, and I always thought him one. You do not think I could have been so free with a young man. Indeed, no, Cornelius. And then he is a sailor!"

"Do you object to that?"

"Most decidedly."

"Why, what would you like, Daisy?"

"I don't know; but I know what I do not like, and a Lord Admiral himself would not tempt me."

"I had no idea you had so many good reasons for rejecting him," said Cornelius, smiling; "he is fair, a boy, and a sailor--have you anything else?"

"Yes, Cornelius," I replied, looking up into his face, "I have known him too long--almost as long as you."

"Indeed!" he said, abstractedly, "is old acquaintance so great a sin in your opinion, Daisy?"

"Not a sin, Cornelius; but I have liked William like a brother, and I cannot like him otherwise."

"Daisy, it seems to me that an old and known friend is in general much preferable to the stranger."

"That is a good reason, Cornelius, and I am talking of a feeling. Mine is so strong that, much as I like William, I feel a sort of relief in thinking we shall not meet in haste."

"Oh! Daisy," sadly said Cornelius, "do you impute that poor boy's affection for you, as a crime to him."

"Heaven forbid; but can I help feeling that the charm of our friendship is gone? He liked me one way, I liked him another; after that, what can there be between us? Could I again be free with him? I could not; and to be cold and constrained when I was once so trusting and so frank, would be worse than utter separation. I would rather never see him more, than feel my friendship for him breaking miserably away, Cornelius."

I spoke as I felt, with a warmth and earnestness that again made my eyes overflow. Cornelius heard me with an attentive look, then placing his hand on my arm, said, quietly--

"Oh, Daisy, what a lesson!"

"A lesson, Cornelius?"

"Yes, a lesson, which I, for one, shall not forget. If ever I find myself circumstanced as was your friend, Daisy, I shall have the wisdom not to cast away friendship before I am sure of love."

"Cornelius," I said, earnestly, "do you blame me?"

"No, no," he quickly replied.

"Because if you thought I should--"

"No," he interrupted; "not at all. Oh, Daisy! do you not see I am too selfish to wish to make a present of you to the first boy or man who chooses to take a fancy to you?"

"And I hope I know better than to leave you and Kate," I replied, confidently. "Oh, Cornelius!" I added, with sudden emotion, "how can daughters leave their father's house for that of a stranger?"

He was bending over me with the look and attitude which, even more than act or speech, imply the fond and caressing mood; but, on hearing this, he reddened, drew back, and said, in a short, vexed tone:--

"Don't be filial, Daisy."

"Don't be alarmed," I replied, smiling, "I have not forgotten that you called me your friend the other day, and I am going to avail myself of the privilege."

"Are you?" he answered, pacified at once.

"Yes, I am going to be very bold."

He smiled.

"To ask a great favour."

He looked delighted and inquisitive.

"You know," I continued, in my most persuasive accents, and passing my arm within his, "you know it is settled that I am always to remain with you and Kate; but--"

"But," he echoed.

"But is it settled that you are to remain with us?"

"Why not?" he replied, looking astonished.

"You spoke of Spain the other evening. What should you want to go to Spain for? I think it would be a great loss of time; besides--"

"Besides, Daisy?" he repeated, smoothing my hair.

"Besides, I want you to remain with us."

"For how long, Daisy?"

"For ever."

I said it, smiling, for I dreamt not he would consent.

"For ever," he repeated, with quiet assent.

I looked at him with breathless joy. He smiled.

"Ask me for something else," he said.

"I dare not," I replied, drawing in a long breath, "lest you should take back the first gift to punish my presumption."

"Your presumption! Oh, Daisy!"

I gave him a quick look; as our eyes met, I read in his the dangerous and intoxicating knowledge, that he who for seven years had been my master, now voluntarily abdicated that throne of authority where two so seldom sit in peace, and was calling me to something more than equality. My heart beat, my face flushed; I looked at him proudly.

"And so," I said, a little agitatedly, "I am really to be your friend. How good!--how kind! But I am not to obey you now?" I asked, breaking off.

"Don't name the word," he replied, impatiently.

"How odd!" I observed, both startled and amused. "How odd that I, who used to feel so much afraid of you, when you used to chide, punish, turn out of the room--"

"I fear," interrupted Cornelius, looking uneasy, "I was rather rude then."

"You were not always civil. You once called me a little monkey. Another time--"

"Pray don't!" he hastily observed, looking annoyed and disconcerted. "Tell me rather what I am to give you. Are there not shops at Ryde?"

"As if I should fancy anything out of a shop."

"And what is there that does not come out of a shop?"

"What a question for an artist!"

"Have I anything you would really fancy?" eagerly inquired Cornelius.

"Would you give me your picture, if I were to ask you for it?"

"Would you ask me for it?"

"No, for I want you to sell it."

"And will you not always want me to sell my pictures?"

"And is there nothing you will not sell?"

I alluded to his Italian drawings, from which Cornelius had often declared nothing should induce him to part. He understood me, for he smiled; but eluded the subject by asking if we should not go in. I assented. We entered the house, and spent, as usual, a quiet evening.

When I woke the next morning, the first object that met my eyes was the portfolio of Italian drawings, lying on the table by me. Never had I been so quick in dressing as I was then. I hastened downstairs to the parlour. Cornelius sat reading the newspaper by the table. I went up to him, and standing behind him, gently took it from his hand.

"Why so?" he said, demurring.

"Oh! you know. But I cannot thank you. All I can say is. I shall never forget that what you would not have given for money, when you wanted money, you gave to me for pure love and friendship. I shall never forget, Cornelius, when you are a rich man and a great man, that when you were but a poor, obscure artist, you gave me all a poor, obscure artist has to give."

He did not reply. I stood behind him, with my two hands leaning on the back of his chair. He took them, and gently clasped them around his neck. I stooped, and touching with my lips his bold and handsome brow, I could not help saying:

"Oh, my friend! shall I ever have another friend like you?"

"Indeed, I hope not," he replied, laughing: and in the glass opposite us, I saw Kate smiling, as she stood looking on in the half gloom of the open door.

The heart of youth is light. I liked William. I was sorry for him, but I did not let my remembrance of him press on me too sadly. Had I wished it, it would scarcely have been in my power to be unhappy, when I saw and felt that he who was dearest to me of God's creatures, now loved me as blindly and as devotedly as ever I had loved him.