Daisy Burns Volume II Part 40

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

My cousin Edward sympathised with me, wondered what could be Mr.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His absence made me feel very lonely. We were a strange household, and led a strange life. My grandfather did not think it necessary to trouble himself about his uninvited guests. He never sought our society, or appeared at our table. Mrs. Marks tacitly resented our intrusion by retiring to the stronghold of her high room, whence she occasionally amused herself with ringing her alarum-bell, and now and then emerged to make a descent upon Charlotte below. She saw that Mr. Thornton wanted for nothing, and allowed us to s.h.i.+ft as we liked. We went on very well. Mrs.

Brand's servant daily foraged for our support, and Mrs. Langton's French maid, with Charlotte as a subordinate, condescended to cook us the exquisite soups and ragouts of her country. Thus we lived most luxuriously in that old wainscotted parlour, where there were scarcely three chairs fit to sit upon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sighed as she concluded.

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

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

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

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

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

"My dear! the most amiable of men."

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

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

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

"I am sure of it."

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

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

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

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

"The what, Ma'am?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I could not help it, Sir."

"You should have turned her out."

"Sir."

"Turned her out. Are you getting deaf?"