Daisy Burns Volume II Part 59

Cornelius, who had followed me, saw this, and wanted to close the window.

"Do not," I said; "this cool, keen air is delightful. Then I like to watch the rising of that sun that thought to see you far on your journey, and that shall find you here. Besides, bow beautiful our little garden looks!"

"Then come out into it for awhile."

He took my arm. I yielded. We went down into the garden and paced its narrow gravel path without uttering a word. There came a slight shower; we stepped under the old poplar trees; they yielded more than sufficient shelter. The sun shone through the sparkling drops as they fell, and whilst the fresh rain came down, the birds overhead sang sweetly under the cover of young leafy boughs, as if their song could know no ending.

Yes, sweet and near though I knew it to be, it sounded to me as coming from the depths of some dreamy forest far away. I do not think our garden had ever looked so fresh, so pleasant, or been so fragrant as when that shower ceased. The rain-clouds soft and grey, had melted into the vapoury blue of upper air; the warm suns.h.i.+ne tempered the coolness of the breeze, the green gra.s.s was white and heavy with the dew of night, and bright with the rain of the morning; the wet gravel sparkled, the dark trunks of the trees trickled slowly, the brown moss clung closer to the old sun- dial, the fresh earth smelt sweet, stock, mignionette, wall-flower, furze, and jessamine yielded their most fragrant odours. Rhododendrons beaten down by the last night's storm trailed on the earth their gorgeous ma.s.ses, whilst sparkling fox-gloves, with a dew-drop to every flower, still rose straight and tall. We were again walking on. Cornelius suddenly stopped short, and for the first time spoke.

"Daisy," he said, earnestly, "you are quite sure, are you not?"

"Look at that flower," was my only reply.

It was a crimson peony, heavy with rain. I bent it slightly; from the delicate petals, from the heart which seemed untouched by a breath, there poured forth a bright shower of liquid dew.

"What about that flower, Daisy?"

"It is a peony, Cornelius."

"Let it."

"Well, I don't think you can prevent it from being one. Peonies will be peonies."

"Who wants to interfere with their rights? and what have peonies to do with our discourse, unless that you look very like one just now? Oh, Daisy! are you sure you like me well enough to marry me?"

"Don't think, if ever I do such a thing, it shall be for liking, Cornelius."

"What for, then?"

"To prevent you from marrying any one else."

He still looked uneasy, and yet he might have known that, though it is sometimes very hard to know where love is, it is always wonderfully easy to know where he is not.

"What would you have?" I asked, a little impatiently. "Is it the love, honour, and obey that troubles you? Well, I have loved you all my life, or very nearly. I honour you more than living creature; as for obedience, I could obey you all the day long, Cornelius."

"Do you mean to turn out a Griseldis?" he said, uneasily. "What put such ideas into your head?"

"Remembrance of the time--"

"I knew you would grow filial again," he interrupted, looking provoked, "instead of answering my question, which was--"

"Concerning your wife," I interrupted, in my turn; "what about her? She ought to be a proud woman, and it will be her own fault if she is not happy--ay, a very happy one."

He stroked my hair, and smiled quite pleased.

"I hope so," he said. "And yet you do not know what I mean to do for her, Daisy. I will paint her pictures that shall beat all the sonnets Petrarch ever sang to his Laura. I will win her fame and money: I will dress her as fine as any queen, until my field-flower shall outs.h.i.+ne every flower of the garden. Above all, I will love her as knight of chivalry, or hero of romance, never loved his lady."

He spoke with jesting, yet very tender flattery. Love can take every tone, and bend any language to its own meaning.

I know not how long we lingered together in that garden. I was the first to become conscious of time.

"Where is Kate?" I asked.

"Forgotten," replied her low voice.

She stood beneath the ivied porch; her head a little inclined; one hand supporting her cheek. She looked down at us with a smile happy, yet not without sadness.

"Don't think I envy you the pleasant time," she resumed more gaily; "I like to see people enjoying themselves. When I meet couples in the lanes, I either get out of the way, or, if I cannot do that, I give them internally my benediction. 'Go on,' I think to myself, 'go on; you will never be happier, nor, perhaps, better than you are now. Go on.'"

"We want to go in," said Cornelius, as we ascended the steps.

As I pa.s.sed by her, Kate arrested me by laying her hand on my shoulder, and saymg:

"Look at that child! She has not slept all night, and there is not a rose of the garden half so fresh. It's a nice thing to be young, Cornelius."

She sighed a little, then led the way in to the front parlour, where breakfast was waiting.

"Already!" said Cornelius.

"Yes, already," she replied, sitting down to pour out the tea: "whilst you were in the clouds, the world has gone on just the same. Midge, why don't you sit near him as usual? you are not ashamed of yourself, are you?"

Ashamed! Oh, no! There is no shame in happiness; and G.o.d alone knows how happy I felt then sitting by him whom I loved, and facing her whom I loved almost as well. I do not know how I looked, or Cornelius either; for I did not look at him; but I know that Kate was radiant; that every time her bright eyes rested on us, they sparkled like diamonds, and that it touched me to the heart to read the generous, unselfish joy painted on her handsome face.

We were no sooner alone, than with her habit of continuing aloud whatever secret train of thought she chanced to be engaged in, Miss O'Reilly said to me in her most positive manner:

"I am very glad of it."

"Are you, Kate?" I replied, pa.s.sing my arm around her neck and kissing her.

"Yes, you coaxing little thing; for he is devotedly fond of you, and I believe you like him with your whole heart, though it took you so long to find it out. What would you and he have done without me."

"I don't know, Kate, but how came you to let him think of going?"

"Ah! he quite deceived me in that matter; I never dreamt of it until it was all settled. It was no use my telling him that if you only knew he liked you, you would be glad to have him, as indeed any girl in her senses would. He said you only liked him in a sisterly sort of way, and would be off. I thought I would find out when he was gone, what sort of a way it was, but I had not the trouble."

I smiled. She gave me a wistful look and said:

"Ah! you don't want to be his niece now, do you?"

"No, indeed," I promptly answered.

"And I don't wish it either," she replied with a stifled sigh, "time was when I fretted and repined; when I wished I had been the wife of Edward Burns, and that his child had been my child; but that is over. I am glad now that my heart was denied that which it craved so eagerly; that my youth was cold and lonely; that my sorrow which past, purchased him and you a happiness which will I trust endure. Oh, Daisy! this is a good world after all, and with a good G.o.d over it; don't you see how the grief of one is made to work the bliss of another; how because your father and I were severed, the two children we loved so dearly can be united?"

"I see, Kate," I replied looking up into her face, "that Cornelius is good; that I, too, am what is called a good girl, and yet that we are two selfish creatures; that you alone are truly good and n.o.ble."

She shook her head with humble denial.

"I am an idolator for all that," she replied, her lips trembling slightly, "and you are blind if you do not see it. When I lost my lover, I set my heart on a child--for what are we to do with our hearts, if we don't love with them?--and he has kept it, and if G.o.d, to chastise me, were to take him from me to-morrow, I feel I should love him as much in his grave as I do on earth. If it be a sin, I trust to His mercy to forgive it. Sometimes, when my heart fails me, I cling to the recollection of His humanity. He who felt so much tenderness for his dear mother; who loved His brethren so truly; who cherished the beloved disciple; who wept by the grave of Lazarus, will surely not be very severe on a poor woman to whose whole life he thought fit to grant but one delight and one happy love. Do you think he will, Daisy?"

I was too much moved to reply.