Daisy Burns Volume II Part 14

"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 gla.s.sy 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 gra.s.sy 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 att.i.tude, 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 la.s.sie, 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 la.s.sie 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 trespa.s.sing?"

"Why not?"

"Or for poaching?"