Daisy Burns Volume II Part 52

Mrs. Brand slipped her arm within that of her friend, and made her re- enter the drawing-room. But something or some one called her away, for in a few minutes, Mrs. Langton was again by me. She came on me suddenly, before I could efface the trace of recent tears. The evening was light and clear. She looked at me and said:

"I could have spared you this, Miss Burns. Mr. Thornton--"

"Indeed, Ma'am," I interrupted, "I am not thinking of Mr. Thornton; but I fear Mr. O'Reilly is vexed with me: that is the truth."

I thought this would rid me of her tiresome jealousy, but it did not.

"Poor child!" she said compa.s.sionately, "I see you know nothing. Perhaps it is scarcely right to betray Bertha to you; but can I help also feeling for you? Do you know the play of Shakespeare ent.i.tled 'Much Ado about Nothing'?"

"Yes, Ma'am, I know it."

"Do you remember the ingenious manner in which two of the characters are made to fall in love with one another? Bened.i.c.k thinks Beatrice is dying for him, and Beatrice thinks the same thing of him."

"That was vanity, Ma'am, not love."

"Ay, but vanity is a potent pa.s.sion, and 'Much Ado about Nothing' is a play still daily enacted on the scene of the world."

I heard her with some impatience; I thought her discourse resembled the play of which it treated. She saw plain speech alone would make me comprehend her meaning.

"Our dear Bertha," she sighed, "has quite a pa.s.sion for match-making. For instance, she will teaze me about Captain Craik, and says he is mad about me. I don't mind it, provided she does not say the same thing to him."

"Oh!" I replied, quite startled, "that would be too bad."

"So it would; but I fear it. Captain Craik has been very peculiar of late."

I felt uncomfortable. It was not to end with Captain Craik we had travelled over the slow ground of this ambiguous discourse.

"Now do you know." resumed Mrs. Langton, "I cannot help fancying that Bertha has been indulging in the same little pastime with you and her brother."

"Not with me," I said, eagerly; "she never even hinted it."

"You are slow at taking hints," replied Mrs. Langton with a sceptical smile.

"But why should she think of me?" I asked, incredulously; "I am not a beauty," I added, looking at her, "I have no wealth--no position. Why should she wish to marry me to her brother?"

"To make a good sister-in-law," answered Mrs. Langton, quietly.

I felt there was something in that, and remained mute with consternation.

"And do you think," she resumed, laughing softly, "he has been quite so slow to take the hint? Why, child, you have scarcely said a word that he has not modestly converted into a proof of your pa.s.sion for him. Remember how sympathising he was on the evening of the party; he thought: 'Poor little thing! I must be kind. It is plain she is fretting herself away for my sake.'"

She spoke with evident conviction. I remembered words and looks, and I grew hot and faint.

"Oh, Mrs. Langton!" I exclaimed desperately, "what shall I do? how can I undeceive him?"

"Leave the house at once," she promptly replied.

"Will it not be better to stay for another day or so, just to be cool with him?"

"He will think it shyness."

"And despair if I run away. No, I must stay to undeceive him."

"And to give him time to inform you in his civil, gentlemanly way, how deeply he feels for you."

"Then I can show him I don't want his sympathy."

"He will think it pride or pique. Take my advice, Miss Burns. You are in a false position. Retreat."

She laid her hand on my arm and spoke impressively. But youth is rash; I scorned the idea of flight. Besides I had no faith in her advice. With the frank indignation of my years, I felt how meanly my candour and inexperience had been imposed upon. "So, Mrs. Brand," I thought resentfully, "you had me here, because you thought I might make a manageable sister-in-law! Much obliged to you, Mrs. Brand; you will have your dear Edith, yet. But to go and tell or imply to her brother that I was in love with him, with a man who might be my father!

"Besides, even if it had been true, how barbarous to betray me! And you, too, Mrs. Langton," I thought, looking at her, "you too have not thought it beneath your pride to deceive me: talking ill to me of the very man you love--as much as you can love--accusing him of profligacy! Then, so piqued because I said he was middle-aged!--and so kindly anxious to make me look foolish by running away! Go! no indeed! It is very odd if I cannot finesse a little in my turn, and, without committing myself, get out of this spider's web into which, like a foolish fly, I have got entangled; and it is very odd, too, if I cannot change the web a little, before I spread out my wings and take my flight back to the home foolish flies should never leave."

I was thoroughly piqued, and walked restlessly from one end of the verandah to the other. I set my wits to work; thought rapidly followed thought; schemes were made and rejected with every second; at length, both mentally and bodily, I stopped short. "I have it," I thought, triumphantly; "I am not so dull but that I have noticed certain pa.s.sages between a fair lady and a certain gentleman; I have always thought they would end by marrying; I am certain of it now. I shall act on that belief; say something; no matter what; he likes my _naivete_--to prove to my dear cousin that I consider Edith as good as Mrs. Edward Thornton. Let him like it or not, I shall take his vexation as excellent sport, glide out of it with a laugh, then beg pardon, apologize, and show him he may marry the Queen of Sheba, for all it matters to Daisy Burns."

I felt confident of success; and, elated with my scheme, I turned to Mrs.

Langton, and said, gaily:--

"I have such a good idea!--only I cannot tell you. But you shall see how it will work."

She bit her lip, and gave me a mistrustful look.

"I have warned you," she said; "I warn you again; do not think yourself equal to Bertha. If she chooses to convince her brother that you are in love with him, I consider it out of the question that you can prevent her."

"I shall see that," I replied, indignantly.

"Yes," said Mrs. Langton, "you will have that satisfaction."

"Then what should I gain by running away?" I asked, a little tartly. "The best thing I can do is to stay, look on, and learn how these matters are managed."

Mrs. Langton gave me another mistrustful look, and withdrew. I saw she did not believe in my sincerity; perhaps she did not think it possible to resist Edward Thornton, and repented having been so frank. Her thoughts did not trouble me. The more I reflected on my scheme, the better I liked it. I enjoyed, in advance, the manner in which my cousin would open his fine blue eyes. I was not vexed with him; but I remembered the Dresden room, and was determined he should be as fairly undeceived as ever he had been deluded. Absorbed in these thoughts, I remained on the verandah, looking at the beautiful garden and grounds beneath. A visitor came, was received by Mrs. Langton, stayed awhile, left, and still I did not re- enter the drawing-room, where Mrs. Brand and her friend now sat, working and talking by lamp-light. At length, scarce knowing why, I began to pay a vague attention to their discourse.

"I think we are going to have a storm," said the soft voice of Mrs.

Langton; "it will clear the air, perhaps. Doctor Morton says the weather has been so unhealthy; typhus so prevalent amongst the poor. He mentioned the case of a labourer who has just died, leaving a widow and nine children."

"Very sad, indeed," composedly replied Mrs. Brand; "but then you know, my dear, typhus is generally confined to the poor--which is a sort of comfort."

"It is not always the case," said Edith; "there have been several deaths amongst tradespeople."

"Ah! poor things, they have to deal with the poor, you see; but what I mean is, that it seldom goes higher up; which is a great comfort, you know; for what good would it do the poor that those above them should die?"

"None, of course. The doctor also mentioned another case--very sad too-- such a fine young man, he had been told, an artist, I think; but he did not know his name, who is lying ill--all but given up."

"Really," said Mrs. Brand, "this gets quite alarming. Do you know whereabouts that unfortunate young man lives?"

Until then, I had listened to them as we listen to speech in which we take no interest. I was young, full of health; the evening air felt pleasant and fresh about me; and standing on that cool verandah above a fragrant garden, I recked not of the fevered dwellings where the poor perish, and of the sick chamber where even the rich man may be reached by death; but when Mrs. Langton spoke of the young artist who lay given up, I felt touched. When Mrs. Brand asked to know where he dwelt, I just turned my head a little to catch the reply of the beautiful Edith. She gave it carelessly.

"In a place called the Grove, I believe; is it far off?"