Daisy Burns Volume II Part 30

"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 a.s.sented. 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.d's creatures, now loved me as blindly and as devotedly as ever I had loved him.

CHAPTER IX.

At the end of a fortnight, Kate spoke of returning to our old home in the Grove, which had been vacant for some time. She resolved to go first with Jane and set all to rights, and to leave Cornelius and me to the care of a deaf and half-blind old dame. It was no use, she said, to bring us in the mess. When all was ready, she would write to us; and, as the furniture was not particularly valuable, we could just lock up Rock Cottage, and thus the labours of Cornelius need not be interrupted. He was then working hard at his Young Girl Reading, and entered quite into the spirit of this arrangement.

When Kate had been gone above ten days, she wrote to say we might leave whenever we pleased. I felt delighted, but noticed, with concern, that the prospect of our return affected Cornelius very differently. For several days he looked pale and unwell, yet there appeared about him no sign of physical ailment. He seemed in a strange state of restlessness and fever, and wandered about the house like an uneasy spirit. Two or three times he took long lonely walks, from which he came in so worn and languid-looking, that I once asked uneasily:

"What ails you, Cornelius?"

"Nothing. How flushed you look. Is anything the matter with you?"

"I have been stooping packing up--that is all."

I returned to the task. He moved away, then came back several times, as if to address me, but never spoke. At tea time, I noticed, with concern, that he touched nothing. I said I was sure he was ill. He denied it; but when our aged servant bad removed the tray, he came and sat by me, made me put by my work, and, taking my two hands in his, began looking at my face with a strange troubled gaze--like one who beholds things in a dream--far and dim.

"What is it?" I asked, a little uneasily.

"How pale you look!" was his only reply.

"I feel tired. Sewing there after tea, my eyes seemed to close involuntarily."

"They are closing now. You need sleep, poor child. Go up to your room."

"Have you nothing to say to me?"

"It will do to-morrow. Go! a long night's rest will do you so much good.

Sleep well and long."

I said it was too early yet, but even as I spoke, a heaviness not to be conquered by will, pressed down my eyelids. He urged the point and I yielded. How soon I slept that night; how long, deep and peaceful were my slumbers! how light and happy I felt when the morning sun awoke me, and opening my window, I drank in with delight the air still cool with the dews of night. I came down in a happy mood, and ran out to join Cornelius in the garden. He stood by the pine tree, smoking and looking at the sea in a fit of abstraction so deep, that he never heard me, until I pa.s.sed my arm within his, and said:

"How are you to-day?"

"Quite well, child."

"Then let us have a good, long walk," I said eagerly. "Let us visit once more our old haunts, and take a few green images to smoky London. Shall we?"

"As you please, Daisy."

"I do please. I have a pastoral longing for breezy freshness, lanes, dells, and streams flowing in the shade. So let as go in to breakfast."

He yielded, but with little sympathy for my impatience, he lingered at the meal for an hour and more. When I sought to hurry him, he invariably replied:

"There is time enough."

I went up to dress; when I came down again, I found him in the garden, walking up and down the path. I joined him, and said "I was quite ready."

"Are you?" he quietly answered and continued his walk.

I followed him, impatient at his dilatoriness; but he seemed in no haste, for as he might have spoken on any other morning, he said:

"I like this garden, Daisy. Spite of the sea air, flowers seem to thrive here. I never saw a finer rose than this. Take it."

He gathered it, and gave it to me as he spoke. I murmured a little. This rose was to have been the pride of the bouquet I meant to take to Kate.