CHAPTER V.
What between surprise and joy, I could neither move nor speak. When the young man closed the door, came up to me, sat down by me, and, with a kiss, asked cheerfully, "Well, Margaret, how are you?" I hid my face on his shoulder, and began to cry. But he made me look up, and said with concern, "How pale and thin you are, child!—are you ill?"
"No," I answered, astonished.
Cornelius looked around him, at the fire with the guard, at the table with my books and playthings, at me; then observed, "Why are you alone?"
"I am always alone."
"Does no one come near you?"
"No one."
"Does your grandfather never send for you?"
"Oh no!"
"Who takes care of you?"
"Mrs. Marks, the housekeeper."
"Do you never leave this room?"
"I can go down if I like; but it tires me."
"Poor little thing! how do you spend your time?"
"In the daytime I look out of the window; in the evening I play by myself."
"Have you no children to play with?"
"No, none."
"And what do you learn?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing!" he echoed.
"Yes, nothing."
"Have you no lessons?"
"No; Mrs. Marks says, that, as I can read well, and write a little, it is enough."
"Enough!" indignantly exclaimed Cornelius; but he checked himself to observe, "Mrs. Marks knows nothing about it; a good education is the least Mr. Thornton can give his grand-daughter."
He was not questioning me; but I looked at him, and said, bluntly, "I am to get a common-place education; I am not to be a lady."
"Who says so?" indignantly asked Cornelius.
"Mr. Thornton."
"How do you know?"
"He said it, before me, to Miss Grainger. He said I was to be neither a governess nor a lady; and that a common-place education, and some decent occupation, were to be my destiny." The words had stung me to the quick at the time, and had never been forgotten. As I repeated them, the blood rushed up to the face of Cornelius O'Reilly; his look lit; his lip trembled with all the quickness of emotion of his race.
"But you shall be a lady," he exclaimed, with rapid warmth. "Your father, who was an Irish gentleman born and bred, gave me the education of a gentleman; and I will give you the education of a lady,—so help me God!"
He drew and pressed me to him. I looked up at him, and said, "I should not take up much room." He seemed surprised at the observation.
I continued—"And Mrs. Marks says I eat so little." Cornelius looked perplexed.
"Will you take me with you?" I asked earnestly.
Cornelius drew in a long breath.
"You are an odd child!" he said.
I passed my arms around his neck, and asked again, "Will you take me with you?"
"Why do you want me to take you?"
I hung down my head, and did not answer. The strange unconquerable shyness of childhood was on me, and rendered me tongue-tied. Cornelius gently raised my face, so that it met his look, and smiled at seeing it grow hot and flushed beneath his gaze.
"Do you really want me to take you?" he asked, after a pause.
I looked up quickly; I said nothing; but if childhood has no words to render its feelings, it has eloquent looks easily read. Cornelius was at no loss to understand the meaning of mine.
"Indeed, then, if I can I will," he replied earnestly.
"Oh! we can get out by the back-door," I said, quickly.
"My dear," answered Cornelius, gravely, "never leave a house by the back- door, unless in case of fire; besides, it would look like an elopement. We must speak to Mr. Thornton."
I could not see the necessity of this; but I submitted to his decision, and, taking his hand, I accompanied him downstairs. No stray domestic was visible, not even the little servant appeared. Cornelius looked around him, then resolutely knocked at the door of my grandfather's study. A sharp "Come in!" authorized us to enter. This time Mr. Thornton had exchanged the magnifying glass and the beetle for a pair of compasses and an immense map which covered the whole table. He looked up; and, on perceiving Cornelius, exclaimed, with a ludicrous expression of dismay, "Sir, have you brought me another little girl?"
"No, Sir," replied Cornelius smiling; "this is the same."
"Oh! the same, is it?"
"No; not quite the same," resumed Cornelius; "the child, whom I left here a month ago, is strangely altered; question her yourself, Sir, and ascertain the manner in which, without your wish or knowledge, I feel assured, your grand-daughter has been treated in your house."
My grandfather gave the young man a sharp look, and his brown face darkened in meaning if not in hue.
"Come here," he said, addressing me; "and remember, that, though you have large secretiveness, I must have the truth."
I looked at Cornelius; he nodded; I went up to Mr. Thornton, who looked keenly at my face, and, as if something there suggested the question, abruptly asked, "Do you get enough to eat?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Why don't you eat, then?"
"But I do eat."
"Why does Mrs. Marks strike you?"
"She never strikes me," I replied indignantly.
"But why does she ill-use you?"
"She does not ill-use me; she dare not."
Mr. Thornton looked at Cornelius with ironical triumph. The young man seemed disgusted, and said warmly, "I never meant, sir, that Margaret Burns was a starved, ill-used child. Heaven forbid! But I meant to say that she is left to solitude, idleness, and disgraceful ignorance."
"Upon my word, Mr. O'Reilly," observed Mr. Thornton, pushing away his map, as if to survey Cornelius better,—"upon my word, you meddle in my family arrangements with praiseworthy coolness."
"Mr. Thornton," replied Cornelius, not a whit disconcerted, and looking at him very calmly, "I brought the child to you; this gives me a right to interfere, which you have yourself acknowledged by not checking me at once."
Mr. Thornton gave him an odd look, then grunted a sort of assent, looked at his map, and said impatiently—
"Granted; but not that the child is not treated as she ought to be. Still, within reasonable bounds, she shall be judge in her own case. Do you hear?" he added, turning towards me, "if you want for anything, say so, and you shall get it."
"I want to go away," I said at once.
"Very well; I shall send you to school."
"But I want to go with Mr. O'Reilly."
"Mr. O'Reilly is welcome to you," sarcastically replied my grandfather; "he may take you, drop you on the way, do what he likes with you—if he chooses to have you!" I ran to Cornelius.
"Shall I get ready?" I asked eagerly.
"My dear," he gently replied, "Mr. Thornton means to send you to school, where you will learn many things."
"She will not be troubled with much learning," drily observed Mr.
Thornton.
"Surely, Sir," remonstrated Cornelius, "the poor child is to be educated?"
"Sir, she is not to be a fine lady."
"Allow me to observe—"
"Sir, I will allow you to take her away and do what you like with her; but not to observe."
"I take you at your word," warmly replied Cornelius, on whom Mr. Thornton bestowed an astonished look; "take her I will, and educate her too. It would be strange if I could not do for her father's child what that father did for me! I thank you, Sir, for that which brought me here, but which I scarcely knew how to ask for."
My grandfather looked at me, and made an odd grimace, as if not considering me a particularly valuable present. Still, and though taken at his word, he seemed scarcely pleased.
"Well," he said at length, "be it so. I certainly do not care much about the child myself, not being able to forget where that face of hers came from—you do; you want to make a penniless lady of her; she wants to go with you: have both your wish. If she should prove troublesome or in the way, send her back to me, or, in my absence, to Mrs. Marks. You distinctly understand that I am willing to provide for her; though, I suppose," he added, looking at Cornelius, "I must not propose—"
"No, Sir," gravely interrupted the young man.
"Very well; provide for her too, since such is your fancy. Take her; you are welcome to her."
And thus it was decided; and in less than a quarter of an hour we had not only left Thornton House, but the surly porter at the lodge had closed his iron gates upon us, and we were on our way to Ryde, whence Cornelius wished to proceed to London, straight on, that same evening.
After walking on for awhile in utter silence, Cornelius said to me—
"Are you tired. Margaret?"
"Oh no!" I answered eagerly.
Indeed the question seemed to take away my sense of fatigue. For some time, the fear of being left behind lent me fictitious strength; but at length my sore and weary feet could carry me no further; in the wildest and most desolate part of the road I was obliged to stop short.
"What is the matter?" asked Cornelius.
"I can't go on," I replied, despondingly.
"Can't you, indeed?"
"No," I said, sitting down on a milestone, and feeling ready to cry, "I can't at all."
"Well, then, if you can't at all," coolly observed Cornelius, "I must carry you."
"I am very heavy!" I objected, astonished at the suggestion.
He laughed, and attempted to lift me up, but I resisted.
"Oh! it will fatigue you so!" I said.
"No, nature has given me such extraordinary strength that I can bear without fatigue burdens—like you, for instance—beneath which other men would sink."
He raised me with an ease that justified his assertion. I clasped my arms around his neck, rested my head on his shoulder, and feeling how firm and secure was his hold, I yielded with a pleasurable sensation to a mode of conveyance which I found both novel and luxurious. I could not however help asking once, with lingering uneasiness, "If he did not feel tired?"
"No; strange to say, and heavy as you are, I do not: but why do you shiver? Are you cold?"
"No, thank you," I replied, but my teeth chattered as I spoke.
"I hope it is nothing worse than cold," uneasily observed Cornelius, stopping short; "undo the clasp of my cloak, and bring it around you."
I obeyed; he helped to wrap me up in the warm and ample folds, and we resumed our journey, a moment interrupted. He walked fast; we soon reached Ryde; but he would not let me come to light until we were safely housed. I heard a staid voice observing—
"Your carpet-bag. I presume, Sir. It will be quite safe here."
"It is not a carpet-bag," replied Cornelius, unwrapping me, and depositing me in a small ill-lit back parlour, with a grim landlady looking on.
"Your carpet-bag will be quite safe here," she resumed.
"I have none." She looked aghast. A little girl, and no carpet-bag!
"Yours, Sir, I presume?" she steadily observed.
"Mine!" echoed Cornelius, reddening, "no."
"Your sister, I presume, Sir?" persisted the landlady.
"She is no relative," he shortly answered; then, without heeding her, he felt my forehead, took my hand, said both were burning; looked at his watch, pondered, and finally startled the landlady—who had remained in the room taciturn and suspicious—with the abrupt query—
"Is there a medical man about here, Ma'am?"
"There is Mr. Wood."
"Be so kind as to send for him; I fear this child is ill."
She looked mistrustful, but complied with the request, and in about ten minutes returned with a sleek little man in black, who bowed himself into the room, peeped at my tongue, held my wrist delicately suspended between his thumb and forefinger, then for the space of a minute looked intently at the ceiling, with his right eye firmly shut, and his tongue shrewdly screwed in the left corner of his mouth. At length he dropped my hand, opened his eye, put in his tongue, and gravely said:
"The young lady is only a little feverish."
"You are quite sure it is nothing worse?" observed Cornelius, seeming much relieved.
"Quite sure," decisively replied Mr. Wood; "but concerning the young lady—not your daughter, Sir?"
"No!" was the indignant answer.
"Concerning this young lady," placidly resumed Mr. Wood, "I wish to observe that she is of an excitable temperament, requiring—Not your sister?" he added, again breaking off into an inquiry.
"No, Sir," impatiently replied Cornelius.
"Of an excitable temperament, requiring gentle exercise, indulgence, little study, and none of those violent emotions," (here he held up his forefinger in solemn warning,) "none of those violent emotions which sap the springs of life in the youthful being. Not your ward?" he observed, with another negative inquiry.
"No!—Yes!" hesitatingly said Cornelius.
"In the youthful being—" again began Mr. Wood.
"Excuse me, Sir," impatiently interrupted Cornelius, "but the coach will soon pass by; is there anything that can be done for the child?"
"Yes, Sir," drily answered Mr. Wood, "there are several things to be done for the young lady; the first is to put her to bed directly."
"To bed?" uneasily said Cornelius.
"Directly. The second, to administer a sedative draught, that will make her spend the night in a state of deep repose."
"Then we must actually sleep here?"
"Of deep repose. The third is not to attempt moving her for the next twelve hours."
"Remember, Sir, you said it was only feverishness."
"It is nothing more now," replied the inexorable Mr. Wood, in a tone threatening anything from scarlatina to typhus if his directions were disregarded. Cornelius sighed, submitted, asked for the sedative draught, and consigned me to the care of the grim landlady.
I allowed her to undress me and put me to bed in a dull little room upstairs; but when she attempted to make me take the sedative, duly sent round by Mr. Wood, I buried my face in the pillow. Though she said "Miss!" in a most threatening accent, she could not conquer my mute obstinacy. She departed in great indignation.
Soon after she had left, the door opened, and Cornelius entered. He looked grave. I prepared for a lecture, but he only sat down by me and said very gently, "Margaret, why will you not drink the sedative?"
I did not answer. He tasted the beverage, then said earnestly, "It is not unpleasant; try."
He wanted to approach the cup to my lips, but I turned away, and said with some emotion, "I don't want to sleep."
"Why so, child?"
"Because I shall not wake up in time; you will go away and leave me."
"Margaret, why should I leave you?"
"Because you don't like me as Papa did; you do not care about me," I replied, a little excitedly; for I was now quite conscious that the affection was all on my side.
He looked surprised at the reproach and all it implied, and to my mortification he also looked amused. I turned my face to the wall; he bent over me and saw that my eyes were full of tears.
"Crying!" he said chidingly.
"You laugh at me," I replied indignantly.
"Which is a shame," he answered, vainly striving to repress a smile; "but whether or not, Margaret, you must oblige me by drinking this."
He spoke authoritatively. I yielded, and took the cup from him; but in so doing I gave him a look which must have been rather appealing, for he said with some warmth, "On my word, child, I shall not leave you behind. Why, I would as soon give up a pet lamb to the butcher as let you go back to Thornton House,—or turn out a poor unfledged bird from the nest as forsake a helpless little creature like you."
I drank at once. To reward my obedience, Cornelius said he would stay with me until I had fallen asleep. I tried to delay the moment as long as I could, but, conquered by a power mightier than my will, I was gradually compelled to yield. I remember the amused smile of the young man at my unavailing efforts to keep my eyes open and fixed on his face; then follows a sudden blank and darkness, into which even he has vanished.
I awoke the next morning cool, well, and free from fever. The landlady dressed me in surly silence, then led me down to the little parlour, where I found Cornelius reading the newspaper by the breakfast table. He seemed much pleased to find that the fever had left me, and observed with a smile, "Well, Margaret, did I run away?"
I hung down my head ashamed.
"Why, my poor child," he added, drawing me towards him, "I should be a perfect savage to dream of such a thing; besides, how ungallant to go and desert a lady in distress! Never more could Cornelius O'Reilly—a disgrace to his name and country—show his face after so dark a deed."
He was laughing at me again; I did not mind it now; but as the grim landlady, who had lingered by, looked mystified, Cornelius amused himself by treating me with the most attentive and fastidious politeness during the whole of breakfast-time. To complete her satisfaction, and to make up for the missing carpet-bag, she was edified by the arrival of Miss Burns's luggage from Thornton House.
We left early. We rode outside the stage-coach. It was a fine autumn day, and the journey was pleasant until evening came on; Cornelius then drew me closer to him, and shared with me the folds of his ample cloak. The unusual warmth and motion soon sent me to sleep. Once or twice I woke to the momentary consciousness of a starlight night, and trees and houses rapidly passing before me; but after this all was darkness; the cloak had shrouded me completely. I merely opened my eyes to close them again and fall asleep, with my head resting against Cornelius, and his arm passed around me to save me from falling.
I have a vague remembrance of reaching a large and noisy city, of leaving the stage-coach to enter a cab, where I again fell fast to sleep, and at length of awaking with a start, as Cornelius said, "Margaret, we are at home."
The cab had stopped; Cornelius had got out; he lifted me down even as he spoke, and the cab rolled away along the lonely lane in which we stood.