Daisy Burns (Volume 1)

by Julia Kavanagh

CHAPTER XVI.

"Nonsense," said Kate, "I am not going to stand that, you know."

She spoke in the oddest of her many odd ways. I looked up—her bright eyes were glittering—she passed her arm around me, made me lay my head on her shoulder, and kissed me with unusual tenderness.

"Poor little thing!" she said, gently, "your troubles begin early, and yet, take my word for it, they will not last nor seem so severe after a time. When those two are married, you and I shall live together and be quite happy."

"When are they to marry?" I asked.

"In a month or two. A foolish business, Midge: I thought Cornelius would have had more sense; but he is to have plenty of work from a Mr. Redmond, and on the strength of such prospects he is going to marry. He is but a boy, and he does not know better: but she does, and it is a shame of her to take him in."

"I thought Miss Russell had money."

"So she has; but I know Cornelius; he won't live on his wife's money; he will do paltry work to support himself, lose all his time in copying bad pictures, and ruin his prospects as an artist,—all that because he could not wait a year or two. Ah well! I hope he may not repent it; I hope he may always love her as much as he does now. Don't fret, child; he never deserved such a good little girl as you have been to him."

"Oh, Kate, it is not for that I fret, but is it possible Cornelius can think of giving up painting? it cuts me to think of it."

"He does not think of it, foolish fellow! He does not see that he is tying himself down; just as he does not see that it is to please her he is sending you away. He thinks it is all his idea, whereas I know very well that of his own accord Cornelius O'Reilly would never have dreamed of parting from the child of Edward Burns. To be sure, I might have insisted on keeping you, for the house is mine, but for your own sake I would not make an annoyance of you to him. One must always let men have their way, and find out their own mistake; he will regret you yet, Daisy."

Thus she talked and strove to comfort me, until, after a long drive, we stopped at the door of the Misses Clapperton.

They resided in a detached villa, very Moorish-looking, with windows small enough to satisfy even the jealousy of a Turk, a flat roof admirably calculated for taking cold on, and a turret that threateningly overlooked a classic villa opposite, and gave the whole building a fortified, chivalric, arabesque air, confirmed by its euphonious name— Alhambra Lodge. I knew the Alhambra through the medium of Geoffrey Crayon, and devoutly hoped it did not resemble this. On the left of the Alhambra arose an imitation old English cottage, with tiny gable-ends and transversal beams artistically painted on the walls; on the right a Swiss chalet told a whole story of pastoral innocence, and made one transform into an English Ranz des Vaches the cry of "milk from the cow" coming up the street; further on arose a Gothic mansion—but peace be to the domestic architecture of England! We were received in a comfortable- looking parlour—not in the least Moorish—by Miss Mary Clapperton. She was short, deformed, grotesquely plain, but had a happy, good-natured face, and intelligent black eyes, of bird-like liveliness. She spoke volubly, called me "a dear," and laughed and chatted at an amazing rate. We had scarcely sat down, when her sister, Ann Clapperton, entered the room. She proved to be the very counterpart of Mary. There never was such a perfect likeness, even to their voice and their very expressions. As they dressed alike they puzzled every one. All the time I was with them, I never could know which was which; to this day I remember them as a compound individual, answering to the name of Mary-Ann Clapperton.

Everything had been settled beforehand, so Kate only had to bid me good- bye. It was a quiet parting; she promised to come and see me soon, and, in return, made me promise not to fret. So far as tears went, I kept my word. I was not much given to weeping, and pride alone would have checked outward grief in the presence of strangers. I sat looking at the Misses Clapperton, who looked at me very kindly, and conversed about me as much as two persons who never had a separate thought could be said to converse. The only difference I found between them was that one, I believe it was Mary, suggested ideas which the other immediately converted into facts, as in the following whispered dialogue—

"Ann, she looks delicate."

"She is delicate, Mary."

"I fancy she is intelligent."

"I am sure she is."

I did not hear the rest of the conference; it was brief, and ended by one of the Misses Clapperton—-I think it was Mary, but I am not quite sure, for in turning about they had, as it were, mingled—asking me if I should not like to become acquainted with my future companions; on my replying "Yes," she took me by the hand, and led me out into a green garden, all lawn and gravel path, where I was formally introduced to, and left alone with, the two Misses Brook.

Jane and Fanny Brook were orphan sisters of fourteen and fifteen; fine, fresh, romping girls, with crisp black hair, cheeks like roses, and ivory teeth. They looked as demure as nuns whilst Miss Clapperton was by, but no sooner was her back turned than they began to whisper and giggle. Then suddenly addressing me as I stood by them, feeling silent and lonely, Jane said—

"Will you run?"

"I never run; I cannot."

"Try," observed Fanny.

They caught me between them and whirled me off, but they were soon obliged to pause. I had stopped short, all out of breath.

"I told you I could not run," I said, a little offended at their free manner.

"Poor little thing!" compassionately exclaimed Jane.

"Will you race?" asked her sister.

"I don't mind if I do."

A laburnum, at the end of the lawn, was fixed as the goal. They made me arbiter. I sat down on a wooden bench to look; they started off at once, reached the tree at the same moment, knocked one another down in their eagerness—then rose all tumbled and disordered, and ran back to me.

"I was first, was I not?" cried Jane.

"Indeed you were not. It was I, was it not?"

"Indeed," I replied, "I don't know which it was. I think you both reached it at once."

This impartial decision displeased them both. They said I was ill-natured and sly, got reconciled at my expense, and began a gentle sport of their own invention, called "the hunt." It consisted in one of the Misses Brook running the other down, which she did most successfully, and then submitted to being run down in her turn. My arrival had converted this into a holiday; so when the hunt was over, Fanny amused herself with a bow and quivers, whilst Jane swung herself to and fro from the laburnum. I looked on with wonder, and thought I had never seen such odd girls.

The strangeness of everything made the day seem doubly long. So sudden and violent a separation from all I knew and loved was more irritated than soothed by the new objects and new faces to which I was compelled to give my attention, but which could not absorb my thoughts. I welcomed evening with a sense of relief, and a hope that it would bring me silence and comparative solitude. I shared a large, cheerful, airy bedroom with the two sisters, who slept together. At first they were very quiet, but after a while I heard a low rustling sound of paper that seemed to proceed from under their bedclothes; then one whispered the other—

"Do you think she is asleep?"

"Try," was the laconic reply.

"What a beautiful moonlight!" observed the voice of Jane aloud.

"Oh, very!" emphatically answered Fanny.

"Do you like the moonlight?" asked Jane, seeming to address me.

"Yes, I like it." I replied; I could scarcely utter the words, my heart was so full of the lost home, with its quaint garden, sun-dial, and old trees, on which the same moon that chequered the drawn window-blind shone at this hour.

On hearing my reply, the two sisters held a whispered consultation, which ended in Fanny saying in a subdued tone—

"Will you have some sweetstuff?"

"Thank you," I replied, rather astonished, "I never eat sweets; I do not like them."

This answer appeared to produce a very unfavourable impression. The sisters seemed to think me a traitor and a spy, and to repent their imprudent confidence. Of this, though I could not see them, I was intuitively conscious.

"You need not be afraid that I should tell," I observed, somewhat indignantly.

They both said in a breath "they were sure I would not," and very kindly pressed me to share their dainties.

"Don't be afraid," encouragingly remarked Jane, "there is plenty of it."

"A whole bagful," added Fanny, whose mouth seemed to be as full as her bag.

"Oh, Fanny, you greedy thing!" exclaimed Jane, "you promised not to begin until I was ready: I am sure you have taken all the candy."

I am afraid that thus it must have proved on examination, for I suddenly heard a sound slap, accompanied with a recommendation of "Take that," which, if it alluded to the slap, was wholly unnecessary, it being not merely received, but returned, with "Take that too," that proved the beginning of a regular battle.

I felt greatly disgusted; the idea of fighting in bed was essentially repugnant to my sense of decorum; but an end was soon put to the contest, by the sound of an approaching step: on hearing it the combatants stopped as if by magic.

"Say as we say," hastily whispered Jane.

I felt something alight on my bed; the door opened, and Miss Clapperton— I think it was Mary—appeared with a light in her hand, and her ugly good-humoured face wearing an expression of solemn reproof. "Young ladies," she observed, addressing the Misses Brook, "are you not ashamed of yourselves?"

"We were only laughing," glibly said Jane, "weren't we, dear?"

"Yes, dear," replied Fanny.

"We could not help it," continued Jane; "she has some sweetstuff in bed with her, and she said she would give us some, and I said I would have all the candy, and Fanny said she would: didn't you, dear?"

"Yes, dear."

I was amazed at the readiness of their invention, but I could not understand why Miss Clapperton looked at me so gravely. At length it came out: the perfidious Jane, knowing she would not have time to conceal the bag of sweetstuff, had tossed it on my bed, where it lay—a convincing proof of my guilt. Miss Clapperton reproved me very gently.

"She did not allow sweets," she informed me, "but of course I did not know that, although she must say that eating them thus in the dark did not look quite like unconsciousness. Still she would not be severe on the first day. The confiscation of what she could assure me was most pernicious stuff, should be my only punishment."

With this she retired.

I had not contradicted the story of Jane, but I was none the less indignant, and I meant to tell her a bit of my mind, when, to my astonishment, she chose to accuse me.

"How could you be such a ninny," she coolly asked, "as to let her carry off the bag? It will all go to that odious Polly. You could have coaxed her out of it, if you liked; a new pupil always can coax her out of anything—she is so soft."

Fanny chimed in with her sister, and both agreed in calling me a "muff," a mysterious expression that puzzled and annoyed me extremely, but which they refused to explain, saying I knew very well what it meant. At length they fell fast asleep, and left me in peace.

School reminiscences do not possess for me the universal charm ascribed to them. I was a child in years, but I had outgrown the feelings of a child: this was the torment and the happiness of my youth. A few days reconciled me however to the rough ways of Jane and Fanny Brook. They were, on the whole, kind-hearted, merry, romping girls; but I was years beyond them in everything save physical strength; I had feelings and ideas of which they entertained not the faintest conception, and, after spending nearly three years in the delightful and intellectual companionship of Cornelius and Kate, I could not care much for their childish amusements and still more childish talk. They pitied me for being so weak, and liked me because, though I could not share in their boisterous pleasures, I was of some use to them in their studies, and because, whenever I could do so, I helped them through the difficulties into which their indolence daily brought them. So much for my companions. The Misses Clapperton proved, as might have been expected from their appearance, kind-hearted, zealous teachers.

I had entered Alhambra Lodge on the Tuesday; Kate had not said that she would come on the Sunday, but I fully expected her, and when, at an early hour, I was summoned down to see a visitor, my heart beat with more joy than surprise. I entered the parlour, and I saw, not Kate, but Cornelius. I was so glad, so happy, that I could not speak. As he kissed me, he saw that my eyes were full of tears, and he chid me gaily.

My first words were—

"Is it exhibited, Cornelius?"

"What are you talking of?"

"The Happy Time; I know the Academy opened yesterday, I thought of it all the day long."

"Of course you did," he replied, smoothing my hair, "I was sure of it."

"Oh, Cornelius, do tell me."

"Can't you guess?"

His smiling face could hear but one interpretation. Overjoyed I threw my arms around his neck; he laughed, and said I looked quite wild. I know not how I looked, but I know I felt delighted.

"Is it well hung?" was my next question.

"Better than it deserves. Oh, Daisy, I have done nothing yet, but I knew you would like to know; so I came this morning to see you and to tell you."

"How glad Kate and Miss Russell must have been!" I sighed.

"Yes, but they are not crazy about my pictures like you, you foolish child. And now talk of something else. How are you? I find you pale."

"I am quite well, Cornelius."

"How do you like the Misses Clapperton?"

"They are kind; I like them."

"They give you a very good character; but one of them said something about sweetstuff which I could not make out."

"I shall tell you all about it, if you will promise not to tell again."

He gave me his word that he would not; and I related to him the whole story, by which he seemed very much amused.

"I saw them as I came in," he said, "a pair of tall, strong girls, each of whom would make a pair of you; but on the whole, how do you like them?"

"Oh! very well."

"You speak quite coolly."

"They are so childish."

"Yet they look older than you."

"So they are; but, would you believe it? they have never heard of Michael
Angelo or Raffaelle."

"Poor things!" laughed Cornelius, "how do they manage to exist?"

"Indeed I don't know. When I talk to them of painting, Jane says she should like to paint fire-screens, and Fanny says she should not care."

"They are both young Vandals," said Cornelius, "so don't waste your high ideas of Art upon them; they cannot understand anything of the sort, you know. The fact is, there are not many little girls like mine. Oh, Daisy! I don't want to reproach, but how is it that you, who are so good in everything else, have on one point been so perverse?"

I did not answer: if he did not know that my only sin was loving him too much, where was the use to tell him? I asked after Kate; he said she was well, and would come in the afternoon: then we spoke for a few minutes of other things, and he rose to leave me, promising that on his next visit he would give me a long walk.

I thought my heart would fail me at the parting, but his look checked me, and I bore this as I was learning to bear so many things—with the silent endurance that is not always resignation.

The afternoon brought me Kate's promised visit. Almost her first words were—

"So Cornelius has been here! he never told me where he was going off so early. Say he does not care for you, Midge!"

"I don't say so, Kate."

"I believe not. He nearly got into disgrace on your account."

"Into disgrace, Kate? how so?"

"Why, he was to take a walk with some one, and he was late; so he had to excuse himself I don't know how often, and, like a foolish fellow as he is, he threw it all on his visit to you, and never saw that this was the very head and front of his offending. The fact is," she added, with a profound sigh, "I never knew one who is less apt to suspect a mean, ungenerous feeling than my poor brother. He is a child, quite a child, Midge."

I heard her with a vague presentiment that this generous confidence of Cornelius would be my bane, and so it proved. Spite of his first friendly visit, he came no more near me. Miss O'Reilly called every Sunday, no matter what the weather might be. She saw that I fretted at the absence of her brother, and did her best to comfort me.

"He can scarcely help himself." she once said to me, "he means to come oftener, but every Sunday brings something new to prevent him. He is very fond of you though, often talks of you, praises you, and has hung up in his studio a little drawing of himself and you, which some one uselessly tried to make him take down."

"Yes," I replied, sighing, "he likes me, Kate, but he does not come near me; and though he promised to take me out walking with him some day, he has never done so yet."

"Then it is to come," was her philosophic reply. But, seeing this did not comfort me, she added—

"I have a great mind to tell you something; but no, I will not on reflection, it would make you conceited."

"Then I know what it is, Kate; he said I was clever, or that I would grow up to be good-looking, or something of the kind, which I care very little about; whereas I should care a great deal about his coming to see me."

"No," replied Kate, smiling, "it was nothing like that; but the other evening, when I certainly did not imagine he was thinking of you, he said all of a sudden—'I wish I had that tiresome little girl back again.' I replied, carelessly, 'Do you?' just to draw him out. 'Yes,' he answered, 'I never knew how fond of her I was until she was gone.' So there is something for you."

Affection is full of wiles. I followed the precept of drawing out just laid down by Miss O'Reilly, and said quietly—

"Is that all, Kate?"

"All!" she replied indignantly; "why, what more would you have? You ignorant little thing, don't you know that the human heart is made up of separate curious niches, and that in the heart of Cornelius you have quite a niche of your own. He loves me more than he loves you; and, alas! he loves Miriam more than us two put together; but for all that I am much deceived if he does not feel more of what is called friendship for you than for either of us; and let me tell you that friendship which is not exacted as the love of kindred, not interested like passion, is a very lovely thing. It is odd that a little girl like you should now be to him what is called a 'friend,' and yet it is so; but whether because of some secret sympathy invisible to me, or on account of your liking his pictures and painting so well, is more than I can tell."

She spoke positively: memory confirmed all she said; the words of Cornelius repeated by her gave additional proof,—for to be missed is one of the tokens love most prizes, and on which it relies most securely. The blood rushed to my heart; I looked up at Kate with mute gladness.

"Bless the child!" she exclaimed, "Daisy, what is the matter?" And she looked confounded.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Then do not look beside yourself. Oh, Midge, Midge! how will it end?"

She pushed back my hair to look into my face with a rueful glance; but my heart swam in a joy she could not check. Cornelius missed me, loved me, and loved me as his friend!

"Oh! Kate," I said, "how kind of you to tell me all this!"

"Then make much of it, for it is all you shall hear from me. No; it is no use kissing me, and looking pitiful. You are quite fond enough of him as it is."

More I could not get out of her, either then or subsequently. For some time the consciousness that Cornelius had missed me, sufficed me; but the heart is craving; mine asked for more, and not obtaining what it asked for, grew faint and weary. It sickened for the sight of his face, for the sound of his voice, for his greeting in the morning, for his kiss at night, for all it had lost and missed daily. It missed home too, the home I had loved so much, with its cheerful rooms, its ivied porch, its green garden and old trees, its sense, so sweet and pleasant, of happy liberty; its studio, where I loved to linger. Another now enjoyed the shelter and pleasantness of that home; the garden flowers yielded her their sweetest fragrance, the trees their shade; she might sit with him in the studio, alone and undisturbed, all the day long. I was ever haunted by these thoughts; the cure of absence was but a slow one for me.

Three months passed away; the wedding was put off from week to week and day to day, to the great vexation of Kate.

"It is not that I am in a hurry for it," she said to me, when I questioned her on the subject, "but I do not like to see my poor brother made a fool of. I am sure Miriam plays with him, as a cat with a mouse. He can think of nothing else. He was not half so bad in the beginning; but she has irritated him into a perfect fever. Ah well! I wish it may not cool too much after marriage, that is all."

"I wish they were married," I said, sadly, "for then I might at least be with you, and see him now and then."

Kate took both my hands in her own, and looked at me very earnestly.

"Midge," she said, "you are now thirteen; you are old enough to hear sense, and to make up your mind as I have made up mine; think that when Cornelius is married, he is, in one sense, lost to you as well as to me; do not imagine that he will or can be the same again; do not come home with an idea that old times can return; one who has proved it can tell you, that there is no beginning over again old affections."

I looked at her wistfully, loath to believe in so hard a sentence.

"It is so," she resumed, sighing: "think of Cornelius as of a very dear friend; love, respect him as much as you will, but expect nothing from him; wean your heart; you must, for his sake, as much as for your own."

"Kate," I replied, "I shall try and not be jealous of his wife."

"My poor child, you do not understand me; indeed it is very difficult; but wives do not like their husbands to care for those who cannot be included in the circle of home; they want to have them for themselves and their children."

"I shall be very fond of his children, if he has any," I answered; "indeed I shall, Kate; I shall love them as I love him—with my whole heart."

"You foolish girl, that is just the mischief." And she proceeded to explain the feeling I was to have for Cornelius: it was so cool, so distant, that it chilled me to hear her.

"Kate," I said, "I think I could sooner hate Cornelius—and I am sure I never could do that—than like him in that strange way; and I am very sure," I added, after a pause, "that is not at all the way in which you like him."

She smiled, and kissed me, and told me to like him my own way; that God would see to the future, and not let sorrow come out of true affection.

I did not understand her then, nor did she intend I should. Since that time, I have divined that she looked with uneasiness to coming years, and wished to subdue in time a feeling that might prove far more fatal to my own peace than to that of her brother. She meant well, but she had the wisdom not to insist; it was not in her power to make me love him less; it was in the power of none, not even in his own. If for that purpose he had exiled me; if to cool my affection he came so seldom near me, and gave me not his long-promised walk, he failed. I felt the banishment, the visit ever deferred, the promise never kept; but I still loved him with my whole heart.

At length, one morning in the week, and towards the middle of June, I was told by Miss Mary Clapperton that Mr. O'Reilly and another gentleman wanted to speak to me. I went down wondering if Mr. Smalley or Mr. Trim had taken a fancy to pay me a visit. On entering the parlour, I saw Cornelius, who stood facing the door; the other gentleman sat with his back to it, and his clasped hands resting on the head of his cane. He looked up as I came in, and showed me the brown face, white beard, and keen black eyes of my grandfather. I went up to Cornelius, who gave me a quiet kiss, and standing by him, I looked at Mr. Thornton.

"Come here!" he said.

I obeyed, and went up to him.

"Do you know me?" he growled, knitting his dark brow.

"Yes, Sir."

"Who am I?"

"Mr. Thornton."

"Humph! Do you know why I have come?"

"No, Sir."

"To rid Mr. O'Reilly of you."

I did not reply. I knew I had become a burden and a thing to be got rid of.

"I am going abroad," continued Mr. Thornton, "so I just want to settle that before I go; you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, what have you to say to that?"

"Nothing, Sir."

Mr. Thornton turned to Cornelius, and said impatiently—

"Has the child grown an idiot? Why, there was twice as much spirit in her formerly."

I saw Cornelius redden; but he did not reply. My grandfather again turned to me, and said—

"Why are you here?"

"To learn, Sir."

"Was that what you were sent here for?"

I hung down my head without replying.

"I thought so," he muttered; "it seems, Mr. O'Reilly," he added, addressing Cornelius, "that though you were in such a precious hurry to get that child, you could not manage to keep her."

"I thought it for her good to be here, Sir," rather haughtily replied
Cornelius.

"It was not his fault," I said, eagerly, "indeed it was not."

"Whose then?" sharply asked Mr. Thornton.

"Mine," I replied in a low tone, "I was naughty."

"And were sent to school by way of punishment. Do you like being here?"

"Not much. I am alone now; these are the holidays."

"And whilst the other children are at home, you spend yours here."

I did not reply; Mr. Thornton looked at Cornelius, and still leaning his two hands on the head of his cane, he said, with some severity—

"Sir, when nearly three years ago you called to take away that child, you chose to express pretty frankly your opinion of the way in which she was treated in my house. I shall be every bit as frank with you. I tell you plainly, Sir, that I do not approve of your conduct. You had of your own accord assumed a duty no one sought to impose upon you; you should either have fulfilled or relinquished it. I told you, if the child proved troublesome or in the way, to send her back to me. I can afford, Sir, to put her in a school and pay for her, without burdening you with her support. I do not say you were not justified in getting rid of an inconvenience; I simply say you had no right not to get rid of it altogether."

Cornelius bit his lip, as if to check the temptation to reply. Mr.
Thornton, laying his hand on my shoulder, resumed—

"You are old enough to understand all this: Mr. O'Reilly finding you in the way—"

"Sir," began Cornelius. .

"Sir," interrupted Mr. Thornton, "if she is not in the way, why is she here? Mr. O'Reilly," he added, turning to me, "finding you in the way, placed you in this house, which you don't much like, and where, nevertheless, you cost him a good deal of money. Now the question is, shall I put you in another place like this? And as I can better afford it than Mr. O'Reilly—"

"Sir," interrupted Cornelius.

"Sir," also interrupted Mr. Thornton, "I do not say I am a better man than you are; but I say I have more money;" and addressing me, he resumed—"Shall I therefore put you in another place like this, here in town, and pay for you? Yes or no?"

I knew that Cornelius was poor, that he could ill afford the money he spent upon me, and though my heart failed me, I faltered—

"Yes, Sir."

I looked up at Cornelius as I spoke: he seemed hurt to the quick.

"Daisy," he said, giving me a reproachful look, "remember, I did not give you up."

He spoke fast, like one who wishes to keep his feelings under; and seizing his hat, hurried out of the room without once looking behind. I sprang forward to overtake him: a hand of iron held me back—

"You little fool," sarcastically said my grandfather, "don't you see he does not care a rush for you! Come, no sniffling; what day will you go?"

"Any day, Sir."

"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday," he rapidly enumerated on his fingers.

"Wednesday, Sir," I replied, flurried at his abrupt manner.

"That is to-day. Stay here whilst I settle with the ladies of the house."

He rose and left me as he spoke.