I tried to smile, but I could not—I felt languid and wretched. My heart ached at what I had done—at William, given up so utterly, with scarcely a cause assigned. I wondered if Cornelius, knowing all, would have exacted the same sacrifice. Once or twice I tried to bring the discourse round to the point I wished; but he shunned this so carefully, that at length my eyes opened: Cornelius wished to know nothing. From that moment I was silent and resigned.
If endearing language, and every proof of an ardent affection, could have consoled me, I need not have grieved: but even sitting by Cornelius—- even listening to him—I was haunted by the image of William vainly waiting for me at the old meeting-place. I heard his voice reproachfully exclaiming—now, alas! with how much truth—"You have deceived me!"
In the course of the day, we received an invitation to take tea with Miss Murray, in honour of her nephew's return. I said I could not go, and Kate, with a smile, replied she would sacrifice herself, and allow Cornelius to remain and keep me company. We spent a quiet evening together. My head again ached slightly; I was glad of the pretence to lie on the sofa with closed eyes. Cornelius sat by me, holding my hand in his, and thus his sister found us on her return. She looked at us with a pleased face, and said it was well to be a spoiled child like me.
"By the bye," she carelessly added, "William Murray is as great a bear as ever. He had been out all day, and looked, when he came in, as if he longed to knock me down."
I think I replied, "Indeed." I know that soon after this I went up to my room, there to learn what new pangs can give to grief, and what new bitterness to tears—the sense of an affection betrayed.
CHAPTER VIII.
I sat to Cornelius as usual on the following day, but not a word did we exchange concerning what had passed. In the course of the afternoon he said he no longer wanted me; I left him, glad of a little solitude and liberty. He joined me in the garden as dusk was falling. He found me sitting on the bench studying Tasso. He asked me if we should not read together. I assented, but twice my tears fell on the page: he closed the book, and said sadly:
"Daisy, you need not weep; I release you from your promise."
I started slightly: he continued:
"I did not think your feelings were so deeply engaged, or I should never have put you to such a test. Come, do not weep; your time for tears is past; see your friend as much as you like, and let your pale, unhappy face reproach me no more that, unable to render you happy myself, I would not let another do it."