"Tempt me not," he said, in a low tone, turning away his look as he spoke. "Tempt me not, for God's sake. I am but flesh and blood—I cannot always answer for myself. There are bounds to self-denial, and limits to self-subjection."
I did not answer, but I passed my arm around his neck, and I laid my head on his shoulder.
"Daisy, Daisy, my child!" he exclaimed, "do you know what you are doing?
Do you know what it is you want to make me do?"
I did not reply; but I wept and sobbed freely. He looked at me one moment, turned away, looked again, and turned away no more. He pressed me to his heart—he bent over me—he hushed my grief—he kissed away my tears.
"Be it so," he said, desperately. "I have resisted your dangerous tenderness, I cannot resist your grief. Yes, I will break my word to the living, my duty to the dead. I will let it be said of Cornelius O'Reilly, to gratify his own desires he betrayed his trust—he meanly deceived the ignorant affection of the child he had reared. Let those alone dare judge me who, like me, have been tempted."
"Then you do keep me!" I exclaimed, laughing and crying for joy.
"Oh! yes, I do keep you," he replied, bending on me a look that seemed as if he would attract and gather my whole being into his—a look that, through all my blindness, startled me: but, as it lasted—for a moment only. "Yes, I keep you, Daisy Burns. You have asked to remain with me, and you shall. I will bind you to my home and to me by bonds neither you nor others shall dare to break. Again I say, let those alone who have passed through this fiery trial, and conquered, dare to judge me."
I wondered at the repressed vehemence of his tone—at the defiance of his look—at the mingled trouble and scorn which I read in his countenance, usually so pleasant and good-humoured. I wondered, for I felt not thus, as if striving against my own wishes, and arguing with some hidden enemy. With my head still reclining on his shoulder, my hand in his, my mind, heart, and whole being conscious that we were not to be severed—I felt steeped in peace and serene happiness. My eyelids, heavy with recent tears, could almost have closed in slumber, so deep were now the calm and repose that had followed this storm of grief.
Therefore I wondered—I could not but wonder—that if he, too, felt happy, there should be in his look and mien so few of the tokens of joy— for, surely, joy never wore that flushed aspect and troubled glance. It shocked me to see that the meaning of his face was both guilty and resolute—that he looked like one who does a wrong thing, who knows it, but who will do that thing, come what will. He detected my uneasy look, and said, quickly:
"Never mind, Daisy; I take on myself the deed and the sin. I care not for the world's opinion—I care not for its esteem."