"How do you know this place?"
"I sketched it years ago on one of my visits to your father; little thinking then that the sulky little girl, who would not kiss me, would one day break every tie for my sake."
All doubt that I might not enter into his plans, or that I could refuse to accompany him when the moment came, seemed as if by magic to have left Cornelius. No longer did he, or perhaps could he, anticipate the chance of a refusal. Yet, now, that I saw more clearly to what consequences his scheme might lead, I felt I loved him far too much to consent. But he spoke with so much confidence and hope, that I dreaded undeceiving him. I could rule him in little things; but when his passions were roused—I had tested it in the case of William Murray—he was my master. His vehement feelings swayed me, as a strong wind bows weak reeds before its breath. If, in the burst of anger and grief that would assuredly follow the announcement of my resolve not to agree to his plans, Cornelius insisted on making me accompany him at once, I knew my own weakness well enough to guess that I could not remain behind. So kneeling by him, and looking down somewhat sadly at his triumphant face, I said nothing, but indulged him in his flights of fancy.
The warm glow of day had not yet left earth; the moon had risen, but her light was pale and indistinct, as it is in the first hours of evening; it shone with a mild and grey radiance over that quiet spot, fell softly on the trees that sheltered it, and just touched the stone arch of the well, whose waters flowed with a low ripple, then spread away vaguely over the wide park, dotted with dark clumps of trees. The evening was unusually mild and balmy. I felt it both soothing and delightful to be alone with Cornelius at this lonely hour, and in this solitary spot; but most saddening to think we no longer owned the shelter of the same roof, and were no longer to live within the holy circle of the same home.
At length, I spoke of going. He detained me as long as he could, and released me with a promise of meeting him there again two days hence. If I could not come, a letter hidden under a stone that lay half buried in the grass, was to tell him so. As we parted, he said, fondly:—
"A few days more, Daisy, and there shall be no more meetings, nor partings either."
I did not dare to reply, but turning abruptly from him, I ran away through the high grass, without once looking behind.
I had not to read or transcribe on the following day, the best part of which I spent with Mrs. Brand. She spoke a good deal of Mr. Thornton, and dropped mysterious hints, wholly lost on my ignorance; but she assured me she was not at all offended with my reserve, which was quite de bon go?t, and decidedly English.
I was amused at the idea that I should be accused of reserve for not understanding her sphinx-like mode of speech; I also thought that, for a lady who seemed fond of everything English, a less frequent use of French words, to which her own language offered equivalents, would have been more consistent. But this was one of the little contradictions in which, as I afterwards found, Mrs. Brand indulged. She was very national, but an English dressmaker would have thrown her into fits; English manufactures were irritating to her nerves, and English cooking would have been the death of her. She also once informed me, that but for her dear Edward, her health would compel her to reside on the Continent, in which case, England would, I fear, have been deprived of Mrs. Brand altogether, and the intercourse between them would have been limited to the transmission and receipt of the English "paltry hundreds" which Mr. Brand had bequeathed to his affectionate spouse.
That Mrs. Brand was quite a martyr to sisterly affection, was indeed an indubitable fact, for in the course of the morning, she observed to me: "My dear, people may talk about plantations and negro slavery, and factory girls; but I assure you, that the fashionable world is a wide plantation, and that we, the slaves who work it, are worked to death. I came here for a little peace, and behold, I received I know not how many invitations yesterday, and I must pay I know not how many visits to-day. Oh! my dear; if it were not for Edward, I would break my chains and fly."