I delighted in this wild and lonely life, and seldom felt the utter solitude of my daily haunts. Sometimes indeed, when I chanced to meet in the sand the mark of my own footprints, which no other steps had crossed since I had passed there, which the wind alone would efface or the tide wash away, a sense of sudden sadness came over me. It seemed as if a friend, whom I never could meet or overtake, had made and left that track for me to see. I felt vaguely that she who had passed there was not quite the same who passed now. Only a few days perhaps had gone by: but of those few days, unseen and unfelt as they speed on, is made up not only the sum, but also the ceaseless change of this our earthly life.
Dearly as I have loved solitude, I hold it no unmixed good. Woe to the communion with nature that is only a brooding over self, and not a mingling of the soul with the Almighty Creator of all we behold; that seeks in her loveliness none save the images of voluptuous indulgence, and leaves by unread her purer teaching! Rightly even in innocent things have we been warned to guard our senses and our hearts. For this I hold ye dangerous, ye sheltered valleys, with quiet rivers gliding through, with green woods and lovely paths leading we know not where, with peaceful dwellings embosomed in the shade, and looking like so many abodes of love and happiness. What though we know that the golden age was all a fable and pastoral bliss the dream of poets, that innocence and peace dwell not here, though here passion and satiety can penetrate as surely as in the crowded city? Yet who, on beholding you, has not for a moment wished to live and die on your quiet bosom? Who has not felt that the thoughts you waken melt and subdue the heart, and haunt it vaguely for many a day, and enervate it with longing dreams and desires that savour too much of earth.
Not these the feelings which thou awakenest, thou austere sea,—austere in thy very beauty, in thy calmest and most unruffled moods. More true and honest are thy promises, which thou at least keepest faithfully,—the long, arduous strife against wind and storm, the tardy return of weatherbeaten mariners,—ay, and often too the wreck,—the wreck which may appal the weak, but never yet dismayed a brave heart;—these are the hopes thou holdest forth—these the promises which life, whom thou imagest, will fulfil, until her waves, calm or troubled, rough or smooth, lead us into that mysterious sea which man has named Eternity.
Our home existence was as quiet and secluded as my outward life. On settling at Leigh, Miss O'Reilly had come to a resolve which she thus imparted to me one evening:—"Daisy, you were too young when you left Leigh to know that because it is a small place it must have the inconvenience of all small places, in which life is a round of back- biting, quarrelling, envying, scandal, and gossip. Now we can't help being backbitten or talked about, but we can help doing it to others: the way, child, is to keep to ourselves and to see no one. We shall be hated, as a matter of course; thought proud, or still worse in England, poor. Never mind, child, those are not the things one cannot endure."
"Papa was thought proud," I said.
"And so he was, child; he had a mind above the paltriness of such a place as this,—of course he had: he never would have been a popular man anywhere, never. Well, as I was saying, child, we must bear with being thought proud and poor, for we shall make no acquaintances. A decent, civil intercourse we must certainly keep up with Miss Murray—she won't trouble us much, poor thing!—but beyond this we do not go. Now, you must not misunderstand me. I do not mean to keep you locked up, and if you can get acquainted with pleasant young people, I do not object. There is a dancing academy, it seems, and since your father wished you to learn how to dance, you must learn it, of course. If you meet there sensible girls whom you would like to see, see them here in liberty; but as to visiting their mammas, or being visited by them, I decline the honour."
Thus it was settled. We lived in our retired way; we were thought proud and poor; we saw Miss Murray every now and then in her own house, for to come near us was an exertion not to be thought of; I went to the academy, and learned how to dance, but I found all the young ladies so little to my taste, that with not one of them did I form an intimate acquaintance, and two years passed away in this quiet, monotonous life, varied by the letters of Cornelius.
Only a few were addressed to "his dear adopted child," but they were so kind, they breathed an affection so true, an interest so heartfelt, that to this day, and spite of all that has passed since then, I cannot look over them without emotion. In all his letters, Cornelius spoke of course of his art and his prospects. He was enchanted with Rome, and ardent with hope; but he did not think it worth while to send home anything before his return. He thought he might just as well wait until he was coming back, and take the public by storm. Miss O'Reilly thought so too, and we accordingly expected her brother in the spring of the second year following his departure. A somewhat enigmatic letter, in which he expressed his great wish of seeing us both again, confirmed this impression.
"Depend upon it, Daisy," said Miss O'Reilly to me, "he means to take us, like the public, by surprise."
The mere thought took away my breath.