An unutterable sense of woe, of my desolate condition, of all that had been mine and never could be mine again, came over me; my heart, bursting with a grief that had remained silent, could bear no more. I gave one dreary look around me, then clasping my arms above my head, and lying across the stone steps, I wept passionately on the threshold of my lost home. At length a kind voice roused me.
"Margaret, what are you doing here?" asked Cornelius.
I neither moved nor replied. He sat down by me and raised me gently. I gazed at him vacantly. His handsome face saddened.
"Poor little thing!" he said, "poor little thing!" He took my cold hands in his, and drew me closer to him. Subdued by grief, I yielded. I had refused his presents, shunned his caresses, been jealous, proud, and insolent, hated the very thought of his presence in my father's house, and now he came to seek me on the threshold of that house, to take me--a miserable outcast child--in his embrace.
The thrill of a strange and rapid emotion ran through me. I disengaged my hands from those of Cornelius, and, with a sudden impulse, threw my arms around his neck. My cheek lay near his; his lips touched mine; I mutely returned the caress. I was conquered.
I was a child, how could I but feel with a child's feelings, entirely? I kept back nothing; I knew not how or why, but I gave him my whole heart from that hour.
CHAPTER III.
Cornelius O'Reilly had too much tact not to perceive at once the ascendency he had obtained over the proud and shy child, who, after rejecting his kindness for years, had yielded herself up in a moment. He looked down at me with a thoughtful, amused smile, which I understood, but which did not make me even change my attitude. I felt so happy thus, from the very sense of a submission which implied on my part dependence-- that blessed trust of the child; on his, protection--that truest pleasure of strength; on both, affection, without which dependence becomes slavish and protection a burden.
The temper of Cornelius was open and direct; he claimed his authority at once, and found me more docile than I had ever been rebellious: it was no more in my nature to yield half obedience than to give divided love.
"We must go, Margaret," he said, in a tone which, though kind, did not admit of objection.
I rose and took his hand without a murmur.
We returned to Honeysuckle Cottage, where we found Miss Murray calmly wondering to Abby "what could have become of the dear child."
Cornelius inquired at what hour the stage-coach passed through Ryde.
"Half-past nine, Sir," replied Abby.
"Margaret, get ready," said Cornelius, looking at his watch, a present of my father's.
I went upstairs with Abby, who dressed and brought me down again in stately silence.
"It shall be attended to, Mr. O'Reilly," gravely observed Miss Murray to Cornelius, as we entered the parlour.
He heard me, and, without turning round, said quietly, "Margaret, go and bid Miss Murray good-bye, and thank her for all her kindness."
"Will you not also give me a kiss?" gently asked Miss Murray, as, going up to her, I did as I was bid, and no more.
I looked at Cornelius; the meaning of his glance was plain. I kissed Miss Murray. She drew out her handkerchief, wished for a niece instead of a nephew, then shook hands with Cornelius, and, sinking back after a faint effort to rise, she rang the bell.
Abby let us out. Cornelius quietly slipped something in her hand, then looked at me expressively.
"Good-bye, Abby," I said; and I kissed her as I had kissed her mistress.
"Well, to be sure!" she exclaimed; but Cornelius only smiled, took my hand, and led me away.
For a while we followed the road that led to Ryde, and passed by Rock Cottage; but suddenly leaving to our right my old home and the sea, we turned down a lonely lane on our left. Dusk had set in, and our way lay through solitary fields, fenced in by hedges and dark spectral trees, behind which shone the full moon, looking large and red in the thick haze of evening mists. We met no one; and of cottage, farm, or homestead, howsoever lonely, token there seemed none. A sombre indefinite line, like the summit of some ancient forest, rose against the dark sky, and bounded the horizon before us. I looked in vain for the hills of Ryde. I turned to Cornelius to question him; but he seemed so abstracted that I did not dare to speak. We walked on silently.
A quarter of an hour brought us to the end of the lane, which terminated in a high brick wall, overshadowed by tall trees for a considerable distance. Through a massive iron gate, guarded by a dilapidated-looking lodge, we caught a glimpse of a long avenue, at the end of which burned a solitary light. Cornelius rang a bell; a surly-looking porter came out of the lodge, opened the gate, locked it when we were within, pointed to the right, then re-entered the lodge,--the whole without uttering a word.
The avenue which we now followed, extended through a dreary-looking park, and ended with two old iron lamp-posts, one extinguished, broken, and lying on the ground half hidden by rank weeds, the other still standing and bearing its lantern of tarnished glass, in which the flame burned dimly. The two had once formed an entrance to a square court, with a ruined stone fountain in the centre, and beyond it an old brick Elizabethan mansion, on which the pale moonlight now fell. Heavy, brown with age, dark with ivy, it rested with a wearied air on a low and massive arcade. It faced the avenue, and was sheltered behind by a grove of yews and cypresses that rose solemn and motionless, giving it an aspect both sombre and funereal. No light came from the closed windows; the whole place looked as dark and silent as any ruin. We crossed the court, and Cornelius knocked at the front door, which projected slightly from both house and arcade.
"Do you live here?" I asked.
"No, child; surely you know I live in London with my sister Kate!"
As he spoke, a small slipshod servant-girl unbarred and partly opened the door. She held a tallow-candle in one hand; the other kept the door ajar.
Through the opening she showed us the half of a round and astonished face.
"Mr. Thornton--" began Cornelius.
"He won't see you," she interrupted, and attempted to shut the door, but this Cornelius prevented by interposing his hand.
"I am come on business," he said.
"Where's the letter?" asked the little servant, stretching out her hand to receive it.
"Letter! I have no letter, but here is my card."
She shook her head, would not take the card, and, in a tone of deep conviction, declared, "it was not a bit of use."
"I tell you I am come on business!" impatiently observed Cornelius.
"Well, then, where's the letter?"
There was so evident a connection in her mind between business and a letter, that, annoyed as he was, Cornelius could not help laughing.
"I wish I had a letter, since your heart is set upon one," he replied, good-humouredly; "however, I come not to deliver a letter, but to speak to Mr. Thornton on very important business."
"Can't you give the letter, then?" she urged, in a tone of indignant remonstrance at his obstinacy.
Cornelius searched in his pockets; no letter came forth. "On my word," he gravely observed, "I have not got one; no, not even an old envelope."
"You can't come in, then!" she said, looking at him from behind the door, as sharp and as snappish as a young pup learning to keep watch.
"I beg your pardon, I will go in," replied Cornelius with cool civility.
"If you don't take that there hand of yours away," cried the girl with startling shrillness, "I shall set the light at it."
"Indeed! I am not going to have my poor fingers singed!" said Cornelius, very decisively; so saying, he stooped and suddenly blew out the light.
She screamed, dropped the candlestick, and let go the door: we entered; the girl ran away along the passage lit with a faint glimmering light proceeding from the staircase above.
"Do you take me for a housebreaker?" asked Cornelius; "I tell you I want to speak to Mr. Thornton on business."