She stopped short, looked at him with sullen suspicion, and doggedly replied, "Master won't see you; he won't see none but the gentleman from London."
"I am from London," quietly said Cornelius.
She stared for awhile like one bewildered, then opened a side-door whence issued a stream of ruddy light, and muttering something in which the word "London" was alone distinguishable, she showed us in and closed the door upon us.
We found ourselves in a large room, scant of chairs and tables, but so amply stocked with books, globes, maps, stuffed animals, cases of insects, geological specimens, and odd-looking machines and instruments, that we could scarcely find room to stand. A bright fire burned on the wide hearth, yet the whole place had a mouldy air and odour, and looked like a magician's chamber. A lamp suspended from the ceiling, and burning rather dimly, gave a spectral effect. Its circle of light was shed over a square table covered with papers, and by which sat a singular-looking man--one of the numberless magicians of modern times, clad, it is true, in every-day attire, but whose characteristic features, swarthy complexion, and white hair and beard, needed not the flowing robe or mystic belt to seem impressive. He was too intent on examining some important beetle through a magnifying glass to notice our insignificant approach, more than by a certain waving motion of the hand, implying the absolute necessity of silence on our part, and on his the utter impossibility of attending to us. At length he looked up, and fastening a pair of piercing black eyes on Cornelius, he addressed him with the abrupt observation: "Sir, I am intensely busy, but you are welcome; pray be seated."
Cornelius looked round: there was but one chair free, he gave it to me, remained standing himself, and, turning to Mr. Thornton, observed, "I am come, Sir, on the matter I mentioned in my letter of Wednesday last, and which you have not, I dare say, had leisure to answer."
Mr. Thornton did not reply; he sat back in his chair looking at Cornelius from head to foot.
"Sir!" he said, in a tone of incredulous surprise, "you are young--very.
I don't know you."
Cornelius reddened, and stiffly handed his card, which Mr. Thornton negligently dropped.
"I cannot say I have ever heard of Cornelius O'Reilly," he remarked; "but I have been years away. You may be famous for all I know; but, I repeat it, you are very young, Sir."
He spoke with an air of strong and settled conviction.
"I claim no celebrity," drily replied Cornelius, "and my age has nothing to do with my errand. I am come to--" here he stopped short, on perceiving that Mr. Thornton, after casting several longing looks at his beetle, had gradually, like a needle attracted by a potent magnet, been raising the magnifying glass to the level of his right eye, which it no sooner reached, than he made a sudden dart down at the table; but, when the voice of Cornelius ceased, he started, looked up, and said, with a sigh of regret, "You came to have some difficult point settled? Well, Sir, though I have only been three days in England, I do not complain; but you see this fascinating specimen; I beseech you to be brief." He laid down the magnifying glass, and wheeled away his chair from the reach of temptation.
"I am come to give, not to seek, information," quietly answered Cornelius.
"You bring me a specimen," interrupted Mr. Thornton, his small black eyes kindling. "A Melolo--!"
"A specimen of humanity," interrupted Cornelius,--"a child."
"A child!" echoed Mr. Thornton, whose look for the first time fell on me; "and a little girl, too!" he added, throwing himself back in his chair with mingled disgust and wonder.
"She is ten,--an orphan; and I have brought her to you as to her natural protector," composedly observed Cornelius.
Mr. Thornton looked unconvinced.
"She may be ten,--an orphan; but I don't see why you bring her to me."
"You do not know?"
"No, Sir; I am said to be a learned man, but in this point I confess my ignorance."
Without heeding his impatience, Cornelius calmly replied, "I have brought her to you, Sir, because she is your grand-daughter."
Mr. Thornton gave a jump that nearly upset the table; but promptly recovering, and feeling irritated, perhaps, in proportion to his momentary emotion, he observed, in an irascible tone, "I am amazed at you, Sir! Not satisfied with introducing yourself to me as a scientific man from London,--a fact directly contradicted by your juvenile appearance,--you want to palm off your little girls upon me! My grand- daughter!--Sir, I have no grand-daughter."
The look of Cornelius kindled; but he controlled his temper, to say, quietly, "If you had taken, Sir, the trouble to read a letter which I regret to see lying on your table with the seal unbroken, you would have learned that this is the child of Mr. Thornton's daughter, who has been dead some years, and of Dr. Edward Burns, who died the other day, killed by a fall from his horse."
Mr. Thornton did not answer; he took a letter lying on a pile of books, broke the seal, read it through; then laid it down, and looked thoughtful.
"Well, Sir!" he observed, after a pause; and speaking now in the tone of a man of the world, "I acknowledge my mistake, and beg your pardon. But I never read business letters, for one of which I took yours."
He spoke very civilly, but said not a word concerning the subject of the letter; of which, quite as civilly, Cornelius reminded him.
"The statements made in that letter require some proof," he observed, "and--"
"Your word suffices," interrupted Mr. Thornton, very politely. "I am satisfied."
Cornelius bowed, but persisted.
"I have not the honour of being personally known to you, Sir; I would rather--"
"Sir, one gentleman is quick to recognize another gentleman," again interrupted Mr. Thornton; "I am quite satisfied."
He bowed a little ironically; and again Cornelius bent his head in acknowledgment, observing, with a smile beneath which lurked not ungraceful raillery,--
"I am delighted to think you are satisfied, Sir, as there remains for me but to ask a plain question;--there is nothing like plain, direct dealing between gentlemen. I am on my way to town, and somewhat pressed for time.
I have called to know whether George Thornton, of Thornton House, will or will not receive his little grand-daughter."
There was no evading a question so distinctly stated. Mr. Thornton looked at me with a darkening brow. "Sir," he morosely replied, "George Thornton had once a daughter of his own, whom he liked after his own way. He took a liking, too, to a young Irish physician, who settled in these parts, and who, I can't help saying it was a very clever fellow, and had, for his years, a wonderful knowledge of chemistry. 'I'll give Margaret to that man,' thought George Thornton; and, whilst he was thinking about it, the Irish physician quietly stole his daughter one evening. George Thornton made no outcry; he simply said he would never forgive either one or the other, and he never did."
"Your daughter's child is innocent," pleaded Cornelius.
"She is her father's child,--and his image, too; but no matter! I believe you are on your way to town, Sir?"
"Yes, Sir, I am."
"And you called--?"
"To leave the child: such was my errand."
"Your errand is fulfilled, Sir; you may leave the child; I shall provide for her."
"The late Doctor Burns has left some property--"
"I will have nothing to do with the property of the late Doctor Burns."
Mr. Thornton was anything but gracious, now; but, without heeding this.
Cornelius turned to me; he laid his hand on my head:
"Good bye! child," he said in a moved tone, "God bless you!"
He turned away; but I clung to him. "Take me with you!" I exclaimed; "take me with you!"
"I cannot, Margaret," gently replied Cornelius, striving to disengage his hand from mine.
"I won't stay here," I cried indignantly.
"You must," he quietly answered.