"Is that all, Kate?"
"All!" she replied indignantly; "why, what more would you have? You ignorant little thing, don't you know that the human heart is made up of separate curious niches, and that in the heart of Cornelius you have quite a niche of your own. He loves me more than he loves you; and, alas!
he loves Miriam more than us two put together; but for all that I am much deceived if he does not feel more of what is called friendship for you than for either of us; and let me tell you that friendship which is not exacted as the love of kindred, not interested like passion, is a very lovely thing. It is odd that a little girl like you should now be to him what is called a 'friend,' and yet it is so; but whether because of some secret sympathy invisible to me, or on account of your liking his pictures and painting so well, is more than I can tell."
She spoke positively: memory confirmed all she said; the words of Cornelius repeated by her gave additional proof,--for to be missed is one of the tokens love most prizes, and on which it relies most securely. The blood rushed to my heart; I looked up at Kate with mute gladness.
"Bless the child!" she exclaimed, "Daisy, what is the matter?" And she looked confounded.
"Nothing," I replied.
"Then do not look beside yourself. Oh, Midge, Midge! how will it end?"
She pushed back my hair to look into my face with a rueful glance; but my heart swam in a joy she could not check. Cornelius missed me, loved me, and loved me as his friend!
"Oh! Kate," I said, "how kind of you to tell me all this!"
"Then make much of it, for it is all you shall hear from me. No; it is no use kissing me, and looking pitiful. You are quite fond enough of him as it is."
More I could not get out of her, either then or subsequently. For some time the consciousness that Cornelius had missed me, sufficed me; but the heart is craving; mine asked for more, and not obtaining what it asked for, grew faint and weary. It sickened for the sight of his face, for the sound of his voice, for his greeting in the morning, for his kiss at night, for all it had lost and missed daily. It missed home too, the home I had loved so much, with its cheerful rooms, its ivied porch, its green garden and old trees, its sense, so sweet and pleasant, of happy liberty; its studio, where I loved to linger. Another now enjoyed the shelter and pleasantness of that home; the garden flowers yielded her their sweetest fragrance, the trees their shade; she might sit with him in the studio, alone and undisturbed, all the day long. I was ever haunted by these thoughts; the cure of absence was but a slow one for me.
Three months passed away; the wedding was put off from week to week and day to day, to the great vexation of Kate.
"It is not that I am in a hurry for it," she said to me, when I questioned her on the subject, "but I do not like to see my poor brother made a fool of. I am sure Miriam plays with him, as a cat with a mouse.
He can think of nothing else. He was not half so bad in the beginning; but she has irritated him into a perfect fever. Ah well! I wish it may not cool too much after marriage, that is all."
"I wish they were married," I said, sadly, "for then I might at least be with you, and see him now and then."
Kate took both my hands in her own, and looked at me very earnestly.
"Midge," she said, "you are now thirteen; you are old enough to hear sense, and to make up your mind as I have made up mine; think that when Cornelius is married, he is, in one sense, lost to you as well as to me; do not imagine that he will or can be the same again; do not come home with an idea that old times can return; one who has proved it can tell you, that there is no beginning over again old affections."
I looked at her wistfully, loath to believe in so hard a sentence.
"It is so," she resumed, sighing: "think of Cornelius as of a very dear friend; love, respect him as much as you will, but expect nothing from him; wean your heart; you must, for his sake, as much as for your own."
"Kate," I replied, "I shall try and not be jealous of his wife."
"My poor child, you do not understand me; indeed it is very difficult; but wives do not like their husbands to care for those who cannot be included in the circle of home; they want to have them for themselves and their children."
"I shall be very fond of his children, if he has any," I answered; "indeed I shall, Kate; I shall love them as I love him--with my whole heart."
"You foolish girl, that is just the mischief." And she proceeded to explain the feeling I was to have for Cornelius: it was so cool, so distant, that it chilled me to hear her.
"Kate," I said, "I think I could sooner hate Cornelius--and I am sure I never could do that--than like him in that strange way; and I am very sure," I added, after a pause, "that is not at all the way in which you like him."
She smiled, and kissed me, and told me to like him my own way; that God would see to the future, and not let sorrow come out of true affection.
I did not understand her then, nor did she intend I should. Since that time, I have divined that she looked with uneasiness to coming years, and wished to subdue in time a feeling that might prove far more fatal to my own peace than to that of her brother. She meant well, but she had the wisdom not to insist; it was not in her power to make me love him less; it was in the power of none, not even in his own. If for that purpose he had exiled me; if to cool my affection he came so seldom near me, and gave me not his long-promised walk, he failed. I felt the banishment, the visit ever deferred, the promise never kept; but I still loved him with my whole heart.
At length, one morning in the week, and towards the middle of June, I was told by Miss Mary Clapperton that Mr. O'Reilly and another gentleman wanted to speak to me. I went down wondering if Mr. Smalley or Mr. Trim had taken a fancy to pay me a visit. On entering the parlour, I saw Cornelius, who stood facing the door; the other gentleman sat with his back to it, and his clasped hands resting on the head of his cane. He looked up as I came in, and showed me the brown face, white beard, and keen black eyes of my grandfather. I went up to Cornelius, who gave me a quiet kiss, and standing by him, I looked at Mr. Thornton.
"Come here!" he said.
I obeyed, and went up to him.
"Do you know me?" he growled, knitting his dark brow.
"Yes, Sir."
"Who am I?"
"Mr. Thornton."
"Humph! Do you know why I have come?"
"No, Sir."
"To rid Mr. O'Reilly of you."
I did not reply. I knew I had become a burden and a thing to be got rid of.
"I am going abroad," continued Mr. Thornton, "so I just want to settle that before I go; you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, what have you to say to that?"
"Nothing, Sir."
Mr. Thornton turned to Cornelius, and said impatiently--
"Has the child grown an idiot? Why, there was twice as much spirit in her formerly."
I saw Cornelius redden; but he did not reply. My grandfather again turned to me, and said--
"Why are you here?"
"To learn, Sir."
"Was that what you were sent here for?"
I hung down my head without replying.
"I thought so," he muttered; "it seems, Mr. O'Reilly," he added, addressing Cornelius, "that though you were in such a precious hurry to get that child, you could not manage to keep her."
"I thought it for her good to be here, Sir," rather haughtily replied Cornelius.
"It was not his fault," I said, eagerly, "indeed it was not."