"Yes, Cornelius, for I was here after you left, and I saw it."
"You confess it?"
"Why not, Cornelius?"
"You confess that you were up here after I went down with Miriam, and that you remained here until tea-time, when I called you down myself."
"Yes, Cornelius, I was up here."
"Did you not remain alone in the house when every one else was out of the way?"
"Yes, Cornelius, I did."
"When I came back did I not find you at the door of this room?"
"Yes, Cornelius; sitting at the head of the staircase."
"Did you not endeavour to prevent me from getting a light?"
"I said, Cornelius, I could find what you were looking for, without one."
"And you said so twice--twice."
"I believe I did, twice, as you say."
"I did, scarce knowing why, an unusual thing--I locked the door, I took the key. Do you grant that whatever was done must have been done before then?"
"Yes, Cornelius."
I spoke and felt like one in a dream. Each answer fell mechanically from my lips; and yet I knew that with every word of assent, the net of evidence I could not so much as attempt to disprove, drew closer around me.
"Well," said Cornelius, in the voice of a judge sitting over a criminal, "what have you to say against facts proved by your own confession?"
"Nothing, save that I did not do it."
I spoke faintly; for my head swam and I felt so giddy that I was obliged to take hold of the back of a chair not to fall.
Cornelius saw this; he turned away abruptly--he walked up and down the room--he hesitated; at length he stopped before me, took my unresisting hand in his, made me sit down on the couch, and sat down by me.
"Come," he said in a much milder tone, "I see what it is, I have terrified you--you are afraid to confess--that is it--is it not?"
"No, Cornelius."
"What is it then? dread of punishment?"
I shook my head.
"Shame?" he said in a low tone. "No? what then?"
"It is that I did not do it, Cornelius."
He dropped my hand.
"Take care!" he said in a low voice, menacing spite of its seeming gentleness; "take care! I have been patient, but I can be provoked. I may forgive an act of passion, of jealousy, of envy even, but I cannot forgive a lie."
I loved him, but my blood rose at this.
"Am I a liar?" I asked, looking full in his face; "have I ever been one?"
"Never," he replied, with some emotion, "and I will not consider this an act of deception, but as the result of fear, obstinacy, or mistaken pride. I will even add that I consider you incapable of deceit, for yesterday you betrayed your feelings concerning this picture and the original with singular imprudence, and both last night and this morning you have carried in your face the consciousness of your guilt. And now listen to me. You have defaced the work I prized, the image of her whom I loved; you have irritated, tormented, injured me, and yet I forgive you.
Nay more; neither Kate nor Miriam shall know what has happened. I will spare one whom, spite of so many faults, I cannot help loving, this humiliation, and all on one condition--an easy one--confess."
"I cannot," I exclaimed passionately, "how can I?"
He interrupted me.
"Take care!" he said again, "do not persist. I speak calmly, but I am still very angry, Daisy. Do not presume--do not deny."
Oh yes! he was still very angry. His contracted brow--his restless look, that burned with ill-repressed fire--his lip, which he gnawed impatiently, told me that his wrath was only sleeping beneath seeming calmness. He would not let me deny, I could not confess; a strange sort of despair and recklessness seized me. I drew nearer to him. I flung my arms around his neck and laid my head on his bosom, feeling that if his wrath were to fall on me, it should at least strike me there. He did not put me away--very far from it--he drew me closer to him.
"Oh yes!" he said, looking down at me, "I am very fond of you, Daisy.
Yes, I love you very much--you need not come here to tell me so--I know it, and never know it better than when you vex me: if you were to die to- morrow, I should grieve for days, weeks, and months, but for all that I am very angry, and you will do well not to provoke me."
Why did I find so strange a charm in his very wrath, that I could not resist the impulse which made me press my lips to his cheek?
"Yes," he observed, quietly, "you may kiss me too; but do not trust to that--not even if I kiss you--I am very angry."
"But you love me, Cornelius, you know you do; be as angry as you will, you cannot make me fear."
"Yes, I love you--you perverse child!" he replied, with a strange look; "but for all that, know what you have to expect. Confess, and I forgive you freely. Deny, and you will find me as pitiless in my resentment, as I am now free in my forgiveness. I will keep you in my home, it is true, but I will banish you from my arms and from my heart. I can, Daisy! Yes, as surely as your arms are now around my neck and your cheek now lies to mine, as surely as I now give you this kiss, will I abide by what I say."
He kissed me as he spoke, and very kindly too; yet his pale, determined face gave me not the faintest hope that I could move him. I looked at him, and he smiled, as with the consciousness of an unalterable resolve.
This, then, was my fate--never more to be loved, cherished, or caressed by Cornelius. It rose before me in all its desolateness and gloom. One moment I felt tempted to yield, but conscience rose indignant, and pride spurned at the thought. I looked at Cornelius through gathering tears. I called him cruel, severe, and implacable in my heart, and yet I do not think I had ever loved him half so well; perhaps because the conviction on which he condemned me was so sincere, and, spite of his belief in my guilt, his love still so fervent.
"Well!" he said impatiently; for I was lingering, reluctant to leave that embrace which it seemed was to be my last. I drew my arms closer around his neck,--I kissed his brow, his cheek, his hand.
"God bless you for all your kindness!" I said, weeping bitterly; "God bless you, Cornelius!"
"What do you mean, child?" he asked.
"And God bless Kate, too," I continued, "though I have never loved her so well as you."
"Daisy!"
"I have but one thing to ask of you, Cornelius--kiss me once again."
"Not once but ten times when you confess, Daisy."
"Yes, but kiss me now."