"But with an implied condition of confession, acknowledgment, or something of the sort?"
"No, I left her free to speak or be silent. She would not confess--not for that shall I retract what I granted unconditionally; but pray do not let us speak of it."
Miriam however persisted.
"It is true," she said, "that Daisy did not confess, but then she did not deny."
The look of Cornelius lit: it was plain he caught at this eagerly.
"Very true," he replied; "very true, Miriam, she did not deny."
He looked at me as he said it. I stood where he had left me, by his vacant chair. I looked at him too, and at Miriam, as she stood by him with one hand clasped in his, and the other resting on his shoulder, and I never uttered one word. In his longing desire to reinstate me in his esteem and efface the stain on my tarnished honour, Cornelius, seeing me still silent, could not help saying--
"It is so, Daisy, is it not?--you do not deny it."
I had been quiet until then; quiet and forbearing. I had not protested my innocence in loud or vehement speech, but in the very simplest words of denial. Accused, judged, sentenced unheard, I had not resented this; I had blessed my accuser and kissed the hand of my judge. I had not wearied him with tears, entreaties, or protestations. I had no proof to give him save my word, and if that was doubted, I felt I had but to be silent.
Four times indeed I had stood before him and told him--what more could I tell him?--that I had not done it. He had not believed me, and I had borne with it, borne with that forgiveness which to me could be but a bitter insult; but even from him I could bear no more; even to him no longer would I protest my innocence. I had laid my pride at his feet, in all the lowliness and humility of love; it now rose indignant within me, and bade me scorn further justification.
"No, Cornelius," I replied, without so much as looking at him, "I do not deny it."
I stood near the door; I opened it, and left the room.
CHAPTER XXI.
My temples throbbed; my blood flowed with feverish heat; I felt as if carried away by a burning stream down to some deep, fiery region, where angry voices ever raised a strange clamour, that perpetually drowned my unavailing cry--"I did not do it."
I know not how I reached my room; quietly and simply, I suppose; for when I recovered from this transport of indignant passion, I was lying on my bed and I was alone. I did not weep, I did not moan, I scarcely thought, but I drank deep of the cup of grief which had so suddenly risen to my lips. In youth we do not love sorrow, but when it comes to us we welcome it with strange avidity; there is a luxury, a dreary charm in the first excess of woe. True, we quickly sicken of the bitter draught; I had lain down with the feeling--"There, I am now as miserable as I can be, and yet I care not!" but, alas! how soon I grew faint and weary! how soon from the depths of my wrung heart I cried for relief to Him who knew my innocence, who had never wronged me, who, were I ever so guilty, would have never condemned me unheard!
What was it to me that Cornelius left me his love and his kindness, when I knew and felt, with a keener bitterness than words can convey, that I had for ever lost his esteem? Did I, could I, care for an affection from which the very life had departed? No; child as I was in years, something within me revolted from the mere thought of his tenderness and endearments. If he believed me guilty, then let him hate and detest me: sweeter would be his aversion than such fondness as he could bestow on one whom, the more he forgave her, the more he must despise.
This resentful feeling--better to be hated than weakly loved--bore with it no consolation. I still groaned under the intolerable load of so much misery. Spirit and flesh both revolted against it, and said it was beyond endurance; that, anything save that, I would bear cheerfully, but that I could not bear; that sickness would be pleasant, and death itself would be sweet in comparison. And as I thought thus, I remembered the time when I was near dying, when Cornelius wept over me, and I should have carried in my grave his regard as well as his tears, and I passionately questioned the Providence that rules our fate. I asked why I had been spared for this? why I was thought guilty when I was innocent? why Cornelius disbelieved me? why there was no hope that I should ever be acquitted by him? why the only being for whose good opinion I would have given all it was mine to give, had been the very one to condemn me? Had I looked into my heart, I might there have found the stern reply--"By his idol let the idolater perish." But I did not. I only dwelt on the galling fact, that though guiltless, there was no hope for me, and I sank into as violent a fit of despair as if this were a new discovery. I wept passionately at first, then slowly, unconsciously. My head ached; my heavy eyes closed; I did not sleep, but I sank into the apathy of subdued grief.
I know not how long I had been thus when the door opened, and Kate--I knew her step--entered. She came up to my bed, bent over me, and seeing my eyes closed, whispered--
"Are you asleep, Daisy?"
A slight motion of my head implied the denial I could not speak. She took my hand, said it felt cold, went into the next room, whence she brought some heavy garment, with which she covered me. I felt rather than saw her lingering by me; then I heard her leaving the room softly. My heart swelled as the door closed on her. Not one word of faith or doubt had she uttered, and yet her voice was both compassionate and kind. It was plain that she too thought me guilty, pitied, and forgave me.
"Be it so!" I thought, with sullen and bitter grief: "let every one accuse me, I acquit myself; let no one believe in me, I keep faith in my own truth. I shall learn how to do without their approbation and their belief."
I remained in this mood, until, after the lapse of some hours, Kate once more came near me. Again she bent over me and asked if I slept. I opened my heavy eyes, but, dazzled by the light, I soon closed them again.
"Come down to dinner," she said gently.
"I am not hungry."
There was a pause; I fancied her gone, and looked; she was standing at the foot of my bed, gazing at me with a very sorrowful face.
"Daisy," she said, in her most persuasive accents, "have you nothing to say to me?"
I looked at her; her glance told me she asked for a confession, not for justification, so I replied--
"Nothing, Kate," and again closed my eyes.
She left me, but soon returned, carrying a small tray with a plate, on which there was some fowl and a glass of wine. She wanted me to eat. I assured her I was not hungry.
"Try," she urged; "I promised Cornelius not to leave you without seeing you take something."
To please her I tried, but she saw that the attempt sickened me; she pressed me to take the wine.
"Cornelius poured it out in his own glass," she said, "and tasted it before sending it up; so you must have some."
Wine seldom appeared on our frugal table; it had been forbidden to me as injurious; but Cornelius always left me some in his glass, which he made me drink slyly, whilst his sister pretended to look another way. I knew why he had now sent me this; it was a token of old affection living still, spite of what happened. I would not refuse the pledge: I sat up, and taking the glass from Kate, I raised it to my lips; but as I did so, the thought of the past thus evoked made my heart swell; a sensation of choking came upon me; I felt I could not swallow one drop, and laid down the glass untasted. Kate sighed, but she saw it was useless to insist, so, hoping I would try again in her absence, she left me.
I did not try: why should I? food sufficient to me were my tears and my grief renewed in all its bitterness by this incident. Why had Cornelius sent me this token of a communion from which the trust and the faith had for ever vanished? Why should I drink from his glass, whilst he thought me a liar? I ought not, and I resolved that I would not, until he had acknowledged my truth. I pushed away the tray from me; in doing so I saw that the covering Kate had thrown over me was an old cloak of her brother's. I recognized it at once: it was the very same he wore when he came to see me at Mr. Thornton's; the same in the folds of which he had wrapped and carried me, a weak and sickly child. I cast it away in a transport of despair and grief; he might care for me and cherish me again, but never more could he be to me what he once had been.
After awhile I became more calm, or rather I sank into the apathy which is not calmness. Lying on my bed I looked through the window which faced it, at the grey and cloudy sky. The preceding day had been clear and sunshiny; this was dark and overcast, one of those September days that bear something so dull, chill, and wintry in their mien. I watched my room grow dim, and felt it becoming more cold and comfortless as evening drew on; but it seemed not so dreary, and felt not so cold, as my desolate heart.
A well-known step on the stairs partly roused me. I listened; there was a. low tap at my door; I gave no answer; it was renewed, and still I was silent. Cornelius, for it was he, waited awhile and finally entered. Like his sister he came up to my bed and bent over me, but the room had grown dark; he drew back the curtain; I shaded my eyes with my hand; he moved it away.
"You are not asleep," he said, "look at me, Daisy."
I obeyed; he stood gazing at me with my baud in his; there was sadness on his face, and pity still deeper than his sadness. I dare say I looked a pitiable object enough. He glanced at the food untouched, at the wine untasted.
"You have taken nothing," he said, "not even a drop of the wine I sent you; why so?"
"I could not."
"Try again."
He wanted to raise the glass to my lips; but I pushed it away so abruptly, that half its contents were spilled. He made no remark; but feeling the dead-like dullness of my hand, he attempted to cover me with his cloak; I half rose to put it away; Cornelius took no notice of this either.
"Come down and have some tea," he said quietly; "this room is cold, but below there is a fire."
Mechanically I obeyed. I sat up, put back my loosened hair from my face, and slipped down on the floor. I followed him out, and I felt weak and giddy; I had to cling to him for support until we entered the parlour. It looked as I had so often seen it look on many a happy evening. The fire burned brightly; the lamp shed its mild, mellow radiance; the kettle sang on the fire; the white china cups and saucers stood on the little table ready for use, and Kate sat working as usual; but familiar as everything seemed, it was as if I had not entered that room for years. As we came in, Kate looked up and sighed, then made the tea in deep silence.
Cornelius made me sit by the fire, and sat down by me; he handed me my cup himself; but I could not drink, still less eat. He pressed me in vain. If I could, I would have gratified him, for my abstinence proceeded not from either stubbornness or pride; I knew I should eat again, and to do it early or late could not humble or exalt me. Cornelius ceased to urge the point. The meal, always a short one with us, was over, the room was silent; I sat in an angle of the couch, my hand shading my weary eyes; perhaps my long fasting contributed to render me partly insensible to what passed around me, for Cornelius had to speak twice before he could draw my attention. When I at length looked up, I perceived that Kate had left the room; we were alone.
"Daisy," said Cornelius, very earnestly, "are you fretting?"
"Yes, Cornelius, I am."
"Do you then think me still angry with you?"
"No," I replied, rather surprised, "I know you are not."