"So I thought of Mr. Brand, when I married him; but it is not generous to be always thinking of age. Ah! love is very selfish, Edith."
Miss Grainger raised her handkerchief to her eyes.
"My dearest girl," said the lady, "be generous; be unselfish. Mr. Langton will be so kind--he has the means, you know,--and poor Edward--poor in every sense--can only--Edward, what brought you here?"
She addressed the same young man whom I had admitted, and who had now suddenly stepped from behind the arbour where the two ladies sat. He gave the speaker an angry look, and taking the hand of my cousin, he hastily led her away down one of the garden paths, talking earnestly. The lady bit her lip, followed them with a provoked glance, and stood waiting their return. She had to wait some time. At length young Mr. Thornton appeared; he looked pale, desperate, strode past the lady, opened the gate by which I stood, entered the grounds, leaped over a fence, and vanished. Edith came up more slowly. She was crying, and looked frightened. The lady went up to her.
"Well!" she said, eagerly.
"Edward says he'll kill himself!" sobbed Edith.
"My dear," sighed her friend, "Arthur said so too when we parted. He is alive still. I am Edward's sister, and yet, you see, I am quite easy. Do not fret, dear. You must come with me to the Mitfords this evening."
"I can't, Bertha."
"My dearest girl, you must. It is extremely selfish to brood over sorrow."
With this she kissed her, and they entered the house together.
"Burns, come in to dinner," said the voice of Mrs. Marks, addressing me from the arched doorway.
I obeyed, and, for some unexplained reason, was consigned to my room during the rest of the day, which I spent by the window, still watching for my friend with a patient persistent hope that would not be conquered.
I was so absorbed that I never heard Mrs. Marks enter, until she said, close behind me, "Burns, what are you always looking out of that window for?"
Before I could reply, a sharp voice inquired from the corridor:
"Mrs. Marks, who is it I have twice this day heard you addressing by the extraordinary name of Burns?"
We both looked round. Mrs. Marks had left my door open; exactly opposite it stood a ladder leading to a trap-door in the roof of the house, through which Mr. Thornton, who had gone to survey the progress of an observatory he was causing to be erected there, now appeared descending.
"That child won't tell her other name, Sir," replied Mrs. Marks, reddening.
"Do you know it?"
"She won't tell it, Sir."
My grandfather fastened his keen black eyes full on me, and signed me to approach. He stood on the last step of the ladder. I went up to him; he gave my head a quick survey, then suddenly fixed the tip of his forefinger somewhere towards the summit, and exclaimed, in a tone that showed he had settled the bump and the question: "Firmness large; secretiveness too; but good moral and intellectual development. What is your name?"
"Margaret," I replied, unhesitatingly.
Margaret had been my mother's name. Mr. Thornton turned away at once.
"Margaret, go back to your room," shortly said Mrs. Marks.
Mr. Thornton was descending the staircase. He stopped to turn round, and observed, with great emphasis, "Miss Margaret, will you please to go back to your room?"
He went down without uttering another word.
Mrs. Marks became scarlet; and, declaring that she was not going to Miss Margaret any one, she retired to her own apartment in high dudgeon. I thought to spend this autumn evening, as usual, in the companionship of lamp, fire, books, and toys; but scarcely had Mrs. Marks brought me my light, and retired again, when Miss Grainger entered.
Was it tardy pity? Had my grandfather spoken to her? or had she come, like the fairy godmother of poor forlorn Cinderella, to visit me in all her splendour, and fill my room with a fleeting vision of elegance and beauty? Her tears had ceased, her sorrow was over; she was evidently going out for the evening: and she looked triumphant, like a long-captive princess emerging from her enchanted tower. Her dark ringlets fell on shoulders of ivory; her bright blue eyes sparkled with joy; the sweetest of smiles played on her enchanting face. A robe of rose-coloured silk fell to her feet in rustling folds; strings of pearls were wreathed in her hair, encircled her neck, and clasped her white arms. I gazed on her, mute with wonder and admiration. She looked gracious; but I ventured to touch her! She drew back with extreme alarm, glanced at her robe, and gently extending her hands before her person, to keep me at a safe distance, she smiled sweetly at me, with--"Yes, I know; good night, dear."
With this she vanished.
Why did she leave me far more chill and lonely than she had found me? Why did I remember the tender caresses of my dead father, and the embrace of Cornelius in the garden, and feel very dreary and desolate? Providence often answers our feelings and our thoughts in a manner that is both touching and strange. Ere long the door again opened; I looked up, and saw--Cornelius O'Reilly.
CHAPTER V.
What between surprise and joy, I could neither move nor speak. When the young man closed the door, came up to me, sat down by me, and, with a kiss, asked cheerfully, "Well, Margaret, how are you?" I hid my face on his shoulder, and began to cry. But he made me look up, and said with concern, "How pale and thin you are, child!--are you ill?"
"No," I answered, astonished.
Cornelius looked around him, at the fire with the guard, at the table with my books and playthings, at me; then observed, "Why are you alone?"
"I am always alone."
"Does no one come near you?"
"No one."
"Does your grandfather never send for you?"
"Oh no!"
"Who takes care of you?"
"Mrs. Marks, the housekeeper."
"Do you never leave this room?"
"I can go down if I like; but it tires me."
"Poor little thing! how do you spend your time?"
"In the daytime I look out of the window; in the evening I play by myself."
"Have you no children to play with?"
"No, none."
"And what do you learn?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing!" he echoed.