Daisy Burns.
Volume 2.
by Julia Kavanagh.
CHAPTER I.
It has chanced that for a week or more this narrative has been laid aside. This evening I thought I would resume it, and, before doing so, I looked back on what I had written.
Alas, how long it takes us to forget the angry and evil feelings of our childhood! How I traced, in this record of the past, a lingering animosity against the enemy of my youth, which years, it seems, had failed to efface from my heart! How sad and humbling a lesson has this been to me, of passion warping judgment and holy charity forgotten!
I have represented Miriam without one redeeming trait, and conscience tells me that she was not thus. I now remember many touches of human feeling and human kindness, which, I feel it remorsefully, need not have been omitted, when all that was evil was so faithfully registered.
She had many high qualities. In worldly affairs she was generous and disinterested. Her word was inviolable; she gave it rarely, and never broke it. She was devoted to her blind old nurse, and patient with her infirm aunt. Her temper was calm and enduring; she had in her something of the spirit which makes martyrs, and could have borne persecution with unshaken fortitude. She never spoke of religion, and I doubt if she had any religious feeling; but she was charitable to the poor; she had sympathy for their misery and compassion too for bodily suffering: I remember that once, when I cut my hand rather severely, she showed a concern which even I felt to be sincere. Had I been wholly in her power, and provoked her to the utmost, I knew she would neither have ill-used me herself, nor allowed me to be neglected by others. Her hatred was pitiless; yet in one sense it was not mean, for it disdained to inflict useless pangs. She had an object in tormenting me, but to do so gave her no pleasure. I know that had I not been so tenacious of the affection of Cornelius, so obstinate and proud, she would never have sought my ruin; but she was not one to brook the rivalry or opposition even of a child; I chose to place myself in her path, and she treated me as an obstacle to be removed, or, if that failed, to be conquered, and, if needful, crushed.
She was one of those outwardly calm persons whose real nature can never be known, unless when drawn forth by something or some one. I do not think that one action to be concealed had marked her life until we met.
We were antagonistic principles, and, from our conflict, the worst points of each were displayed. But for her Cornelius would never have suspected my jealous nature; but for that jealousy he would never have known the real character of his betrothed. Even Kate, though she had never liked her, was, as I afterwards learned, taken by surprise, and declared, "Cornelius had had a most fortunate escape from marrying such a cruel, treacherous woman." Was Miriam such? I do not think so. True, she had little principle, and was not stopped by falsehood when she held it necessary: but she was never cruel, never treacherous without a purpose.
She might have been good but for one mistaken idea--that good and evil are indifferent in themselves; and great but for one sin--self-idolatry.
She lacked that centre of all hearts--God. He who made us, made us so that in Him alone we shall find peace. We may make idols of honour, duty, love, art; of human ideas and human beings; but even this is not to fall utterly. The sense of honour and duty are His gifts; He gave us hearts to love with, souls to know the beautiful, minds to conceive, feelings to spend and bestow. So long therefore as its action is outward, even our grossest idolatry will be pervaded with the sanctity of adoration and the majesty of God. But self-worship is the sin of Satan: we were never meant to be our own centre, our own hope, our own aim and divinity; there never has been a drearier prison than that which can be to itself a human heart; the other circles of hell are broad and free, compared to this narrowest of dungeons--self locked in self.
It was this that, whilst outwardly she seemed so calm and cool, made Miriam internally so restless and unquiet. There was a healthy serenity in the ardour of Cornelius; but hers was agitated like an ever-troubled sea. She sought not in love its divine oblivion of self, but, on the contrary, a consciousness of existence, rendered more intense by the very tumult of passion.
To love, for her, was not to be merged in some other being, but to absorb that other being in herself. All I know of her first lover was, that he was a captain in the navy, and that he perished with his ship four or five years before she met Cornelius. Her affection may have been outwardly devoted, but must have been selfish at heart. To have lovud again would have been no crime; but to wish to do so showed that the man had been nothing in comparison with the feeling.
Even thus with her sister. Whilst she existed, Miriam seemed wrapped in her; once the young girl was in her grave, her name was never mentioned; everything that could recall her was studiously set aside as too painful; a new object, a new passion were eagerly grasped at; she had been, and she was no more. To those who love truly, there may be separation, but there is no death: their heart, like a hospitable lord, keeps sacred for ever the place of the guests he has once received and cherished. With Miriam it was not thus. Once the being in whom she had delighted could no longer minister to her delight, it ceased to occupy her. I never saw her after her parting from Cornelius, yet I can scarcely think that he, to win whose exclusive affection she had done so much, gave her one sad thought; she had not loved, but he had, and to him she left all the sorrow.
How did he bear it? This was a question neither his sister nor I could have answered. He had gone out on the night of the discovery, sent forth by that impulse which in great grief urges us to seek spots no eye can haunt, and the calm silence, so soothing to the troubled senses and wounded heart, of our mother nature. He came in the next morning, looking worn and weary, like one who had wandered far, vainly seeking peace. His sister looked at him sadly, and said, in her gentlest tones--
"It is hard. Cornelius."
He looked up in her face and replied calmly, "It is, Kate; but there is no sorrow that cannot be crushed and conquered."
Pride, stung at having been so deceived, made him shun sympathy, and forbade him to complain. He struggled against his bitter grief in manful spirit. He quietly called me up one morning to the studio, there to resume the sittings for the Stolen Child; in the course of the same week he procured two Gipsy sitters, and gave to work his whole mind, heart, and energies. Yet there were moments when his hand flagged, when his look became drearily vacant, when it was plain that not even all the might of will could compel attention any longer. There were other signs too which I heeded.
A mile down the lane rose a homely little house of God, consecrated to the worship of that faith which, like their country, was only the more dear to Cornelius and Kate for the insults daily heaped upon it. There, Sunday after Sunday, with a brief interruption, I had for three years sat and knelt by the side of Cornelius, and taken a childish pleasure in reading from the same book. But now--and I was quick to notice it--though his hand still held the volume, his eyes no longer perused the page with mine; in his abstracted face I read a worship far more intense, inward, and sorrowful than the quiet attention of old times. Once, as we walked home together, he asked me what the sermon had been about.
But nothing endures in this world. The grief of Cornelius was not of a nature to be brooded over for ever: we never knew exactly when he recovered his inward serenity, but that he recovered it, an event which occurred in the course of the winter proved beyond doubt.
One afternoon, when both Kate and her brother were out, Mr. Smalley called. He had obtained a living somewhere in the North, and was come to bid us adieu. He expressed much regret that his friend and Miss O'Reilly should not be at home, and inquired after them with his usual benignant gentleness.
"They are both quite well; and are you too quite well, Mr. Smalley?" I asked, for as he sat before me, his slender frame slightly bent, I could not but be struck with the pallor and thinness of his face.
"I am very well indeed," he replied with a smile, "and in a very happy-- though not, I hope, too elated--frame of mind, which is natural enough considering my recent good fortune. Rugby--have you ever heard of Rugby, my dear?"
"No, Sir, I don't think I have."
"Well, it is rather odd, but really nobody seems to hare heard of Rugby, and Trim will have it that it is an imaginary place altogether; but I tell him this is a point on which I must differ from him, as I have actually seen Rugby Well, Rugby, as I was saying, is an extremely picturesque village, almost too picturesque, rising on the brow of a steep hill, with an old church and very quaint parsonage; then there's a splendid torrent, that inundates the place twice a year, but the people are used to it and don't mind it, so it makes no difference, you know."
"But is it not rather unpleasant, Sir?"
"Well, perhaps it is," quietly replied Morton Smalley; then added with a sigh, "but life has greater trials; every one has his or her trial, my dear."
"Yes," I answered, "Miss O'Reilly can't let her house; it is such a pity, is it not?"
"Have her tenants left?" asked Mr. Smalley, a little troubled.
"Miss Russell has given notice; the bill is up, did you not see it?"
"I did not look," he replied in a low tone; then he again said--
"Has Miss Russell left?"
"Her furniture is still there; but she is always at Hastings."
There was a pause; but Mr. Smalley made an effort and asked--
"Is her niece with her?"
"I don't know, Sir."
"Don't you?"
"Oh no! we don't know anything more about Miss Miriam, since she is not to marry Cornelius."
Mr. Smalley turned pale and red, and pale again; but he never put a question to me. He constrained himself to talk of the weather, of what a fine day it was (the rain was drizzling), of how happy it made him to hear Cornelius was so successful (we had never said a word about his success); then he left off at once, rose and bade me good-bye, to my infinite relief, for I was conscious of having committed an indiscretion, and not the first either.
Within the course of the same month, as we sat at breakfast, Kate, who was reading the newspaper, suddenly uttered an exclamation which she as hastily checked. Cornelius took the paper from her hand, glanced over it, and read aloud very calmly--
"On the twelfth instant, at St. George's, Hanover Square, the Rev. Morton Smalley, of Rugby, to Miriam Russell, eldest daughter of the late Thomas Russell, Esq., of Southwell, Norfolk."
"Smalley deserved a better wife," said Cornelius; and he handed back the paper to Kate, without betraying the least sign of emotion. It was thus we learned how utterly dead Miriam was in his heart.
What sort of a wife did she make to Morton Smalley, in his wild northern home? I know not, no more than I know what, unless the thirst of agitation and change, could induce a spirit so feverish and unquiet to unite itself to that pure and calm nature. Did she find peace in his devoted love, and in fulfilling the duties that fall to the lot of a clergyman's wife? Perhaps she did, and perhaps too he drew forth whatever her nature held of good and true. A year after her marriage she died in giving birth to a child, who still lives, and whom her father persists in calling the image of his dear departed saint, though his eyes alone can trace in her the faintest resemblance to her dead mother.
I was not with Cornelius when this event occurred, and how he felt on learning the death of the woman with whom he had thought to spend his life, is more than I have ever known.
Cornelius had, as I said, recovered his serenity, but he was not what he once had been. A boyish lightness of temper had deserted him--his early faith was shaken, and he looked on life a sadder and a wiser man. To his sister he was the same as before; to me far kinder. He loved me all the more for having been to him the cause of so much trouble: a less generous mind and heart could not have forgiven me the mistakes into which I had made him fall, and the disadvantageous position in which I had placed him; both rendered me more dear to Cornelius. The only allusion he made to the past, was to say to me one wintry evening, as, the lessons over, we sat together by the fire-side--
"I think you are happy now, Daisy."
"Yes, Cornelius," I replied, a little moved, "very happy."
"That's right," he said, and rose.
"You are going out," observed Kate, anxiously.