"Why not?"
At length he relented, but said I was to sing him another song; then another, and so on, until I had sung him every song and ballad I knew.
The intervals of rest were filled up with talking, laughing, and jesting at one another across the stream. I had never felt so merry, seldom so happy; yet once I could not help observing remorsefully--
"And Kate, who is alone at home, and thinks you are so busy sketching!"
"Why did she make me take you with me?"
"Do I prevent you from sketching, Cornelius?"
"Of course you do; but for you I should have travelled for miles, and come home at night groaning beneath the load of crags, lonely fountains, cottages, farm-houses, snug little woods, ruins, etc. Instead of which, here I am lying on my back, looking up at trees and sky, and losing all my precious time in listening to 'Auld Robin Gray,' 'The Exile of Erin,'
'Charlie, you're my darling,' and I know not what else. Oh, Daisy, Daisy!
are you not ashamed of yourself?--sing me another song."
"Indeed, Cornelius, I do not know another."
"Then I must have mercy on you."
He moved away, but kept a keen, watchful look fastened on me. There was however no need to fear. In a second I was by his side. He chid me for form's sake, then smiled, stroked my hair, and passing his arm around me, said--
"The other one could not have done as much, could she, Daisy?"
"What other one, Cornelius?"
"The one I carried in my arms from Leigh to Ryde."
"No, Cornelius, she could not, and that was why Providence sent her so kind a friend."
I forget his answer, but I remember that we sat again on the grassy banks and lingered there until the little brook shone red and burning in the light of the broad round sun that slowly sank down behind us, filling with fiery glow the space between earth and sky.
Oh! surely it was a lovely thought in the worshippers of southern lands, to link an act of prayer with the close of day and the setting of the sun. If ever there was an hour for thanksgiving, praise, and adoration, it was this. When should we, poor travellers towards the dark goal of time, find fitter moment to pause, take breath after the journeying of another day, and give a look back to the past, a hope to the future, an aspiration to heaven? At that moment meet, to part almost as soon as met, the splendour and beauty of the day and the soothing solemnity of eve. We can give thanks at once for the gladness that is going, and for the silent rest of coming night. It is the very time for intense and brief worship; for aspiration purer than prayer; for the _Sursum corda_. I did raise my heart in that hour. Was the word too earthly? I know not; God who gave us hearts that love so warmly alone can tell; but as I sat there by Cornelius, my head, in attitude familiar of old, resting on his shoulder, I thanked Him who had given him to me, for the gift, and blessed Him who had sent him back for the return.
At length we rose, and left the spot where half a day had passed in enjoyment so pure. We followed a green path where we met, and soon outstripped a friendly couple whom we left, slowly lingering in the cool shadow of the winding lane. They looked like lovers, or a newly married pair--young, happy, oblivious of time, and heeding not the passing of hours. Cornelius gave them a stealthy look, and repressed a half smile. I smiled without disguise, for in the gladness of my heart I thought--"the lady may be fair, and the lover may be devoted, but she cannot be more happy than I am now--to feel within mine the arm of Cornelius; and sure am I, that he whom she seems to like so well, is not half so good, ay, nor half so handsome, as he who reared me."
And thus, arm-in-arm, we walked on through landscape scenes that would have gladdened the genial heart of Rubens. The warmth of the setting sun, the rich verdure of the undulating plains, the herds of fair cattle grazing by the green banks and full waters of a calm river, made one feel as if gazing on a land of untroubled peace and untold abundance.
But, oh! how glorious o'er the sea, was the hour thus beautiful on land.
We reached the extremity of the downs as the sun began to dip in the broad ocean. Blue, green, purple, and burning gold glanced through every wave; the receding coast slowly vanished through glittering mists; the masts of distant ships rose on the golden horizon like the turreted castle of some enchanted region. As we descended a winding path that gently led to the beach, the sun set and the glorious pageantry suddenly vanished. The first pale stars glittered from the depths of the grey sky; the sea looked of a darker and colder blue, and returned to her fathomless bed with a faint murmur; a chill breeze rose, swept along the coast, then died away again; on all things silence set, and the high arch of heaven rose deep and solemn over the plain of the receding sea. Oh!
brief life of ours, how beautiful is thy dwelling-place! How deeply did I then feel in my heart, the presence of that Great Spirit which broods over and hallows all it has given to the eye of man to scan!
We silently walked homeward along the beach, now grey, quiet, and lonely.
A low, large moon hung over the silent downs, from which even the melancholy cry of the plover had died away. Everything seemed subdued to repose, and even in the low rush of the breaking waves, as they rose and fell ever again on the shore, there was a murmur inexpressibly soft and soothing to the ear. We did not speak until we reached the foot of the cliff on which Rock Cottage rose. A light burned in one of the windows and spoke of pleasant welcome. Cornelius looked up and said--
"It is a wild-looking place, quite an eagle's nest, and yet there is a strange sense of home about it."
We went up the path, and found the little wooden gate unlocked as usual.
Miss O'Reilly came out to meet us, with a shawl thrown over her head. She seized on her brother; I slipped away to my room. When I came down again, in the grey dress after all, I found Kate presiding over a tea-table covered with provisions sufficient for a whole legion of famished travellers, and Cornelius laughing at the extent of her preparations.
When the meal was over she took up his sketch-book.
"Oh, Kate!" I cried, "don't look--it is such a shame--he would not sketch at all; he began the little fountain and did not even finish it. Is it not too bad?"
She sat with the open sketch-book on her lap, but looking at us with a pleased, happy smile.
"Yes," she said at length, "it is a shame--but he will do better to- morrow."
"Must we go out again to-morrow, Kate?" I asked, a little hesitatingly.
"To be sure you must--that is, if you both liked it to-day well enough to wish to begin again."
I sat by him--he looked down--I looked up, and we exchanged a conscious smile.
"Yes," he said, laying his hand on my head; "I think we both found it a pleasant day."
"Delightful, Cornelius, delightful!" I exclaimed, with a warmth that made Kate smile, brought a transient glow to his brow, and won me a tacit and quiet pressure of the hand that was free. I only spoke as I felt.
Pleasant days I had known before and was to know again, but none in which, oblivious of the past and heedless of the future, I surrendered myself so freely to the charm of the present time. I laid it all to the return of Cornelius. I had yet to learn from experience that this singleness of enjoyment, this simplicity in receiving happiness, belong almost exclusively to the pleasant season of youth, and--pity that it should be so--only to its first fresh untroubled hours, before the coming of grief or the wakening of passion.
CHAPTER VI.
How pleasant is the privilege, so little valued, because it is so common, of living in one home with those we love. Life has few things more true or more deep, and holds forth no promises more delightful. To sleep beneath the shelter of the same roof, to meet morn, noon and evening at the same board, to converse familiarly by the same fireside, to share the same sorrows and pleasures, is the ideal of those who love, whatever name their affection may take. The imagination of lovers themselves--and yet what can they not imagine?--has never gone beyond this. After all the trials, temptations and griefs, which may have beset their path, the magic hope of their future is still: one home.
Of one part of this happiness, we may be fully conscious, but another we seldom feel, unless after long separation; even as we know that life is sweet, yet rarely pause and stand still to enjoy its sweetness, so though we are well aware of the happiness of union, we sometimes forget to be happy. Too often do we accept the presence of those we love best, as we receive sunshine and our daily bread; wants of our nature fulfilled.
I rejoiced in the return of Cornelius with an eager delight I never strove to hide, and which he seemed to share. To hear his step, his voice, his laughter about the house; to meet him daily, and out or within to be constantly near him, was now my happy fate. Twice Miss O'Reilly accompanied us in our long daily walks; but the rest of the time she found some excuse to stay within, and we went out alone. That we should do so, gave her a degree of satisfaction I could not quite make out; but which I could not help perceiving. As I sat alone sewing one morning in the back parlour, Cornelius came, and leaning on the back of my chair, said:
"Where shall we go to-day?"
"Indeed, Cornelius," I replied, gravely, "I cannot always be going out with you, and leaving Kate alone."
"Kate is very fond of solitude," was his calm answer.
"Yes, but she might think it selfish."
The entrance of Kate interrupted the remark.
"The morning is getting very hot," she said, looking at her brother.
"Yes," he carelessly answered, "therefore I shall go out before the heat of the day."
"Quite right."
"I shall even go now."
"Of course, but what else?"