He looked a little disconcerted. I thought him vexed, and apologized at once for my want of respect.
"Respect!" he replied seeming half astonished, half displeased, "what do I want with respect--your respect?" And he gave me a glance of mingled incredulity and uneasiness.
"Cornelius, you said before you went to Italy--"
"What about the foolish things, I may have said years ago." he interrupted impatiently; "Surely," he added, looking down at me reproachfully, "surely, we have both outgrown that time."
"I hope I have not outgrown my respect for you, Cornelius," I replied rather gravely.
"Again!" he said with subdued irritation; "why don't, you ask to call me 'Papa?'"
"I would if I thought you would say yes, Cornelius."
"No, you would not," he answered reddening and looking vexed; "you know you would not. You know all this is mere childish talk."
"Put me to the test!" I said laughing.
"I dare you to do it." he replied hastily. "Take warning, and, if troubled with filial feelings, look out for some other paternal parent.
C. O. R., Esq., is not the man."
"When Louisa Scheppler asked the good Pastor Oberlin--he consented."
Cornelius looked at me uneasily and tried to smile.
"I know you are only jesting," he observed; "I know it, of course. But yet, Daisy, I would rather you did not."
"Is the idea of a daughter so formidable?" I asked.
"A daughter! Oh, Daisy!" exclaimed Cornelius a little desperately, "this is too childish! The next thing will be, that you will get out of the teens altogether, and go back to the little girl of ten whom I found here seven years ago."
"And you don't want me to do that?" I said amused at the idea.
He looked at me expressively.
"Oh, no!" he murmured, "oh, no! Surely, you know yourself how charming you have grown."
I smiled incredulously. I knew I was improved, but thought it was his affection which transformed a little freshness and colour into so comprehensive a word as charming.
"I wonder you will never believe me," he said, looking half annoyed. "I wonder, what is your real opinion of yourself. I do not mean that conventional opinion of one's own inferiority, or at the best mediocrity which, under penalty of being hunted out from decent society, every civilized individual is bound to profess, but that honest opinion of our merits and defects, by which we judge ourselves in our own hearts. Do you mind answering that question?"
"No, it is not worth minding."
"Then answer it."
"You must question me categorically. I have not a ready-made certificate of my good or bad points, to deliver on such short notice."
"What do you think of Daisy morally?"
"A good sort of girl; has received honest principles; devoutly believes she will never do anything very shocking."
"What of her intellectually?"
"Sensible, not brilliant."
"What of her person?"
"Like her mind--plain; but, thank Heaven, has the use of her limbs and senses."
"And this common-place character is your real opinion of yourself!"
exclaimed Cornelius almost indignantly.
"My real opinion; but it is scarcely civil to tell me to my face that I am common-place."
"I never said so. That is not my opinion of you, Daisy."
"Ah!" I said a little embarrassed, for it was plain he meant to favour me with that opinion.
"No," he continued very earnestly, "I do not think you that pale, every- day girl you described. I think you more than good, for you are high- minded; I think you more than sensible, for you are original. You may as well laugh out at once," he added in a piqued tone, "for to crown all, Daisy, I think you pretty, ay, and very pretty."
"Oh, Cornelius!" I replied endeavouring to look melancholy; "if you had not made that unlucky addition, I could have believed in the rest--but now!"
"Daisy, beauty is manifold: the greatest fool can discover the beauty of a perfectly beautiful woman."
"Whereas it requires a peculiar talent to find out the invisible sort of beauty. Judicious remark!"
"Allow me to return to the point. My meaning is, that to be able to see and feel none save the self-demonstrative sort of beauty, is common- place."
"The other course is decidedly more original; is that the point, Cornelius?"
"The point," he replied, fairly provoked, "is, that such as you are, pretty or plain, _I_ find you charming."
"Well, then," I said, amused at his persistency, "glamour has fallen on your eyes, and you see me through it."
"What if I do?" he answered, in a tone that, like his look, suddenly softened; "will that sort of magic vex you? What is there so pleasant in this world as the face of one we love; and if your face has that pleasantness for me; if the glamour, as you call it, of affection has fallen on my eyes and heart, why should you mind?"
Oh! not indifferent, even in the purest affection, are these things. I glanced up into his face; and as it told me how thoroughly he meant all he said, I blushed; then ashamed of blushing, I hung down my head. He stooped to look at me.
"Perverse girl," he said, chidingly, "don't you see it was useless to try to frighten and torment me? But you have provoked me. Shall I tell you why I find you so very, very charming?"
I looked up at him, and, passing my arms around his neck, I smiled as I replied:
"Cornelius, it is because as a father you have reared me; because as a father you love me. What wonder, then, that a father should see some sort of beauty in his daughter's face?"
Cornelius looked thunder-struck; then recovering, he gave me an incredulous glance, and attempted a smile, which vanished as he met my astonished look. A burning glow overspread his features: it was not the light blush of boy or girl, called up by idle words, but the ardent fire of a manly heart's deep and passionate emotions. He untwined my arm from around his neck; he rose: his brown eyes lit--his lips trembled. At first he seemed unable to speak; at length he said:
"You cannot mean it, Daisy--you cannot mean it."
"Why not, Cornelius?" I asked, amazed at his manner.