"Yes, Cornelius."
"And you come and tell it to me."
"Oh, Cornelius, would you have me keep it a secret?"
"But to tell it to _me_."
"To whom else should I tell it?"
"But to ask _me_ to let you keep it."
"Of whom else should I ask it?"
He seemed unable to reply. He looked at me; but no words passed his trembling lips. I began to feel hurt and dismayed at the manner in which he received my confidence. At length, he said, with forced calmness:--
"This is some mistake of mine; I have misunderstood you, Daisy. You cannot have meant to say that you had appointed a meeting with the young man I saw with you last night."
"That was my meaning, Cornelius," I replied, firmly.
"You confirm it," he replied, turning pale; "and I, who, after a night of tormenting thought, came down this morning, not knowing how to question you. Oh, Daisy!"
There was agitation in his look and in his voice.
"Cornelius," I said, with some emotion, "if I have made an appointment with William, where is the harm? It is not the first time I have done so."
"Not the first time!"
"No, nor the second, nor the third. We have been attached since Kate brought me to Leigh; and before William went to sea, there scarcely passed a day but we met somewhere."
"And I have been away two years!" said Cornelius, in a low tone. "Not a day but you met somewhere!"
"Yes, on the downs, or on the beach, where you found me last night, and where I had promised to meet him this morning."
Cornelius turned on me with flashing eyes.
"Unhappy child!" he exclaimed, "what do you mean by telling me all this?
What have you been doing in my absence? What sort of a watch has Kate kept over the young girl I left to her care? What sense of honour has he who took so shameless an advantage of your ignorance, but who shall account to me for it yet?"
He rose; his brow was stern; his face was pale. Half wild with terror, I threw my arms around his neck, and detained him.
"It was my fault!" I exclaimed, eagerly; "all my fault--resent it upon me."
"And what can I do to you?" answered Cornelius, looking down at me with strange anger and tenderness in his gaze; "what can I do to you?"
"Hear me," I entreated, weeping.
He sat down again, subdued at once by the sight of my tears, and said he would listen patiently.
"William," I began.
"Why speak of him?" he interrupted, with a clouded brow.
"You have accused him; I must justify him, or bear my share of the blame."
"Blame!" sorrowfully echoed Cornelius; "why should I blame you? I was away, and Kate was negligent, and another was there; it was natural, very natural."
Encouraged by the gentleness of his tone, I stooped, and pressing my lips to his cheek, I said, in my most persuasive accents:--
"May I keep my appointment, Cornelius?"
He turned upon me a flushed and troubled face.
"I have heard of strange, tormenting things," he said, between his set teeth; "but I vow I never heard of anything to equal this. My God!" he added, pressing me to him with strange and sudden passion, "what can you want with that young man?"
His look felt like fire; I bowed my face before its wrath. When I spoke, it was to say, in a faltering tone:--
"Cornelius, you are angry again; yet all I want is not to make William wait."
"But what do you want with him?--What can you want with him?" desperately asked Cornelius.
"He was so unreasonable; he said I did not care for him; and indeed, Cornelius, that was a great mistake of his. All I want is to speak to him a few minutes, and make him hear sense."
"Oh, Daisy!" exclaimed Cornelius, with ill repressed anger, "is it possible you do not understand that it is not becoming for a young girl to go and meet a young man in a lonely place?"
"Then forbid me to go!" I exclaimed, eagerly; "forbid me, that I may assure William if I broke my word to him, it was to obey you."
Cornelius turned very pale; he rose, and said, in a moved and broken tone:--
"I am no tyrant. I do not forbid you to go. I claim no control over your feelings or actions. Go, and stay at your pleasure."
Without giving me another look, he turned to his easel. I sat down in the attitude of the young girl reading; but, though every now and then I stole up a look from the open book on mv lap, I never could catch his eye. I felt this keenly; for if there was a thing which Cornelius had of late done more than another, it was to look into my face; and, oh! how kindly he ever looked! At length, I could bear it no longer. I rose, and went up to where he stood painting. He never even glanced around. The calm expostulation with which I had thought to address him, faded from my memory. With involuntary emotion, I sank down at his feet, and, seizing his hand, I exclaimed, with something like passion:--
"Blame me! but look at me, Cornelius; say what you will, but look at me."
"Are you mad?" he cried reddening indignantly and forcibly raising me from the ground. "What do you, what can you mean by kneeling to me? Oh, Daisy!" he added with keen reproach, "I would rather you had struck me than you had done that."
I stood by him silent and ashamed.
"To kneel to me!" he resumed, as if he could not get over it. "For man to kneel to woman may be folly, but at least it is the voluntary submission of strength; but for woman to kneel to man--what is it--save the painful submission of weakness. If you have any regard for me, if you care for me, never do that again."
I promised I would not, then added:
"Have you forgiven me, Cornelius?"
"What have I to forgive?"
"You know--I do not."