"Yes," I answered, "all--anything you like, Cornelius."
I trembled--for my blood rushed to my heart with something like pain and gladness blending in its rapid flow; but he only saw the tears which covered my face, and he exclaimed, with reproachful tenderness:
"You weep because I ask you to give up a childish past, which, childish as it is, I would give anything to annihilate. Oh! Daisy, Daisy!"
At once I checked my tears. He saw the effort, and, stooping, he pressed a long and lingering kiss on my brow.
"Oh! my darling!" he said, ardently, "do not regret it so much. If I will share your friendship with none, is it not because I mean to take on myself the exclusive care of your happiness? Trust in me--in that feeling be a child again. Alas! I sometimes fear that the calmness and serenity of childhood are not merely in your years, but also in your nature. Oh!
if, without adding one day to your existence--one dark page to your experience--I could change this!"
I tried to smile, but I could not--I felt languid and wretched. My heart ached at what I had done--at William, given up so utterly, with scarcely a cause assigned. I wondered if Cornelius, knowing all, would have exacted the same sacrifice. Once or twice I tried to bring the discourse round to the point I wished; but he shunned this so carefully, that at length my eyes opened: Cornelius wished to know nothing. From that moment I was silent and resigned.
If endearing language, and every proof of an ardent affection, could have consoled me, I need not have grieved: but even sitting by Cornelius--- even listening to him--I was haunted by the image of William vainly waiting for me at the old meeting-place. I heard his voice reproachfully exclaiming--now, alas! with how much truth--"You have deceived me!"
In the course of the day, we received an invitation to take tea with Miss Murray, in honour of her nephew's return. I said I could not go, and Kate, with a smile, replied she would sacrifice herself, and allow Cornelius to remain and keep me company. We spent a quiet evening together. My head again ached slightly; I was glad of the pretence to lie on the sofa with closed eyes. Cornelius sat by me, holding my hand in his, and thus his sister found us on her return. She looked at us with a pleased face, and said it was well to be a spoiled child like me.
"By the bye," she carelessly added, "William Murray is as great a bear as ever. He had been out all day, and looked, when he came in, as if he longed to knock me down."
I think I replied, "Indeed." I know that soon after this I went up to my room, there to learn what new pangs can give to grief, and what new bitterness to tears--the sense of an affection betrayed.
CHAPTER VIII.
I sat to Cornelius as usual on the following day, but not a word did we exchange concerning what had passed. In the course of the afternoon he said he no longer wanted me; I left him, glad of a little solitude and liberty. He joined me in the garden as dusk was falling. He found me sitting on the bench studying Tasso. He asked me if we should not read together. I assented, but twice my tears fell on the page: he closed the book, and said sadly:
"Daisy, you need not weep; I release you from your promise."
I started slightly: he continued:
"I did not think your feelings were so deeply engaged, or I should never have put you to such a test. Come, do not weep; your time for tears is past; see your friend as much as you like, and let your pale, unhappy face reproach me no more that, unable to render you happy myself, I would not let another do it."
I could bear no more; every word he uttered pierced mo with a sharper pang. I hid my face in my hand and exclaimed:
"Cornelius, you are too good; I do not deserve this; I have seen William; he has but just left me."
I looked up, he turned rather pale; but never spoke one word.
"You are angry with me," I said.
"Angry with you!" he repeated, smiling sadly, but so kindly, that, impelled by the same sense of refuge which I had so often felt in my childish troubles, I threw my arms around his neck, and exclaimed in a voice broken by tears:
"Oh, Cornelius, I am so wretched."
"I am not angry, indeed I am not," he replied, sighing deeply.
"Oh! it is not that, Cornelius; William is again gone away, and if you knew all--Oh, what shall I do!"
I cried bitterly on his shoulder. He half rose as if to put me away; but he sat down again with fixed brow and compressed lips.
"What shall you do?" he echoed, "what others have done--you shall bear it."
I looked up, amazed at the stern bitterness of his tone, at the cold and inexorable meaning of his face, which had turned of a sallow paleness.
"But Cornelius," I exclaimed, much hurt, "I like him--"
"I don't believe it," he interrupted, biting his lip. "It is a dream--a fancy--the dream of a girl, of a mere child; all girls think they are in love; you have done like the rest."
I felt a burning blush overspread my face; my look sank beneath his; the hand which he had taken and still held, trembled in his; he dropped it and said:
"And is this the end of it all, Daisy? and do you really like that rough sailor, a mere boy too? Oh, Daisy!"
I conquered my scruples and my shame.
"Cornelius." I said, looking up at him, "I must speak to you openly once for all. I wanted to do so yesterday; you would not hear me then; pray hear me now."
"Why so?" he replied, with evident pain, "I know enough, more than enough."
"You do not know all."
"Then I can guess."
"No, I do not think you can."
"Well then, speak, Daisy, and do not linger."
"William, as I told you, has not long left me; he came to bid me good- bye, and also--but I must begin from the beginning."
"What else was it that he came for?" asked Cornelius.
"Let me first tell you the rest."
"Never mind the rest. What else did he call for?"
"I must go on my own way. I want you to judge of my conduct, as well as to know the issue. Do you remember yesterday all I told you concerning my acquaintance with William?"
"Every word."
"You are sure you have forgotten nothing?"
"Daisy," he exclaimed vehemently, "will you never tell me what he came for?"
His look, his tone, commanded a reply.
"To ask me whether I would not promise to marry him some day," I replied in a low tone.