"Precisely."
"I shall appeal to Mr. O'Reilly," I exclaimed indignantly.
"The law does not recognise Mr. O'Reilly," composedly answered Mr.
Thornton; "he is nothing to you, not even your guardian. I am your grandfather; and the law," he added, giving me an emphatic look, "recognizes me and my power until you are of age."
He seemed to think this sufficient, and again bent over his book. His last words had sunk on my heart like lead. Was it true? could it be true?
Did the law give so much power to Mr. Thornton? and, provided he did not ill-use me, would it make me for four years the captive of his pleasure?
Could Cornelius really deliver me from this bondage, or, as I began to fear, had he deceived himself, and deceived me? I repented having spoken so openly to Mr. Thornton: and hoping to repair this error, and conciliate him by a more submissive behaviour, I lingered in the study, and took up one of the dusty old volumes scattered everywhere around me.
It was a Latin work, but an English treatise on mineralogy had been bound up with it; and this I began reading, or rather I attempted to read. My eyes ever kept wandering from the page down the avenue before me. From its direction, I was sure it led to that quiet stream by which Cornelius and I had sat that same day. In thought I leave the room, hurry down the avenue; the stream is crossed. I follow silent lanes, and traverse lonely fields; a quiet path brings me to Rock Cottage; the garden gate is open; the door stands ajar; I look in; Cornelius is sitting with his back turned to me; I utter his name; he looks round.
The sound of the key turning in the lock, woke me from my happy dream. I looked up; Mr. Thornton's chair was vacant; I ran to the door; it resisted my efforts; my grandfather, forgetting, I suppose, my presence, had locked me in. I looked for means of egress, and saw none but the window. I remained patient for about a quarter of an hour; but perceiving that Mr. Thornton did not return, and, from the fact of being shut in, feeling of course the most eager desire to get out, I opened the window, and stepping on the sill, prepared to jump down; it was higher from the ground than I had expected; I looked and hesitated a little.
"Allow me to assist you," said a very pleasant voice.
I looked round, and saw standing by the window a handsome, gentlemanly man of thirty-five or thereabouts. He had light brown hair, a delicate moustache of the same hue, very fine blue eyes, and a classical profile.
As he stood before me, politely offering me his hand to assist my descent, yet scarcely able to repress a smile at my predicament, I fancied I recognized in him the "young Mr. Thornton" I had formerly mistaken for Cornelius. I could not retreat; it would have looked foolish to refuse; so I accepted his assistance, and, as I alighted, said explanatorily:
"My grandfather, I mean Mr. Thornton, had forgotten I was there, and locked me in."
"Miss Burns!" he said smiling, "I guessed as much."
I gave him a look implying, "Who are you?"
"Your cousin Edward Thornton," he answered bowing.
"I thought so;" I replied gravely, "I remember letting you in by the side-door."
"And I have been so fortunate as to help to let you out through the window."
I laughed at the turn our discourse was taking. There was a well-bred ease in his manner, sufficient of itself to banish all shyness.
"My dilemma," he said quietly, "is very different from yours, Miss Burns; I am in the same unfortunate position, in which you found me seven years ago: I cannot get in. I have tried three doors--in vain."
"Here is a fourth," I replied pointing to a low side-door. He knocked against it with his cane, but received no reply.
"Decidedly," gravely observed Edward Thornton, "the place is enchanted.
As old Spenser would say:
'There reigns a solemn silence over all; Nor voice is heard--'"
Here he broke down in the quotation; I ventured to suggest the rest:
"--nor wight is seen in bower or hall."
"Thank you," he said, with a gracious inclination of his handsome head.
"You like Spenser?" he added, resuming the task of tapping against the door with the end of his elegant cane.
"Yes," I answered, "and you?"
He turned round to give me a surprised look of his fine blue eyes, but he quietly replied:
"Yes, I admire Spenser very much."
He was at the door again, and this time he condescended to apply to it the heel of a very handsome, aristocratic foot, when a thin, high voice behind us observed:
"This way, Edward; I have found means of entering, but I never saw a more barbarous place, never."
We both looked round; a lady of middle age, very slender, and attired in pale blue bar?ge, a white lace cloak and a tulle bonnet, over which she balanced a delicate white parasol, was advancing towards us with mincing steps. I fancied I recognised Mrs. Brand, and I was not mistaken.
"Have you found no one?" asked her brother.
"I have found an idiotic house-maid, and an old goblin housekeeper, from neither of whom could I extract anything, save that Mr. Thornton never so much as hinted we were coming; but that, as our carriage entered the avenue, he was seen to rush from the study, and vanish down the park.
Gracious, very!"
"Characteristic," said Edward Thornton, smiling with languid grace.
"My dear Edward," solemnly observed his sister, "are you aware that there are no beds ready, or indeed, in existence, and that Marks--I believe that is her name--declares there is not a pound of meat in the house."
Edward Thornton's handsome face lengthened visibly.
"Really," he said, "really!"
"I do not mind it," continued Mrs. Brand; "but I am ashamed at the slur cast on our national hospitality. It is one of those things which, if related to me, I should have dismissed with the reply: 'Absurd--not English--absurd!' I am now compelled to acknowledge it as a melancholy fact, from which I cannot help drawing certain conclusions."
"Perhaps Miss Burns can enlighten us concerning the domestic arrangements of our eccentric relative," observed Mr. Thornton, turning to me.
"I have not been two hours in the house," I replied, smiling.
"Miss Burns!" exclaimed Mrs. Brand, with a start. "Really, Edward, I am surprised you did not mention it sooner. You know how I have longed to see our dear young cousin."
She tripped up to me as she spoke, and gave my hand a fervent squeeze.
Then looking at me through a gold eye-glass:
"My dear child," she said, "how well you look--not at all altered. Were I not so short-sighted, I should have known you anywhere--would not you, Edward?"
"No," he replied, quietly; "I find Miss Burns much altered; and if I recognised her, it was in spite of the change seven years have worked."
"Ah! very true," sighed Mrs. Brand. "Years pass, and the world goes on with all its vanities. My dear girl, have you really no idea of what we are to do for beds and a dinner?"
The moral sentiment had been uttered with slow abstraction, but the question relating to the things of the flesh, came out quite briskly.
I regretted that I could give Mrs. Brand no information, but repeated my previous statement.
"It is a _guet-apens_," she feelingly observed; "a most un-English, uncivilised mode of proceeding--worse than primitive--quite savage.
Edward, what do you advise?"