Thornton heard her with perfect unconcern, and said "really," then spoke to me of the beauty of the morning, and of Mr. Thornton's rheumatism.
"You will be sorry to learn," he said, gently breaking the shell of an egg, "that our excellent relative is completely laid up; I found him in his study lying on a couch, unable to stir, and in acute pain."
I was sorry in one sense, and glad in another; I had a vague hope that pain might subdue my obdurate grandpapa, and as soon as breakfast was over, I hastened to his study; wishing to take him by surprise, I ventured to enter without knocking. The surprise was mine. Mr. Thornton, whom I had expected to find groaning on his couch, was standing on the top of a high flight of steps, reaching down heavy quartos. On hearing the door open, he turned round sharply, and looked at me scowling. I rather enjoyed his predicament and said quietly:
"I am glad you are better, Sir."
He growled an inaudible reply, and came down, hobbling and groaning with every step he took, and darting mistrustful looks at me. I offered him the aid of my shoulder, which he accepted, leaning on me as heavily as he could. I helped him to return to his couch, then quietly sat down facing him. He knew he was at my mercy, and did not tell me to go; but he surlily rejected my proffered services; but I persisted.
"I can look for any book for you, Sir," I said.
"Look, then," was his ungracious reply.
"What book is it, Sir?"
"Begin with the first volume on the second shelf."
I obeyed, and brought him a heavy tome, which he just looked at, then threw away, briefly saying:
"Another."
Another I brought him, with the same result; a third, a fourth, and so on throughout the whole shelf.
"Are you not tired?" he asked with smooth irony.
"Oh, no," I replied, smiling, "shall I begin another shelf?"
"No, you need not," he answered, giving it up, "it is an old treatise on mineralogy that has long been lost."
I turned to the window; the book I had been reading on the preceding day still lay there open; I silently handed it to my grandfather, who gave it and then me a look of profound surprise, followed by a remarkable smoothing down of mien and accent.
"How did you find it?" he asked, looking at it with evident satisfaction.
"By chance, Sir."
"By chance! Oh! I have another thing missing. Ray's 'Chaos and Creation,'
perhaps you could find that too, eh?"
He looked at me thoughtfully. Anxious to conciliate him, I replied, eagerly:
"Perhaps I might, Sir."
"Humph! Can you write? I mean write a round hand, not the abominable slant of most school-girls?"
"Yes, Sir: my handwriting is remarkably round."
"Transcribe this."
He pushed towards me a sheet of hieroglyphics, which I turned over with a dismay that made him chuckle. Unwilling to give him an advantage over me, I sat down and at once entered on my task; the decyphering was the worst part of the business; but after working hard for several hours, I accomplished it to his satisfaction and to mine. 1 thought to rest; but Mr. Thornton was differently inclined.
"Can you read?" he asked, "I mean read as you talk, without drawl or singing?"
I replied I hoped I could. He said we should see, and handed me the mineralogical treatise. For two hours I read without stopping. At length he said that was enough. I felt quite faint and exhausted, and asked if I could leave him. He assented, adding--
"Mind you keep a look-out for 'Chaos and Creation!'"
I promised to do so, and left him much relieved. The day was hot; the air of the close, dusty, old study felt stifling. I went out into the garden at the back of the house, and sat down in the arbour. I had not been there five minutes before I was joined by my cousin, Edward Thornton. He was beginning to make himself very pleasant and agreeable, when Mrs.
Langton appeared stepping down daintily from beneath the porch, like a lady in a picture. She had discarded her widow's cap; the warm sunlight gave a brown tint to her jet black hair, and she looked fresh and fair as the rose which she held in one hand, whilst the other slightly raised her sweeping skirt. Mr. Thornton rose and resigned to her his place by me, which she accepted with a gracious smile. He stood before us, talking in his easy, agreeable way; I looked and listened, remembering that in this very spot, seven years before, they had met and parted. They, too, remembered it; for ere long I had the pleasure of finding that I was made the medium of their well-bred sneers.
Edward Thornton addressed the chief portion of his discourse to me, and put several unimportant questions, each, more or less, arrows that glanced at Mrs. Langton.
"Is it not about seven years ago, that I saw you here?" he observed carelessly.
"Yes, Sir, exactly seven years."
"It seems a long time, does it not?" he added, addressing Mrs. Langton, as if to remind her that seven years had passed over her beauty.
"Very!" she replied, smelling her rose, and looking like one for whom time does not exist.
"I remember you quite well," Edward continued, addressing me, "a small fair child, with bright golden hair, which has now deepened into brown."
"Do you?" I replied, amused by this little bit of fiction, to which Mrs.
Langton listened, smiling at the slight put on her glossy tresses, dark as the raven's wing.
"Oh! yes," he continued, "Bertha and I used to call you the little white rose. Your name is Rose, is it not?"
"No, my name is Daisy; that is to say, Margaret, but at home I am always called Daisy."
"The name of the sweetest wild flower," he replied, smiling; "there may be less beauty about it," he continued, "than about the rose, but then it has a grace and a freshness quite its own."
The Rose looked scornful. Not relishing being thus made the instrument of Mr. Edward Thornton's pique, I rose, and spite of his entreaties, left the arbour. Common politeness would not allow him to desert Mrs. Langton; how they got on together is more than I know. They were studiously polite at dinner.
When I went up to my room that same evening, I perceived that the little black trunk had arrived. I opened it eagerly, but searched in vain for a letter. A fact, however, struck me. It contained the portfolio of Italian drawings placed there by another hand than mine. I turned them over with a vague hope. I found nothing but a stray scrap of paper, which I took to the light. It was one of those rude and hasty sketches with which artists write down passing ideas: yet, imperfect as it was, I recognised at a glance the well I had so recently seen and visited. A female figure, in which I knew myself, sat by it with her hand shading her eyes, as if watching for something or some one; the disk of the sun, half sunk behind the far horizon and sending forth low spreading rays, indicated the close of day. Evidently Cornelius knew this place and wished me to meet him there at sunset. When? Most probably on the following day. My heart leaped with joy at the thought of seeing him so soon, and with trust and hope on perceiving how faithfully he kept his promise.
CHAPTER XI.
My first act the next morning was to go and see my grandfather. He received me with a sufficiently cordial growl, and confident, I suppose, of the good understanding between us, no longer kept up the pretence of rheumatic pains in my presence. I again read and transcribed for several hours, at the end of which Mr. Thornton was pleased to say--"I might be off if I liked;" and reminded me not to forget "that Chaos and Creation--" Wishing to sound him still further, I replied--
"Oh! no. I hope to find it before I go."
"Eh?" he sharply said.
"Before I go with Mr. O'Reilly," I resumed, "he means to stay another week or ten days here."
"Who said you were to go with him?" asked Mr. Thornton.