"I? no; but I'm tired of it."
I smiled and shook my head incredulously. I rather liked my cousin; but I could not help thinking that his character of an old man of the world was more put on than real.
"You don't believe it?" he said.
"No," was my frank reply.
"Now, Miss Burns, what should I care for?"
"Politics?"
"I am sick of them. Standing for a certain borough, and being pelted with eggs and apples, gave me a surfeit."
"Pleasure?"
"It is too hard work for me."
"Money?"
"I have got it, and therefore do not care for it."
"Horses?"
"Over years ago."
"Years ago!" I thought, "and you have not come into the Wyndham property more than a year, cousin. Travelling?" I suggested aloud.
"Over too. Do you confess yourself mistaken, and acknowledge that I am tired of the world?"
"No, Sir!"
"No!"
"No; you read the newspaper."
My cousin opened his fine blue eyes, and looked amused, and seemed to expect more; but I looked at my drawings, and remained mute; he raised his head from the back of the high arm-chair on which it was cushioned. I took no notice of this; he coughed; I never looked up. He took his paper, laid it down, took it up again, and at length feeling either piqued or inquisitive, rose and came round to the back of my chair. I allowed him to stand there, and look over my shoulder, as long as he pleased.
"I wonder where Bertha got these!" he said at length in a tone of surprise.
"They are mine," I replied quietly, "Mr. O'Reilly gave them to me."
"Are they by him?"
I assented with some pride. My cousin looked astonished, and pronounced the sketches masterly. He sat down by my side, and looked over the contents of the portfolio; his remarks showed me that he was an excellent judge. We looked slowly; and had not done, when Mrs. Brand and Mrs.
Langton returned from their laborious duties.
"Have you seen these, Bertha?" said Edward Thornton to his sister.
"Yes, lovely things," she replied, carelessly.
"Have you?" he asked of Edith, who sat apart, gathered up in her own loveliness, like a self-admiring rose.
She answered in the negative, and taking up the portfolio, he seemed inclined to show them to her; but his sister playfully interfered, told him that as he had already seen them, it was not fair; that she was passionately fond of drawings, and would look over these with her dear Edith by whom she accordingly sat most pertinaciously until dinner-time.
Her brother remained by me, and talked of Cornelius, whom he emphatically pronounced a man of genius. My ear opened to hear him speak so.
"He is more than a man of genius," I replied with some emotion; "he is so good. At least he has always been so to me; he adopted and reared me quite as if I had been his own child, and that was very kind."
Mr. Thornton smiled, and spoke of good deeds that brought their own reward. I hinted that if I was a reward, it seemed hard he should be deprived of me. He evidently thought this hard, too; and though he did not say so, I saw he intended influencing Mr. Thornton in my favour. A fact on which I did not place much hope, for I knew enough of my grandfather to guess he was not easily governed.
He kept me with him transcribing for several hours the next day; but he never spoke until I was leaving the room, then he said very coolly:
"You can do the rest after dinner, whilst I go on with that little business to the wishing-well."
My hand was on the door; I turned round to give him a terrified look. He laughed as if he enjoyed my fright. I dare say I looked dismayed enough, for as I left the study, I met my cousin entering, and he gave me an astonished glance. I passed by him swiftly, and ran up to my room, there to write a few words, with which I hastened down again. Not suspecting that my grandfather would see me, or seeing me guess my intention, I went down the beech-tree avenue; but I had not gone ten steps, when the arched casement was thrown open, and Mr. Thornton appeared in the aperture, grim and forbidding.
"Miss Burns," he said, sternly, "will you come back, if you please. I want you. Sir, I shall thank you not to interfere."
The latter remark was addressed to my cousin, who, standing by him, seemed to plead or urge something. He bowed stiffly and drew back, looking offended. I obeyed the summons I had received, and returned to the study, my eyes overflowing with indignant tears which pride could scarcely restrain. Edward Thornton gave me a look of sympathy, and left as I entered. Mr. Thornton eyed me severely.
"You may as well give it up," he said, "for I won't allow it."
I sank down on a chair without replying. He continued:
"If you ever saw a moth singe its wings at a candle, you know the fate of your friend. Every one knows that though I don't care a farthing for game, I allow no poaching. We were three of us at the wishing-well the other evening. Since he would brave me, why I shall just show him that I have him so," he added expressively uniting his forefinger and thumb, "and that no later than this evening."
I gave him a beseeching look; he laughed; I began a supplication; he interrupted with a stern: "I never retract."
I steeled my heart, and took a desperate resolve.
"Mr. Thornton," I said rising and going up to him, "I will submit to anything, if you will but let Mr. O'Reilly alone. It is because he knows I am so fond of him that he does all this."
"That's not true, and you know it," roundly interrupted Mr. Thornton.
"It's because he is so fond of you that he can't take his eyes off of you."
"Well then, yes," I exclaimed, feeling that perfect sincerity was after all the best policy. "It is because ho likes me. Has he not a right to be fond of me, just as I of him and his sister? I love them both with my whole heart; I long to be with them back again, and I hate being here-- and yet I yield--I submit to anything you may exact; but, to the grief of my loss, I entreat you do not add the torment of a persecution endured for my sake. If you will but disregard this and any other attempt he may make to see me, I will pass my word not to see him without your permission. He has taught me that one's word is a sacred thing; if I give mine I will keep it, though Grod alone knows how much it will cost me."
My voice faltered and sank, for, as I thought of the pledge I was offering, I felt scarcely able to speak, and yet I dreaded lest Mr.
Thornton should say no, and persist in seeking out Cornelius. He cogitated for a while, then said abruptly:
"To spare the time I cannot afford to lose, and for no other reason--I consent; but mind: as you keep your word, I keep mine."
I made no answer to this remark, but asked if I might not write to Cornelius to tell him what had passed, and bid him the farewell I was not to utter. He said yes. I wrote at once, and gave him the letter which he promised to forward without delay.
Until then, I had not felt my parting from Cornelius. His promise, my own hopes, the light spirit of youth, had sustained me. But now that I was pledged beyond recall, hope forsook me like a faithless friend in the hour of need, and left me to taste in all its bitterness the misery of absence and separation.
CHAPTER XII.