"The streets with the shops, the people, and the great current of life running through them, will entertain me far more than museums or made-up exhibitions."
"Why did you not say so sooner?"
"Kate dislikes long walks."
"But do I?--do I dislike long walks with you, Daisy, in town or country, in lanes or in streets? Is there anything I like better than to please or amuse you?"
Without allowing me to thank him, he told me to make haste and get ready.
I obeyed, and within an hour, Cornelius and I were walking down Oxford Street.
London, according to a figurative mode of speech, was quite empty; that is to say, a few all-important hundreds had taken flight, and left the insignificant thousands behind, just to mind the place in their absence.
To me, after the long quietness of Leigh, it looked as gay and crowded as a fair. At once I flew to the shops, like a moth to the light, and Cornelius, with a good humour rare in his sex, not only stood patiently whilst I admired, but kept a sharp look out for every milliner's and linendraper's establishment, saying, eagerly:--
"There's another one, Daisy."
But, after a while, I was dazzled with all I saw, deafened with the sound of rolling carriages, bewildered with the unusual aspect of so many people, and glad to take refuge in the Pantheon, with its flowers, its birds, its statues, its pictures, its fanciful stalls, and its profusion of those graceful knick-knacks which have ever been, and ever will be, the delights of a truly feminine heart.
We had entered this pretty place by Great Marlborough Street. Cornelius began by buying me a beautiful, but most extravagant bouquet, which I had been imprudent enough to admire, and did not like to refuse. As we loitered about, I looked at one of the birds in the cages around the little fountain, and praised its glowing plumage.
"Have it," eagerly said Cornelius, and his purse was out directly.
"No, indeed," I quickly replied, "I do not like birds in cages."
"Well, then, have one of those squirrels."
"I will have nothing alive. And I will not have a plant either," I added, detecting the look he cast at the expensive flowers around us. I compelled him to put back his purse; but as we went on, and inspected the stalls, I bad to entreat add argue him out of buying me, first a vase of magnificent wax flowers; then a _papier-mach?_ table, and thirdly, some costly china. No sooner did my eye chance to light with pleasure on anything, than he insisted on giving it to me. At length, I told him he spoiled all my enjoyment. He asked, with a dissatisfied air, if I was too proud to accept anything from him. I assured him I had no such feeling, and that he might buy me something before we went home, if such was his fancy.
"What?" he asked, with a look of mistrust.
"Anything you like; but for the present, pray let me look about."
He yielded; but I wished afterwards I had let him have his own way; for as we were leaving the Pantheon, with all its temptations, and I thought all right, Cornelius suddenly took me into a shop, and before I could remonstrate, he had bought me a light blue silk dress, as dear as it was pretty. I left the place much mortified; he saw it, and laughed at me, telling me to take this as a lesson, for that he would not be thwarted.
We took a cab and rode home; yet it was dusk when we reached the Grove. A light burned in the drawing-room window. We wondered what company Kate was entertaining; and on going up-stairs, found her sitting with our old friend, Mr. Smalley. We had not seen him since his marriage with Miriam Russell. He was now a widower. He looked paler and thinner than formerly; but as good and gentle as ever. He and Cornelius exchanged a greeting friendly, though rather calm and reserved. With me, Mr. Smalley was more open; but as he held my hand in his, he looked at me, and, smiling, turned to Cornelius.
"I should never have known in her the sickly child whom I still remember," he said; "indeed, my friend, your adopted daughter has thriven under your paternal care. Hush, darling!"
He was addressing a child of two or three, who clung to him, casting shy looks around the room, and seeming very ready to cry. To pacify her, he sat down again, and took her on his knee. She nestled close to him, and was hushed at once. Mr. Smalley made a little paternal apology. Darling had insisted on coming with him, and as she would not stay with his sister Mary, he had to take her with him wherever he went.
"Those young creatures," he added, looking at Cornelius, "twine themselves around our very heart-strings. I know what a truly paternal heart yours is for your adopted daughter."
"Ay, ay!" interrupted Cornelius, looking fidgetty, "how is Trim?"
"He died a year ago," gravely replied Mr. Smalley. "Ah! my friend, my heart smote me when I heard the tidings. I had always been harsh to Trim, you know."
"You harsh to any one!" said Cornelius, smiling.
But Mr. Smalley assured him his nature was harsh; though, with the grace of God, he had been able to subdue it a little. Darling, he might add, had been the means of softening many an asperity. He kissed her kindly as he spoke. She was a pale, fair-haired little creature, very like him, and evidently indulged to excess. He was wrapped in her, and when of her own accord, she left him to come to me, he felt so much astonished, that he could speak of nothing else. In her two years' life, Darling had never done such a thing before. Indeed her shyness, he plainly hinted, was alone an insuperable obstacle to a second union.
"Mr. Smalley," I said, "Darling has just agreed to stay with me, if you will leave her."
"You have bewitched her," he replied, giving me a grateful look; but he confessed it would be a great weight off his mind; and with many thanks and evident regret, he left me the treasure of his heart.
Darling soon fell asleep in my arms. One of her little hands was clasped around my neck, the other held mine; her fair head rested on my bosom, and her calm, sleeping face lay upraised and unconscious with closed eyes and parted lips. I stooped, and with some emotion, softly kissed the child of my persecutor. Cornelius, who sat by me, whispered the two concluding lines of Wordsworth's sonnet, with a slight modification:
"How much is mixed and reconciled in thee, Of mother's love, with maiden purity."
Then bending over me, he attempted to embrace Darling; but his beard woke her; she screamed, kicked, burst into a new fit of crying every time he attempted to sit near me, and said "her papa should take me to Rugby."
"And be your mamma. No, indeed, Miss Smalley," replied Cornelius, tartly.
"She is mine, and I keep her."
To teaze her, he passed his arm around me, and caressed me, upon which Darling got into such a passion, that he asked impatiently "if I would not put the sulky little thing to bed?"
She succeeded on this and on subsequent occasions in keeping him at a safe distance from me. At first her childish jealousy amused him, but as she was in other respects a very endearing little thing, and engrossed me like a new toy, Cornelius did not relish it at all. He looked especially uncomfortable during Mr. Smalley's daily visits, and to my amusement, for I know well enough what he was afraid of, he did not seem easy, until both Darling and her papa were fairly gone.
I always made my own dresses, and I made the blue silk one with great care. It was finished one afternoon before dusk. I put it on in my room, and came down to show it to Kate; she was not in the parlour. I felt anxious to see how it fitted, and got up on a chair to look at myself in the glass over the fire-place. At that very moment Cornelius entered. I jumped down, rather ashamed at being caught. He came up to me, and without saying a word, took a white rose from a vase of flowers, and put it in my hair. I took another, and fastened it to the front of my dress.
Then he took my hand in his, and drawing a little back from me, he smiled. I sighed, and asked:
"What shall I do with it, Cornelius?"
"Look pretty in it, as you do now."
"But where shall I wear it?"
"Here, of course."
"It is only fit for a party. Why have we no party to go to?"
"Because people don't ask us," was his frank reply.
"I wish they would."
"To be seen and admired by others besides Cornelius O'Reilly, you vain little creature."
"It is not for that; but I should like a party or so."
"Well, when we get invited, I shall take you," he replied, with a smile that provoked me.
"Yes," I said, colouring, "but you know no one will ask us. We go nowhere; we see no one, not even artists. I wish you would see artists."
"I don't care about English artists," he replied, drily.
"Well then, Irish."
"Still less. The three kingdoms and the principality do not yield one with whom I would care to spend an hour."