"Two miles away at least," complacently replied Mrs. Brand.
I know not how I entered the room; but I know that the two ladies screamed faintly, as they saw me stepping in, through the open window.
"Miss Burns, is the house on fire?" exclaimed Mrs. Brand.
"'T is he!" I said, with that dead calmness which many find in their woe.
"I know it is. We live in the Grove, and there is not another artist in it."
"I am not sure he is an artist," said Edith, rising. "I now think it was an architect."
"There is no architect in the Grove," I replied; "not one."
"My dear," observed Mrs. Brand, soothingly taking my hand, "it is all a mistake, depend upon it."
I looked at her, and shook my head.
"The house was close and silent; the blinds were drawn down. I know why now--lest the contagion should reach me."
Mrs. Brand dropped my hand rather hastily.
"I shall send and inquire at once," she observed. "Pacify yourself, my dear."
She stretched out her hand to ring the bell.
"You need not," I said, "I am going."
"Oh! but you must not!" cried Mrs. Brand, "think of the danger."
I laughed drearily in her face.
"Of the contagion, my dear?"
"Do not fear, I shall come back, Ma'am," I replied, turning to the door.
She followed me.
"My dear, you must have the carriage."
"I shall go by the lanes," I said impatiently. The carriage was, I knew, the delay of at least an hour.
"By the lanes, at this hour? I cannot allow it, Miss Burns."
I turned round upon her.
"But I will go," I said, and even in that moment, I wondered the woman could be so blind as to think her will had the power to detain me.
Without heeding her astounded look, I ran up to my room, took down my cloth cloak, drew it around me, and drawing the hood over my head, I hastened down stairs to the garden. As I passed underneath the verandah, the voice of Mrs. Langton seemed to call me back, but the wind drowned her words, and I ran fast along the avenue. I had soon reached the iron gate; I took down the key, opened the door, and entered the lane. As 1 turned my back on Poplar Lodge, I caught a last glimpse of it rising against a dark sky, with a faint speck of light glimmering from the drawing-room window.
No other light shone on my path; the sun had set bright and glorious, the evening had set in clear and serene; but a sudden eclipse had come; one vast gloom shrouded sky and earth; I never saw summer night like this for intense, for dreary darkness. I knew the way well; I walked straight on, swiftly and without pause, meeting no obstacles, fearing none, like one who passes through vacant space.
Once I thought I heard a voice calling on me faintly in the distance behind; but I heeded it not, I did not answer, I did not look round; I went on as in a dream. Raised beyond the body by the passion of my grief, I felt not the ground beneath my feet; all I felt was that the wind as it swept by me with a low rushing sound, seemed to bear me on through that sombre and melancholy night, as a spirit to its viewless home. At length, the air became of a dead stillness; it was as if I had suddenly entered a silent and sultry region in which there was no breathing and no life. I stopped short; I looked round to see that I had not mistaken the way; a streak of fiery lightning passed through the darkness of the sky; for a moment I caught sight of an open space, in which I stood, and saw before me two long lanes diverging from a half ruined gateway, and vanishing into depths of gloom whence seemed to come forth the peal of far thunder that died away in low faint echoes.
I knew the spot well; I had not missed the right path; I was half way on my journey.
But as if this first flash had only been a signal, the brooding storm now broke forth. Before it fled at once the silence and the gloom of the hour. A low, wild murmur ran along the ground, then rose and lost itself in the wide and desolate hollow of the night; trees tossed about their dark boughs, and groaned lamentably like vexed spirits. As the sound of a loosened flood came the rushing rain, the wind rose ever deepening in its roar; and above all rolled the full thunder, louder than the deafening voice of battle, whilst, cleft with many a swift and silent flash, the dark sky opened like a sea of living fire, below which stretched a long, low moving shore of livid clouds.
I stood still and looked; not with fear--to love and fear for what we love, is to be raised beyond all dread--but I felt dazzled with the ceaseless lightning, and dizzy with the tumult of the tempest; the heavy rain beat full in my face and blinded me; the strong gale rose against me in all its might. I could not move on; I could not turn back, seek shelter, or proceed; for a moment I yielded to the burst of the storm, and let the elements wreak their fury on my bowed head. But a thought stronger than even their power, more fearful than their wildest wrath, was on me. I drew down my hood, wrapped my cloak closer around me, and again went on drenched with the pouring rain, and often arrested, but never driven back by the impetuous blast.
The storm was violent and brief. Soon the wind fell; the rain grew less heavy; the lightning less frequent and vivid; the thunder slowly retreated; the sky cleared, and melted into soft clouds, behind which, for the first time, shone the watery moon. She looked down on me with a wan and troubled face, boding sorrow; her dim light filled the path I now followed; on either side, like gloomy giants, rose the dark trees; the rain had ceased, but as I passed swiftly beneath the dripping boughs, they seemed shaken by an invisible hand to dash their chill dew-drops in my face. The smell of the wet earth rose strong on the humid air; in the ditch by me, I heard water flowing with a low, gurgling sound, and every now and then I came across a shallow pool lit with a pale and trembling moonbeam.
The storm had not terrified me, but now my courage sank. This chill calm after the fury of the tempest; this sound of water faintly flowing, following on tumult so loud, seemed to me to speak of sorrow, death and utter desolation. The nearer I drew to the end of my journey, the more my heart failed me. As I turned down into the lane that led home, the church-clock struck twelve; every stroke sounded like a funeral knell on my ear; then a dog began to howl plaintively. I turned cold and sick--as a child, I had heard that this was a token of death. Oh! with what slow and weary steps, I drew near that door towards which I had hastened through all the anger of the storm, and which my heart now dreaded to reach. As I stood by it, my limbs trembled, my very flesh quivered, my blood seemed to have ceased to flow, my heart to beat, cold dew-drops gathered and stood on my brow, and something, an inward struggle, an agony without a name rose to my lips, and made one gasp for breath, but could not pass them. Twice I stretched out my hand to ring, and twice it fell powerless. I sank down on my knees; I uttered a passionate prayer: I asked--what will not the heart ask for?--for an impossible boon. "Even if he is to die. Oh God, do not let him die; even though he shall be dead, do not let him be dead!"
I rose and rang. "Now," I thought, "I shall know it all at once in the face of Kate or Jane, whichever it may be that opens to me." I nerved myself to meet that look, as I heard a door opening within, then a step on the wet gravel, and caught a glimmer of light through the chinks of the door. I heard it unbarred and unbolted, then it opened partly; and standing on the threshold with the light of the upraised lamp in his face, I saw Cornelius.
CHAPTER XVII.
I think I could endure years of trouble and toil for the joy of that moment. My heart overflowed; I looked at Cornelius, then threw my arms around his neck, and burst into tears. My hood fell back, and with it my loosened hair.
"Daisy!" he cried, for he had not recognized me till then. "Good God!" he added with sudden terror, "has anything happened to you?"
"Nothing, Cornelius; but I am too happy--too happy--that is all."
He drew back a little; looked at my drenched garments and bare head, as he closed the door, and led me in.
"Daisy," he asked, anxiously, "what has brought you here at such an hour, in such a plight?"
"I thought you were ill, dying, Cornelius! I felt beside myself, and ran home to you like a wild thing."
We stood beneath the porch. Cornelius still held the lamp; its light fell on his pale, troubled face. With the arm that was free he drew me towards him, and looked down at me with mingled grief and tenderness.
"Oh, Daisy!" he exclaimed, "whilst I sat within, sheltered and unconscious, have you, indeed, been exposed to the fury of this pitiless storm--and for my sake?"
I shook back the hair from my face, and looking up into his, smiled.
"Cornelius," I said, "if weary miles had divided us; if rivers had flowed across the path; if I should have walked bare-footed over sharp stones, I would have come to you to-night. I could not have kept away; I feel that my very heart would have flown to you, as a bird to its nest."
"For Heaven's sake, go up to your room at once," he observed, uneasily.
"Here is the light."
I took it, and gaily ran up-stairs. I felt light with gladness--a new life flowed in my veins, a new vigour beat with my heart. I blessed God with every faculty of my being: as sincerely as if the miracle I had asked for, had been accomplished. I had soon changed my things, and went down very softly, not to waken Kate. The door of the back-parlour was ajar, and there I found Cornelius, standing by a newly-kindled fire. As I gently closed the door, I said, smiling:
"I have made no noise. Kate never woke--how is she?"
"She complains of a head-ache. The heat of the day, I suppose."