Daisy Burns is a Webnovel created by Julia Kavanagh.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“Oh, Daisy!” she cried, clasping her hands and looking up too, “is it possible that you neither know nor guess that I was to have been your father’s wife, and that you ought to have been my child?”
Her pa.s.sionate tone went through my very heart.
“You, Kate!” I said; “you!”
“Yes,” she replied, weeping more slowly; “it was to have been–it was not–he died here alone, I was far away.”
Miss O’Reilly made me feel very strangely. I had never known my mother. I drew closer to her, and after a while I said–
“Why did you not marry him?”
“He was poor, and I had the child to rear; I could not bear to bring two burdens upon him; it was pride, he thought it was mistrust, and married another; I had no right to complain, nor did I; but it was then I took to being so fond of the boy, just I suppose because he had cost me so dear.”
“But why did you not marry Papa after Mamma died?” I inquired.
“He never asked me, child,” and she bowed her head with sad and humble resignation; “I thought he would, and I should have been glad to have had him, but perhaps he could not quite forgive my having once preferred my little brother to my grown-up lover; perhaps he thought me altered, and no longer the pretty girl he had courted: whatever it was, he did not ask me; and yet how good and friendly it was of him to help me as he did to rear the boy for whom I had given him up! I sometimes think he liked me in his heart, for Cornelius has often told me how my name was the last he uttered; and I cannot help fancying he meant I was to have the care of you. Oh! Midge, Midge,” she added, looking me in the face very wistfully, “I have loved you very dearly, because you were his child, but I have often remembered that you ought also to have been mine.”
“If you had been Papa’s wife, I mean his first wife,” I said very earnestly, “I should have been the niece of Cornelius, should I not, Kate?”
“You would have been my child.”
“And his niece too, Kate.”
“Do not be always thinking of Cornelius, Daisy.”
“Oh! Kate, Uncle Cornelius has such a pleasant sound!”
She caressed me sadly; then we rose, went over the house together, and finally surveyed the garden. All trace of man’s art had vanished from the spot, on which nature had bestowed a beauty and wild grace its culture had never known. The hedge of gorse now enclosed but a green wilderness of high waving gra.s.s, weeds, and wild flowers. Other flowers there were none, and the tender shrubs uncared for, had perished, blighted by the keen sea-breeze; the pine trees alone still stood and looked the same as I had left them, over their changed domain. For awhile we looked down from the stone steps where Cornelius had found me lying so desolate, then Kate descended, and said to me–
“Daisy, we will not change much. We will spoil as little as we can the freshness of the place. I like that green gra.s.s, those weeds that hide the brown earth so well, those long trailing creepers and wild flowers.
We will just clear the path, add a few of the plants we like, give the whole a look of home, and leave what is beautiful as we found it.”
“Kate,” I exclaimed, hastening down to the pine-trees, “here is the sea.
You have not yet had a good view of it, do come and look. Do you remember how I got up on the table in the studio to get a sight of it? Oh! is it not a grand thing?”
She smiled at my enthusiasm, and sat down on the wooden bench, which still stood in its old place. My heart swelled as I remembered that there I had received my father’s embrace, but I would not sadden her by recalling it; I shaded my eyes with my hand to hide my tears, and whilst they flowed I looked long and silently on that eternal ocean on which, for nearly five years, I had not gazed.
It still rolled its heavy waters with majestic calmness; they now looked dark as molten lead, a white line of surf marking where they broke on the beach. The day had been grey and cloudy, and the sun was setting veiled and without splendour. For awhile the heavy clouds resting on the low, sea-bound horizon, still wore a reddish tint, like the smouldering ashes of a spent fire. Like them too they suddenly grew pale. Light mists, advancing from the sea, shrouded the coast below, distinctness faded away from every object, and the penetrating chillness of evening began to spread upon the air. Kate rose; we went in; as we ascended the steps she turned hack, she looked on the wild garden, on the pine-trees whose dark and spreading branches now moved to the evening breeze with a low rustling sound, at that broad sky crossed by swift clouds and hanging over the sea, and with a sigh she said–
“It was just like him, to come and live here,–he always liked wild places.”
We entered the house, there to spend a quiet subdued evening, talking of him who had scarcely left us, and to whose return I already looked forward.
In a week we were settled at Rock Cottage. A little black-eyed girl, answering to the name of Jane, was our only servant. We led a humble, yet happy, homely life, to which the thought of the absent one lent something of the charm we once had found in his presence.
Household matters occupied Kate, and the garden was her relaxation. It is a spot which, ever since the days of Eve, has, in one sense, been the paradise of woman. The curse of banishment that fell on both her and Adam touched her more nearly. After his fall Eden itself could no more have been the limit of his hopes and desires, but Eve, if allowed to do so, could have lingered in the happy place for ever. Her daughters still love what she loved, and wherever they dwell, in wild or in the city, there too are the flowers which Eve first tended in happy Eden.
I shared the tasks and the pleasures of Kate, but whereas the absence of Cornelius, though deeply felt, had changed little or nothing in her habits or external life, it opened to me a new existence. Hitherto my life and my feelings had slept in the shadow of the life and feelings of Cornelius. He influenced me completely, when least seeking to do so. I loved his sister, but she had not that power over me, and when I was parted from my friend, I seemed to have remained alone and to fall back perforce on myself.
But when one evil, one teaching fail, G.o.d sends the needful. He now gave me nature in those aspects, both sublime and beautiful, which she wore around the home of my childhood. From winds and waves, from aspects of sea and winning sh.o.r.e, from green solitudes and spots of wild beauty, 1 learned, though all unconsciously, pure and daily lessons.
CHAPTER III.
I know not whether my native air did me good, or whether, had I even remained in the Grove, a crisis in my health would have taken place, but I know that to Kate’s great joy I grew so strong and well, that she declared the change all but miraculous. I felt an altered being. My love of silence and repose vanished; I now rejoiced in motion and out-door exercise with all the unquiet delight of youth, and thirsted, with ever new longing, for air and liberty.
Scarce pa.s.sed a day but I went down the path that led from our garden to the sands, and I wandered away along the rock-bound coast. This part of the country was both safe and retired; few met or noticed me in my solitary haunts, and I feared harm from none. It was often dusk when I returned to the white cottage, whose light burned like a solitary star on the heights above. I loved these lonely wanderings. I loved that barrier of steep and fantastic rock which ran along the coast, and fenced it in from the outer world; that long line of winding sh.o.r.e, fading in faint mists, until it rested, like a low cloud, on the distant horizon; that sea, whose waves broke at my feet, and yet seemed to extend beyond the power of mortal ken to follow, whilst the hollow sky, bent down from above and enclosing all, gave a sense of limit in the very midst of infinite.
Leigh does not by any means belong to the most romantic and picturesque part of the western coast; but on whatever sh.o.r.e the sea-waves break, there always is a great and dreary beauty. To sit on a lonely rock, to watch the fishing boats as they slowly sailed along the coast, or the ships on their distant track, to feel the solemn vastness of all around me, to note the rapid and almost infinite changes of light ever pa.s.sing over rock, sea, and sky, to listen to the sounds which varied from the loudest roar of the swelling tide breaking at my feet, down to its lowest receding murmur, but that never ceased to echo, rise, and die away amongst those lonely cliffs, was to me a delight beyond all else.
There were pleasant walks about Leigh, but I soon wearied of them, and ever returned to my barren and much-loved coast. There I learned to know the sea under all her aspects. I saw her in sunshine, spreading peacefully beneath cloudless heavens, like them, an image of serenity and repose, and idly speeding on the light crafts that pursued their way with indolent and careless grace. I saw her in storm, darkness brooding over her heaving waters, her vast, white-crested billows rearing like angry serpents against the lowering sky, her hovering flocks of pale sea-birds rising and sinking to every motion of the waves like evil spirits rejoicing in the tempest, whilst some bold ship, with mainmast broken, with torn sails fluttering like banners on a battle day, sped past amidst the turmoil of wind and wave, riding the waters with a triumphant power that banished fear, and made you feel she would yet reach the port, and weather many another storm. I also found in the ocean other aspects less definite, but to me not less impressive,–the desolate and the bleak, when the wide waters of a dull green hue rolled sluggishly along or heavily beat the sandy beach, whilst fleecy clouds slowly pa.s.sed over a misty sky where grey melted into paler grey, giving that sense of vague and melancholy infinite which can only be felt on the wild northern sh.o.r.es.
I delighted in this wild and lonely life, and seldom felt the utter solitude of my daily haunts. Sometimes indeed, when I chanced to meet in the sand the mark of my own footprints, which no other steps had crossed since I had pa.s.sed there, which the wind alone would efface or the tide wash away, a sense of sudden sadness came over me. It seemed as if a friend, whom I never could meet or overtake, had made and left that track for me to see. I felt vaguely that she who had pa.s.sed there was not quite the same who pa.s.sed now. Only a few days perhaps had gone by: but of those few days, unseen and unfelt as they speed on, is made up not only the sum, but also the ceaseless change of this our earthly life.
Dearly as I have loved solitude, I hold it no unmixed good. Woe to the communion with nature that is only a brooding over self, and not a mingling of the soul with the Almighty Creator of all we behold; that seeks in her loveliness none save the images of voluptuous indulgence, and leaves by unread her purer teaching! Rightly even in innocent things have we been warned to guard our senses and our hearts. For this I hold ye dangerous, ye sheltered valleys, with quiet rivers gliding through, with green woods and lovely paths leading we know not where, with peaceful dwellings embosomed in the shade, and looking like so many abodes of love and happiness. What though we know that the golden age was all a fable and pastoral bliss the dream of poets, that innocence and peace dwell not here, though here pa.s.sion and satiety can penetrate as surely as in the crowded city? Yet who, on beholding you, has not for a moment wished to live and die on your quiet bosom? Who has not felt that the thoughts you waken melt and subdue the heart, and haunt it vaguely for many a day, and enervate it with longing dreams and desires that savour too much of earth.
Not these the feelings which thou awakenest, thou austere sea,–austere in thy very beauty, in thy calmest and most unruffled moods. More true and honest are thy promises, which thou at least keepest faithfully,–the long, arduous strife against wind and storm, the tardy return of weatherbeaten mariners,–ay, and often too the wreck,–the wreck which may appal the weak, but never yet dismayed a brave heart;–these are the hopes thou holdest forth–these the promises which life, whom thou imagest, will fulfil, until her waves, calm or troubled, rough or smooth, lead us into that mysterious sea which man has named Eternity.
Our home existence was as quiet and secluded as my outward life. On settling at Leigh, Miss O’Reilly had come to a resolve which she thus imparted to me one evening:–“Daisy, you were too young when you left Leigh to know that because it is a small place it must have the inconvenience of all small places, in which life is a round of back- biting, quarrelling, envying, scandal, and gossip. Now we can’t help being backbitten or talked about, but we can help doing it to others: the way, child, is to keep to ourselves and to see no one. We shall be hated, as a matter of course; thought proud, or still worse in England, poor.
Never mind, child, those are not the things one cannot endure.”
“Papa was thought proud,” I said.
“And so he was, child; he had a mind above the paltriness of such a place as this,–of course he had: he never would have been a popular man anywhere, never. Well, as I was saying, child, we must bear with being thought proud and poor, for we shall make no acquaintances. A decent, civil intercourse we must certainly keep up with Miss Murray–she won’t trouble us much, poor thing!–but beyond this we do not go. Now, you must not misunderstand me. I do not mean to keep you locked up, and if you can get acquainted with pleasant young people, I do not object. There is a dancing academy, it seems, and since your father wished you to learn how to dance, you must learn it, of course. If you meet there sensible girls whom you would like to see, see them here in liberty; but as to visiting their mammas, or being visited by them, I decline the honour.”
Thus it was settled. We lived in our retired way; we were thought proud and poor; we saw Miss Murray every now and then in her own house, for to come near us was an exertion not to be thought of; I went to the academy, and learned how to dance, but I found all the young ladies so little to my taste, that with not one of them did I form an intimate acquaintance, and two years pa.s.sed away in this quiet, monotonous life, varied by the letters of Cornelius.
Only a few were addressed to “his dear adopted child,” but they were so kind, they breathed an affection so true, an interest so heartfelt, that to this day, and spite of all that has pa.s.sed since then, I cannot look over them without emotion. In all his letters, Cornelius spoke of course of his art and his prospects. He was enchanted with Rome, and ardent with hope; but he did not think it worth while to send home anything before his return. He thought he might just as well wait until he was coming back, and take the public by storm. Miss O’Reilly thought so too, and we accordingly expected her brother in the spring of the second year following his departure. A somewhat enigmatic letter, in which he expressed his great wish of seeing us both again, confirmed this impression.
“Depend upon it, Daisy,” said Miss O’Reilly to me, “he means to take us, like the public, by surprise.”
The mere thought took away my breath.
“Oh, Kate!” I exclaimed, laying down my work, “if he were to enter the room now, what should I do?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” replied Kate, looking up from her letter, “you look wild enough for anything. Go and take a walk, child, and calm yourself down with the fresh seabreeze. We are in March, I don’t expect him for a fortnight or three weeks yet. Go out, I say; he must find you fresh and healthy.”
“You don’t think he will come whilst I am out, Kate?”
“Bless the child! no; I tell you not to expect him for three weeks.”
I sighed; three weeks seemed an age, and, spite of her a.s.surances, I had a nervous apprehension that Cornelius would arrive precisely whilst I was away; yet I yielded to her behest of going out. I wanted to see William Murray, and tell him the happy tidings; so I just put on my bonnet and cloak, and hastened down to the sands. It was a mild afternoon; the sky was clear, earth was silent, the cliffs rose grey and lonely, the flat beach was yet wet with the retreating tide that had left many a wide shallow pool behind, the far sea lay calm and still, and over sky, earth, cliffs, beach and sea, the setting sun shed a pale, golden glow. I walked fast, looking out for William, whom I at length saw coming towards me.
And this reminds me I have neglected to mention how my acquaintance with him was renewed, after so long an interruption.
We had not parted very good friends. He had called me “a sulky little monkey,” and if I had not retaliated, I had nevertheless internally considered him a young bear then and ever since. When, shortly after our return to Leigh, I met him at his aunt’s house, William, who was nearly two years my senior, was in all the charming roughness of his s.e.x in the teens. He had not yet got over being left to petticoat government, as he termed the rule of his gentle aunt, and accordingly vented the indignation of his injured manliness on her female friends. On seeing us enter the room in which Miss Murray sat in her usual shady state, her amiable nephew thrust his hands into his pockets, and began whistling with all his might. Miss O’Reilly took no notice of this, but in the course of conversation she quietly observed to Miss Murray–