

Julia Kavanagh (1824-1877), _Daisy Burns_ (1853), volume 1, Tauchnitz 
edition


Produced by Daniel FROMONT


COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS.
 

VOL. CCLXIII.
 


DAISY BURNS BY JULIA KAVANAGH.
 

IN TWO VOLUMES.
 

VOL. I.
 

TAUCHNITZ EDITION
 


By the same Author,
 

NATHALIE 2 vols.

GRACE LEE 2 vols.

RACHEL GRAY 1 vol.

ADELE 2 vols.

A SUMMER AND WINTER IN THE TWO SICILES 2 vols.

SEVEN YEARS AND OTHER TALES 2 vols.

FRENCH WOMEN OF LETTERS 1 vol.

ENGLISH WOMEN OF LETTERS 1 vol.

QUEEN MAB 2 vols.

BEATRICE 2 vols.

SYBIL'S SECOND LOVE 

DORA 2 vols.

SILVIA 2 vols.

BESSIE 2 vols.

JOHN DORRIEN 2 vols.
 

DAISY BURNS;
 

A TALE
 

BY
 

JULIA KAVANAGH,
 

AUTHOR OF "NATHALIE."

 

_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.

 

IN TWO VOLUMES.
 

VOL. I.
 

LEIPZIG

BERNHARDT TAUCHNITZ

1853.

 

JULIA KAVANAGH


DAISY BURNS.



CHAPTER I.



As I sat alone this evening beneath the porch, the autumn wind rose and 
passed amongst the garden trees, then died away in the distance with a 
low murmuring. A strange thrill ran through me; the present with its 
aspects vanished; I saw no more the narrow though dearly loved limits 
which bound my home; the little garden, so calm and grey in the dewy 
twilight, was a wide and heaving sea; the low rustling of the leaves 
seemed the sound of the receding tide; the dim horizon became a circular 
line of light dividing wastes of waters from the solemn depths of vast 
skies, and I, no longer a woman sitting in my home within reach of a 
great city, but an idle, dreaming child, lay in the grassy nook at the 
end of our garden, whence I watched the ships on their distant path, or 
sent a wandering glance along the winding beach of sand and rock below.

A moment effaced years, and my childhood, with its home, its joys, and 
its sorrows, passed before me like a thing of yesterday.

Rock Cottage, as my father had called it, rose on a lonely cliff that 
looked forth to the sea. It was but a plain abode, with whitewashed 
walls, green shutters, and low roof, standing in the centre of a wild and 
neglected garden, overlooked by no other dwelling, and apparently far 
removed from every habitation. In front, a road, coming down from the low 
hills of Ryde, wound away to Leigh; behind, at the foot of a cliff, 
stretched the sea. The people of Leigh wondered "how Doctor Burns could 
live in a place so bleak and so lonely," and they knew not that to him 
its charms lay in that very solitude with its boundless horizon; in the 
murmurs of the wind that ever swept around his dwelling; in the aspect of 
that sublime sea which daily spread beneath his view, serene or terrible, 
but ever beautiful.

This was not however the sole recommendation of Rock Cottage; it stood 
conveniently between the two villages of Ryde and Leigh, of which my 
father was the only physician. There was indeed a surgeon at Ryde, but he 
never passed the threshold of the aristocratic mansions to which Doctor 
Burns was frequently summoned, and whence he derived the larger portion 
of his income. That income, never very considerable, proved however 
sufficient to the few wants of the lonely home where my father, a 
widower, lived with me, his only child.

Of my mother I had no remembrance; my father seldom mentioned her name; 
but there was a small miniature of her over our parlour mantle-piece, and 
often in the evening, sitting by our quiet fireside, he would look long 
and earnestly on the mild and somewhat mournful face before him, then 
give me a silent caress, as I sat on my stool at his knee, watching him 
with the ever-attentive look of childhood.

I was sickly and delicate, and he indulged me to excess. "Study," he 
said, "would only injure me, for I was a great deal too clever and 
precocious for a child;" so he taught me himself the little I knew, and 
put off from month to month his long contemplated and still cherished 
project of sending me to some first-rate school. I believe that in his 
heart he felt loath to part from me, and was secretly glad to find some 
excuse that should keep me at home. He never left me in the morning 
without a caress, and often, when he returned late from visiting some 
distant patient, his first impulse, as well as his first act, was to 
enter my room and kiss me softly as I slept. I loved him passionately and 
exclusively, and years have not effaced either his memory or his aspect 
from my heart. I remember him still, a man of thirty-five or so, tall, 
pale, and gentlemanly, with wavy hair of a deep golden brown, and dark 
grey eyes of singular light and beauty. How he seemed to others I know 
not: to me he was all that was good and great.

I felt happy to live thus alone with him; I never wished for the 
companionship of other children; I asked not to move beyond the limits of 
our home. Silence, repose, and solitude, things so antipathetic to 
childhood, were the chief pleasures of mine; partly on account of my bad 
health, and partly, too, because I had inherited from my father a jealous 
sort of exclusiveness and reserve, by no means held to be the general 
characteristic of his countrymen.

My happiest moments were those spent in that grassy nook at the end of 
our garden, to which I have already alluded. A group of dark pine-trees, 
growing on the very edge of the cliff, sheltered it from the strength of 
the breeze; close by began a steep path, winding away to the shore, and 
to which a wooden gate, never locked, gave access. But more blest than 
ever was Eve in her garden,--for in mine grew no forbidden fruit,--I 
could spend there an entire day, and forget that only this easy barrier 
stood between me and liberty. My father, seeing how much I liked this 
spot, had caused a low wooden bench to be placed for me beneath the pine-
trees. In the fine weather my delight was to lie there, and to read and 
dream away whole hours, or to gaze on the clear prospect of the beach 
below, and, beyond it, on that solemn vastness of sea and sky which, in 
its sublimity and infinitude, so far surpasses the sights of earth.

It was thus, I remember, that I spent one mild and hazy autumn afternoon, 
reading, for the twentieth time, the touching story of Pracovia 
Loupouloff--not the Elizabeth of Madame Cottin, but the real and far more 
pathetic heroine,--and for the twentieth time, too, thinking with a sort 
of jealousy and regret, that I was sure I could do quite as much for my 
father if he were only an exile, when he came and sat down by me. He was 
going out, and, as usual, would not leave home without giving me a kiss. 
As he took me on his knee, he saw the book lying open on the bench; he 
looked at me wistfully, and said with a sigh--

"I wish you would not read so much, my darling. You are always at the 
books. I have just found my History of Medicine open: what could you want 
with that?"

"I was reading about the circulation of the blood."

"Well, who discovered it?"

"William Harvey--I wish he had not."

"Why so?" asked my father, looking surprised.

"Because _you_ would," I replied, passing my arms around his neck, and 
laying my cheek close to his.

He smiled, kissed my forehead, rose to go, took a few steps, came back, 
and, stooping over me as I lay on the bench, he pressed his lips to mine 
with lingering tenderness, then left me. I saw him enter the house. I 
heard him depart, and I even caught a glimpse of him and his grey mare as 
he rode up the steep path leading to Ryde. I looked and listened long 
after he had vanished and the tramp of the horse had ceased. Then turning 
once more towards the sea, I idly watched a fisherman's boat slowly 
fading away in the grey horizon, and thought all the time what a great 
man my father might hare been, if William Harvey had not unfortunately 
discovered the circulation of the blood two hundred years before. I lay 
there, dreaming the whole noon away, until Sarah came down the garden 
path in quest of me, and, in her mournful voice, observed--

"Miss Margaret, _will_ you come in to tea?"

"No," I said coolly, "I won't yet."

Sarah turned up her eyes. I certainly was a spoiled child, and I dare say 
not over-civil; but I did not quite make a martyr of her, as she chose to 
imagine and liked to say.

"God forgive you and change your heart!" she said piously.

I did not answer. Most children are aristocratic, and I had a certain 
intuitive scorn of servants; besides, Sarah had only been a few days with 
us. 

"Will you come in to tea?" she again asked. I took up my book, as if she 
had not spoken. "Miss," she said solemnly, "there'll be a judgment on you 
yet."

With this warning she left me. I went in when it pleased me to do so. On 
entering the parlour, I perceived two cups on the tea-tray. "Is Papa come 
back?" I asked, without looking at Sarah.

"Miss," she said indignantly, "servants aint dogs, nor cats either. I am 
ashamed of you, Miss."

"Is Papa come back?" I asked again, with all the insolence of conscious 
security.

If Sarah had dared, I should then have got a sound slap or box on the 
ear, but I knew well enough she would not dare: her predecessor had been 
dismissed for presuming to threaten me with personal chastisement, so she 
swallowed down her resentment to reply, rather sharply, "No, Miss, the 
Doctor is not come back, Miss."

I looked at the two tea-cups, and said haughtily, "I'll have my tea 
alone."

Sarah became as crimson as the ribbons in her cap, gave me a spiteful 
look, laughed shortly, and vindictively replied. "No, Miss, you'll not 
have tea alone, Miss. Mr. O'Reilly is come, and as he is not an 
unfort'nate servant, perhaps you won't mind taking tea with him, Miss."

I sulked on hearing the news.

Cornelius O'Reilly was the friend and countryman of my father, who had 
known him from his boyhood, and helped to rear and educate him. He came 
down every autumn to spend ten days or a fortnight at Rock Cottage. He 
never failed to bring me a present; but this did not render his visits 
more welcome to me. Whilst he was in the house, I was less petted, less 
indulged, and, above all, less noticed by my father. It was this I could 
not forgive the young man.

On noticing the unamiable look with which I heard the news of his 
arrival, Sarah indignantly exclaimed, "You ought to blush, Miss, you 
ought, for being so jealous of your poor Pa! Do you think he is to look 
at nobody but you? Suppose he were to marry again?"

"He won't, you know he won't," I interrupted, almost passionately; "and 
you know he said you were not to say it."

This was true; for Sarah, once feeling more than usually "aggravated" 
with me, had chosen to inform me "that if my Pa went every day to see 
Miss Murray, it was not all because she was poorly, but because he was 
going to marry that lady; and that I and her nephew William were to be 
got rid of by being sent to school as soon as the wedding was over."

She spoke positively. I believed her, and took the matter so much to 
heart that my father perceived it, learned the cause, and, after 
relieving me with the assurance that he was quite determined never to 
marry a second time, and that I was to be his only pet and darling, 
called in Sarah, and in my presence administered to her a short and 
severe reprimand, which she resentfully remembered as one of my many 
offences. Being now beaten on this point, she sharply observed, "Well, 
Miss, is it a reason, because our Pa won't marry again, that we are to be 
rude to our Pa's friend?"

I did not answer.

"I am sure he is kind," she continued, "it's in his face."

No reply.

"I never saw a better-tempered looking gentleman."

I was obstinately silent.

"Nor a handsomer one," persisted Sarah, on whom the young Irishman's 
appearance seemed to have produced a strong impression; "there is not one 
like him from Ryde to Leigh."

She spoke pointedly. I felt myself redden.

"He is not half so handsome as Papa," I replied indignantly.

"Right, Margaret," observed a good-humoured voice behind us; and 
Cornelius O'Reilly, who had overheard the latter part of our discourse, 
entered the parlour as he spoke.

Sarah uttered a little scream, then hung down her head in maidenly 
distress; to recover from her confusion, and perhaps to linger in the 
room, she began to shift and rattle the tea-things, whilst Cornelius, 
sitting down by the table, signed me to approach. I did do so,--not very 
graciously, I am afraid. He took both my hands in one of his, and resting 
the other on my head, looked down at me with a smile. I had often seen 
him before, yet when I look back into the past, I find that from this 
autumn noon, as I stood before him with my hands in his, dates my first 
clear and distinct recollection of Cornelius O'Reilly.

He was then about twenty, tall, decided in manner and bearing, and 
strikingly handsome, with heavy masses of dark wavy hair, which he often 
shook back by a hasty and impatient motion. His face was characteristic, 
frank, and proud, with a broad brow, ardent hazel eyes, full and 
brilliant as those of the hawk, and arched features, which, though 
neither Greek nor Roman, impressed themselves on the memory as vividly as 
any ancient type. His look was both kind and keen; his smile pleasant and 
perplexing. Every one liked it, but few understood it rightly: it was so 
ready for raillery, so indulgent, and withal so provokingly careless. 
Like the face, it expressed a mobile temper, ingenuous in its very 
changes; a mind that yielded to every impression, and was mastered by 
none.

Such was then Cornelius O'Reilly; not that he seemed so to me, but the 
gaze of childhood is as observant as it is unreflecting, and I 
unconsciously noted signs of which I knew not how to read the meaning.

"Well, Margaret, how are you?" asked Cornelius, after a sufficiently long 
silence.

"Very well, thank you," I replied in a low tone, and making a useless 
effort to disengage my hands from his grasp. Without seeming to notice 
this, he continued, nodding at a brown-paper parcel on the table--

"There is a cake, which my sister Kate sends you, with her very kind 
love."

I saw Sarah turning up her eyes in admiration, and this induced me to 
make a reply which I am ashamed to record, it was so ungracious:

"I never eat cake," I said.

"Miss!" began Sarah.

"And I have brought you this," interrupted the young man, drawing forth a 
book from his pocket. He held it before my eyes; it had a bright cover, 
with a gilt title; the temptation was strong, but not stronger than my 
stubborn pride.

"Papa gives me books," I replied.

"Oh! very well," smilingly answered Cornelius; "I shall give him this to 
give to you."

His good-humoured forbearance began to make me feel penitent, when again 
Sarah interfered with an unlucky "For shame, Miss!"

"She is only shy," kindly said Cornelius.

"Oh! Sir, it is sly we are," replied Sarah with a prim smile; "if we 
durst, we'd scamper away through that open door; ay, that we would!" she 
added, emphatically nodding her head at me. "We are very unkind, Sir."

"Not at all," observed Cornelius, taking my part; "Margaret is very fond 
of me, only she does not like to say so. Are you not, my dear?" he added 
with provoking confidence.

"No," was my reply, more frank than civil.

"Indeed you are, and the proof of it is that of your own accord you are 
going to give me a kiss."

I was astounded at the audacious idea. I never kissed any one but my 
father. Alas! I fear I thought myself and my childish caresses very 
precious things indeed. Cornelius laughed, and stooped; but as he gently 
released my hands at the same time, I eluded the caress, and darted 
through the open door up the dark staircase. Sarah wanted to rush after 
me. Cornelius interfered, and again said I was shy.

"Shy, Sir! shy!" echoed Sarah with a short, indignant laugh, "bless you, 
Sir, it is pride: she is as proud as Lucifer, and as obstinate, too. I 
could beat that child to death, Sir, and not