“Are you at that folly again?” he said. thought you had got rid of it.”
“May be I have, and may be I haven’t; and as to folly, much you know about it, only you take delight in provoking me.”
“Well, why can’t you have a little more sense, woman? Don’t you know the Count left her and her money in hands that will take care of both.”
“Oh, then,” said Nelly, in a sentimental tone, “there’s many an old song and story that shows us gold and grandeur can’t keep true love apart.”
“Well, Nelly Brady, I’ll tell you what,” said Uncle Nick, “I’ve a better opinion of Denis than to believe he’s any thought in his head of taking a poor innocent girl like Coral in such a way; but if you’ve put the notion into his mind you’d better drive it out again as fast as you can, for if Father Jerome hears of it, it may be the worse for you, and I’m not the man to keep any secret. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
Half frightened, and very angry at his threat, Nelly broke out into a torrent of complaints and reproaches, while her husband, apparently not hearing, and certainly not heeding her words, went on with his work. In the meantime Coral led Denis out on the wharf, at which, as it happened, no boats were lying; it stretched far into the water, and there was a large shed built at the end. Here Coral stopped, and, and letting go her companion’s arm, leant against one of the posts and looked into his face. It was now the first week in October, and the day had been one of those lovely days never seen but in that month—still, serene, and clear, and with a soft golden brightness which stirs the fancy with a half regretful admiration akin to the feeling with which we gaze on the hectic brilliancy of a fair cheek touched by that “beautiful blight”-consumption, and sigh as we feel it is the signal of decay. The night was as lovely as the day had been: not a drop of dew was falling; clusters of stars looked down from the deep blue sky, and, in the east, the round moon was rising; tinting the few vessels and buildings that were in sight with her soft splendour, and steeping in light the river which, calm as glass, reflected the bright heavens, the anchored vessels, and the houses that lined its banks, in its clear mirror, and broke gently against the wharf in tiny ripples; at intervals a soft light waft of air passed over its surface, crisping it for an instant and then died away, leaving it calm as before.
Though in the midst of a large and busy town, Coral and Denis felt almost as much alone as if they had stood in the woods of Long Arrow.
“Denis,” said Coral, “do you know what a guardian means?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Denis, surprised.
“Well, Father Jerome is mine. He says he is to stand in the place of my father now, and he has sent a lady, Madame Beauvais, to live with me, and be what he calls my governante.”
“Is she unkind to you, Coral?”
“No, she is not unkind, but she is stiff, and stern, and gloomy, and she thinks me half mad, half wicked, and half a fool. I always feel fettered and bound when in her presence, body and soul; she freezes my heart and my blood as the free wild waters are bound by the breath of winter;—worse, for the waters thaw again in the spring, but if I stayed long with her, I should turn to stone.”
“Why do you not tell Father Jerome that she makes you unhappy?”
“Oh, it is no matter; she will not trouble me long. It is not about her that I want to talk to you.”
“Tell me what it is then, Coral?”
“Wait, and you shall hear all. My father had an estate in France, which he lost at the time of the French Revolution; but some time ago the Emperor gave it back to him, and invited him to return to France, and now that he is dead, Father Jerome says it is necessary for me to go there to get my claims acknowledged by the Emperor. Do you understand, Denis? He says that I must go at once to France.”
“To France, which is so far away?” said Denis.
“Yes; I told him that I did not wish to go, that the property my father left me in Canada was enough for me; but he answered that my father’s will commanded it, and that it was my duty to obey. I let him talk as he liked, but he only wasted his words. I shall not go to France.”
“Will you not, Coral?”
“Oh, Denis!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands and fixing her gleaming eyes on his, “do you forget that if I did, I should leave Keefe? Do you think I would go away from Keefe? No! not for all the joys ever promised to mortal on earth or in heaven! I will not go to France. I will go to Long Arrow.”
“Father Jerome will never allow it, Coral.”
“Do you think I shall ask him! Why should I? Why was I given sense, and feeling, and will, if I am to he a mean lump of clay, that another may mould as he likes? Why should I sacrifice my happiness to please Father Jerome?”
“But perhaps it would be better for you to go, Coral. You might come back in a year or two.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, passionately; “every day has been a year to me since I left Long Arrow. And why do you talk of its being for my good? That is the way Father Jerome talks; the way people always talk when they want you to do something that would make you miserable for ever, or not to do something on which depends the happiness of your whole life. Good! Oh! What mortal can judge for another? I must see Keefe, Denis; I must go to Long Arrow. If you will help me, I shall get there much quicker and easier, I know; but whether you will or not, I shall still go. Even if you were to tell Father Jerome, or Madame Beauvais, and they were to try to prevent me, I should still go; and if they were to lock me up in a dungeon, I should die, and then no bars or bolts could hold my spirit: it would be free then, and in the woods once more.”
“But if your father were alive, Coral, what would he say?”
“My father loved me, and wished me to be happy in my own way; and if he sees me, or thinks of me now, he wishes it still. He cared for me, but Father Jerome does not; he tries to make me believe my father was like him; but I know better. Let Father Jerome take care of the lands,
