"Bring up the tea-tray," continued her mistress, "and henceforth don't be uppish and make remarks, for you see it won't go down with me."
Deborah endured the reproof with a perplexed air, retired, and returned with the tray. Miss O'Reilly made the tea with a deep sigh. We had eaten little at dinner; but had Cornelius dined at all? He gave us no sign of existence, and Kate did not seem inclined to go near him. When the tea was poured out, she turned to me and said, in a low tone—
"Go and tell Cornelius tea is ready."
I obeyed in silence.
I knocked at the door of Cornelius; he opened it; the landing was dark, I could not see him distinctly. I delivered my message; he did not reply, but quietly followed me downstairs. As he entered the parlour, the look of Kate became riveted on his face; it was pale but perfectly collected. He sat down and drank his tea in total silence. No sooner was the tray removed, than Miss O'Reilly entered abruptly on the subject, by saying—
"What mean jealousy there is, Cornelius!"
"Yes, Kate, very mean jealousy."
"In this case especially."
"It was not jealousy," he replied, looking annoyed.
"The name then! I said so: a Smith, a Jones, a Jenkins would have got in, but an O'Reilly—"
"Kate," interrupted her brother, reddening, "it was not the name."
"What then?" she asked, with a wistful look.
His lip trembled, but he made an effort, and replied firmly—
"The picture."
"The picture!" echoed Kate, looking disheartened.
"Yes, the picture," resumed Cornelius, inexorable to himself, to his youthful ambition, to his long-cherished dreams; "it is not its being rejected that troubles me, but its having deserved the rejection. Kate, I have committed a bitter mistake, and I found it out, not to-day, but weeks ago. So long as Art was unattempted, faith was in me as a living stream; it has ebbed away, and left the bed where it once flowed, barren and dry."
He sat by the table, his brow resting on his hand, the light of the lamp falling on his pale face, where will vainly sought to control the keen disappointment of a life-long aim. There was a pause, then his sister said—
"What will you do?"
"Seek for some other situation; anything will do."
"The City again! Why not try for work as an artist?"
"And do as a drudge the work I so long hoped to do as a master," replied Cornelius, colouring to the very temples. "No, Kate, that indeed would be degradation!"
"Then you give up painting?"
"Utterly."
She started from her seat, went up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and said warmly—
"Leave the City to drudges, and painting to enthusiasts. You have youth, talent, energy; choose the career of a gentleman, work, and make your way as you can, if you will—I shall find the means."
"I cannot," replied Cornelius, after a pause.
"Then you mean to return to painting," vehemently exclaimed his sister.
"If I cannot paint good pictures, Kate, I will not paint bad ones."
"What will you do?"
"The City—"
"The City! the dirty, smoky City for an Irish gentleman, of pure Milesian blood, without Scotch or Saxon stain, and who calls himself O'Reilly too! Cornelius, return to painting rather."
"Kate," he replied, with an expression of pain and weariness, "this is not a matter of will; I cannot paint now; my faith is dead. You may lock up the studio; the easel may stand against the wall; pencil or palette your brother will never handle again."
"Nor shall my brother be a clerk," she said resolutely.
Cornelius knit his brow and looked obstinate.
"But why?" she exclaimed, impatiently; "will you just tell me why?"
"You ask!" he replied, tossing on the couch, where he had again thrown himself with listless indolence.
"Ay, and I want to know, too, Cornelius," she said, quietly returning to her chair.
"Kate, when James could not marry his cousin, a plain, silly girl, why did he go to London Bridge and jump over?"
Miss O'Reilly jumped on her chair.
"Nonsense!" she cried, reddening, "you are not going to take that leap because you cannot paint pictures!"
"No, but I'll do like James. I cannot have the girl I like—I'll have no other. I cannot marry painting, a maid as fair as May, as rosy as June, fresh as an eternal spring: and you think, Kate," he added, quite indignantly, "you actually think I would wed surly law, ill-favoured medicine, or any of those old ladies whom men woo for their money—no, 'faith!"
He spoke resolutely, and sank back in his old attitude with great decision.
"James was a fool!" hastily said Kate.
"He was; and though there is no girl can compare with painting; though the love about which so much has been sung is cold and tame compared to the passion which fills a true painter's heart, I am not going to drown myself because the glorious gift has been denied me, and I cannot be that man."
He laughed rather drearily as he said it.
"Yes, but you will do nothing else," replied Kate.
"I can put my heart to nothing else. Daisy, why do you not bring the books as usual?"
I obeyed, but I could not give my attention to the lessons.
"Child," impatiently said Cornelius, "what can you be thinking of?"
I was thinking that he was not to be an artist; that he had given up painting, fame, and fortune; and, as he put the question, I burst into tears.
"I understand," quietly said Cornelius: "you do not know your lessons."
He closed the book, went to the piano, and sang as usual.
It was plain Cornelius rejected sympathy. He showed no pity to himself, and would accept none from others. If he suffered, the jealous pride of youth would not let him confess it, yet we could see that he was not happy. He set about looking for another situation, with the dogged sort of satisfaction a man may find in choosing the rope with which he is to hang himself. His pleasant face contracted a bitter expression; his good- humoured smile became ironical and sarcastic; he had fits of the most dreary merriment; of pity he was so resentfully suspicious that we scarcely dared to look at him. Three weeks had thus elapsed, when, as I sat with Kate and Cornelius in the garden, I ventured, thinking him in a better mood than usual, to say, in my most insinuating accents—
"Cornelius, what will be the subject of your next picture?"
He turned round and gave me a look so stern that I drew back half frightened.
"How dare you be so presuming?" said Kate, indignantly.
I did not reply, but after a while I left them. I re-entered the house, and stole up to the studio, there to brood in peace over what it was now an offence to remember. The easel stood against the wall; the papers and portfolios were covered with dust; a sketch of a group of trees—the last thing on which I had seen Cornelius engaged—lay on the table unfinished, but soiled with lying about. I opened one of the portfolios: it contained the drawings he most valued. I took them out, and, kneeling on the floor, spread them around me. Absorbed in looking at them, I never heard Cornelius enter, until his voice said close to me—
"What are you doing here?"
"I was looking at these," I replied in some confusion.
"Then you were taking a great liberty."
I silently began to restore the drawings to the portfolio; he said shortly—
"They will do on the floor." And he walked across them to the window.
"Cornelius," I observed, timidly, "you are standing on the head of the poor Italian boy, and you are going to tread on the flower-girl."
"They are only fit to burn," was his misanthropic reply.
"Let me take them away," I urged.
He seemed disposed to answer angrily, but he restrained himself and stepped aside. I removed the drawings, carefully replaced them in the portfolio, gently slipped in a few more, then stole up a glance at Cornelius: he was looking down at me with a displeased face.
"Lay down that portfolio," he said.
"Pray don't burn them!" I exclaimed, tearfully.
"Leave the room," he said, impatiently.
I obeyed, but as I reached the door I saw Cornelius go to the fire-place and take down the match-box. It might be to light a cigar, or make a bonfire of the drawings.
"Don't, pray don't," I entreated.
"Don't what?" he asked, lighting the match.
"Don't burn your beautiful drawings, Cornelius, pray don't."
"Daisy! did I or did I not tell you to leave the room?"
I stood near the door: I opened and closed it again, but unable to resist the temptation of ascertaining to what fate the drawings were reserved, I was stooping to look through the keyhole, when the door suddenly opened, and Cornelius appeared on the threshold.
"Go down at once," he said, angrily.
I obeyed, and, crying with vexation and grief. I entered the parlour where Kate sat sewing.
"Oh, Kate!" I exclaimed through my tears, "Cornelius is burning his drawings!"
"Is he?" was her calm reply.
"He turned me out, pray go and prevent him."
"Is there a great quantity of them?" she asked.
"Three large portfolios and a little one."
"That must make quite a heap."
"You might save a few by going now, Kate."
"He will be some time about it," she musingly observed; "better delay the tea a little."
"Kate, they will be all burned if you don't go."
"I hope he will be careful," said Miss O'Reilly, a little uneasy; "I hope he will not set the chimney on fire."
It was plain she would not take a step to save the drawings. I sat down in the darkest corner of the room and grieved silently over this miserable end to so many bright day-dreams. It was a long time before Cornelius came down; he apologized for having delayed the tea.
"Never mind!" said Kate, sighing. "Daisy, where are you? That child does nothing but mope and fret of late."
"I am here, Kate," I replied, rising.
"Hand Cornelius his cup."
"What is the matter with her?" he asked.
"She is a foolish child," replied Miss O'Reilly.
As I handed his cup to Cornelius, I saw his sister give him a look of gentle pity. He smiled cheerfully; she sighed; he kindly asked what was the matter.
"There are hard things to be gone through," was her ambiguous reply.
"Why, yes, Kate, there are."
"They require a brave spirit," she continued.
He looked puzzled.
"But it is quite right to cut the matter short."
"Kate, what has happened?"
"Well, it is not an event; but I admire your courage."
"My courage! in what?"
"Why, in burning your drawings, of course."
He bit his lip, reddened, and said gravely—
"I have not been burning them, Kate."
"Not burning them!" she exclaimed, with a sharp look at me.
"Daisy is not to blame," quickly observed Cornelius.
"Not burning them!" resumed Miss O'Reilly; "and I who kept tea waiting until it was spoiled in order not to disturb you!"
"Thank you all the same, Kate."
"Not burning them!" she said, giving him a very suspicious look, "and what were you doing up there. Cornelius?"
"Finishing a little thing which I will show you to-morrow."
"He's going to flirt with painting again!" desperately said MissO'Reilly, rocking herself to and fro.
"I hope to go beyond flirtation, Kate."
"My poor boy, don't trust her,—she is a heartless coquette."
"No, Kate, she is merely coy,—a charming feminine defect that only makes her more irresistibly alluring."
"You have tried her once."
"And failed; I must try again: faint heart never won fair lady."
He spoke so gaily, he looked once more so happy, so confident, that the cloud left his sister's handsome face. She checked a sigh, to say with a smile—
"I was a fool to trust to the vows of a man in love; that is all."
"Yes," he said, resolutely, "I know I vowed to give her up a few weeks ago; but now, Kate, I vow I cannot—I cannot; no man can divide himself from his nature."
"What will you do?" she asked.
"Anything, Kate," he replied, his eyes kindling with hope and ardour; "no drudgery will seem drudgery, no work too hard."
I could keep in no longer. At the imminent risk of upsetting his cup, I threw my arms around the neck of Cornelius, and, crying for joy, I exclaimed—
"Oh! I am so glad that you are to be a great artist after all—and that you did not burn the Italian boy nor the poor flower-girl!"
"Am I an inquisitor?" asked Cornelius, smiling.
"She is as mad as he is," said Kate, shaking her head; "indeed I rather think she is worse."
He laughed, and, drawing me on his knee, petted me even to my craving heart's content. I had not been well of late; the joyous excitement with which I had learned his return to Art once over, I became listless and languid. Cornelius had to remind me of the lessons; I know not how I answered him, but in the very middle of them he pushed away the books, said that would do, and made me sit by him on the sofa. Kate looked at me a little uneasily. Cornelius was always kind, but I had never known him so kind as on this evening. He read to me, sang and played, then returned to the couch on which I lay, and, with a tender fondness I shall ever remember, he pressed me to tell him if there was anything I should like.
"Nothing, thank you," I replied, languidly.
"A book?" he persisted; "no! well then a rosewood workbox—a desk? I have some money, child; look."
He drew out his purse and showed it to me, but I thanked him and refused.
"Is there nothing you would like?" he asked.
"I should like to know the subject of your next picture."
"As if I should paint but one," he replied, gaily; and he proceeded to describe to me, in a few graphic words, a magnificent collection of Holy Families, grand historical battles, tragic stories, dewy landscapes, exquisite domestic scenes, until, charmed by their variety, but rather startled by their number, I exclaimed—
"Cornelius, it will take a gallery to hold them all."
"Let us build one then," he replied, striving to repress a smile, "and whenever you feel dull, as you did this evening, we will take a walk in it. Look at her, Kate," he added, addressing his sister, "don't you think she seems better?"
"I think," answered Kate, rather astonished, "that I never saw you lay yourself out for a girl or woman, as you did this evening for that little pale face. My opinion is, that the foolish way in which she goes on about your pictures has won your heart."
"Since you have found it out, Kate, it is useless to deny it. I am waiting for Daisy. Am I not?" he added, turning to me with a smile.
"No," I replied, half indignantly.
"She won't have me," he said, feigning deep dejection; "ungrateful girl! is it for this I have so often brought you home apples, gingerbread and nuts, not harder than your heart?"
Unmoved by this pathetic appeal, I persisted in rejecting Cornelius, whom, even in jest, I could not consider otherwise than as my dear adopted father. Miss O'Reilly settled the point by saying it was quite ridiculous for little girls not yet twelve to be sitting up so late. As she rose and took me by the hand, I bade Cornelius good-night. He kissed me, not once, but two or three times, and so much more tenderly than usual, that Kate said, smiling—
"Cornelius, you are very fond of that child."
"Yes, Kate, I am. Next to you, there is nothing I like half so well in this world, and, somehow or other, I do not think I have ever felt fonder of her than this evening."
My cheek lay close to his, his heavy hair brushed my face, his eyes looked into mine with something sad in their fondness. I felt how much, how truly, how purely the good young man loved the child he had adopted, and returning his tender embrace, I was happy even to a sense of pain.
I believe in the presentiments of the heart, and I believe that on this evening, and at that moment, Cornelius and I unconsciously had each ours, and each, though different from the other, was destined to be fulfilled. The next day Cornelius knew why he had felt so fond of me: I was dangerously ill, and for days and weeks my life was despaired of.
That time is still to me a blank, on the vague back-ground of which stand forth two vivid and distinct images. One is that of Cornelius, sitting by me and holding my hand in his: the other, that of a tall, pale, and fair- haired lady, who stood at the foot of my bed, clad in white, calm and beautiful as a vision. I had never seen her before, and I remember still how vainly I tormented my poor feverish brain to make out who she was. I have a vague recollection that I one day framed the question, "Who are you?"
"Miriam," she replied, in a voice as sweet and as cold as a silver bell, and she laid her fingers on her lips, to enjoin silence. The name told me nothing, but my wandering mind was too much confused to follow out any train of thought. I accustomed myself to her presence, without striving to know more. Another day, I remember her better still. She was standing at the foot of the bed, half hidden by the white curtain. A little further on, Cornelius talked to a grave-looking man, in tones which, though low, awoke me from my dreamy unconsciousness.
"I can give you no hope," said the physician, for such even then I knew him to be: "it will end in a decline."
"Oh! doctor," entreated Cornelius, "she is so young, scarcely twelve."
"My dear Sir, we do not work miracles, and those excitable children—"
"But my poor little Daisy is so quiet," interrupted Cornelius; "you never knew such a quiet child; she will sit still for hours whilst I am drawing or painting. Indeed, Sir," he added, giving the doctor an appealing look, "she is the quietest little creature breathing."
"Well, Sir," replied the physician, "I will not say that she cannot outlive this, but she is too slight, too delicate for me to hold out much hope for the future."
He left. When he was gone Cornelius bent over me. "My poor little Daisy," he said, in a low, sad tone,—"my poor little Daisy, I did not think you would wither so very early."
Two hot tears fell on my face.
"Mr. O'Reilly," said a sweet voice behind him, "the child will live, you love her too much, she cannot die."
I looked languidly through my half-closed eyes. Miriam stood by Cornelius; she had placed her hand on his shoulder; he sat half turned round gazing at her with astonishment. She smiled and continued—
"My child was given up three times; but I loved her; I would not let her go; she stayed with me; your child too shall stay."
"May God bless you at least for the prediction!" he replied in a low tone, and, stooping, he laid his lips on her band; she coloured, and I saw Kate, then in the act of coming in, stand still with wonder on the threshold of the open door.
The same day a favourable crisis took place, and when the physician called again, he pronounced me out of danger. Only Kate and Cornelius were present, and I shall never forget their joy; I do not think that if I had been their own child they could have felt a purer and deeper gladness. The happy face of Cornelius, as he bent over me and gave me a kiss, was alone something to remember. I recovered rapidly; one of my first requests was to be carried up to the studio, and, every precaution being taken that I should not get cold, it was complied with on a pleasant July morning. I looked at the picture Cornelius had begun during my illness, then I asked him to place me near the open window. It overlooked our garden and that of our tenant, Miss Russell, an old maiden lady, of whom I had never caught more than a few distant glimpses. I was accustomed to see her garden as quiet and lonely as ours, which it resembled; to my surprise I now perceived a strange group. In the honeysuckle bower sat two ladies; one read aloud to an old blind woman, who after a while said—
"That'll do for to-day, my blessed young lady."
"Would you like to go in, nurse?" asked the lady very sweetly.
"I think I should. You need not mind, Miss Ducky," she said, addressing the other lady, "my dear young lady will do it."
The lady who had read now helped the old woman to rise, and led her in with great care. She soon returned alone, resumed her place, and read to herself from a smaller volume. She was attired in white, and with her head slightly bent, and her book on her lap, she looked as calm and still as a garden statue. The other lady was very young, a mere girl, short, pretty, fresh as a rose, and with glossy dark ringlets. She had been very restless during the reading, and had indulged in two or three little yawns. She now seemed joyous and happy at the release, and hovered around the bower light and merry as a bee. There was an airy grace about her little person that rendered motion as becoming to her as was repose to the other lady. She skipped and started about with restless vivacity; now she plucked a flower; now she stripped a shrub of its leaves; then suddenly turning round, she addressed her companion in the tones of a spoiled child:
"Miriam, leave off reading! you won't?—take that!"
She gathered a rose and threw it at her.
Miriam raised her beautiful face, calm as the surface of unstirred waters, and said, in a voice that rose sweetly on the air—
"Child, what is it?"
"Don't read."
Miriam closed her book.
"And come here."
Miriam rose and went up to her.
"How can you read so to stupid old nurse?" resumed the young girl; "I don't like Baxter."
"She likes it, my darling, and she is blind, and cannot read for herself."
"But if I were as jealous of you as you are of me," continued she whom the old woman had called Ducky, "Ishould not like it."
She laid her curled head on the shoulder of the beautiful Miriam, who stooped and gave her a long embrace. Then they walked up and down the garden, arm in arm, talking in lower tones. I turned to ask Cornelius who were the ladies, and I found that he stood behind me, looking down intently.
"Cornelius," I said, "did not the lady they call Miriam, come and see me when I was ill?"
"Yes, child," he replied, without looking at me, and returning to his easel as he spoke.
"Who is she?"
"Miss Russell, the niece of our tenant."
"Who is the other one?"
"Her sister."
"Have they been here long, Cornelius?"
"They came the week you were taken ill."
"Did Miss Russell come and see me often?"
"Every day; one night she sat up with you."
"She has not come of late, Cornelius?"
"No," he replied, still without looking at me; "she came one day unsought, and left off coming as soon as you were out of danger."
"How good she seems to her nurse!"
"She is all goodness."
"And how fond of her sister!"
"She is wrapt up in her."
"And yet she is much more beautiful, is she not, Cornelius?" I added, again looking down into the garden, where the sisters now sat in the bower. Cornelius left his easel to come and look too.
"Nonsense, child!" he replied, smiling, "the little one is much the prettier of the two. Ask Kate," he added, as the door opened, and his sister entered.
"Humph," said Miss O'Reilly, on being appealed to, "your eyes are better than mine, Cornelius, to see the difference at this distance; but I think Miss Ducky a pretty little roly-poly thing, and her sister a fine woman, though rather icy."
"Roly-poly!" indignantly echoed Cornelius, "why, Kate, she is exquisitely pretty!"
"Don't you fear the child may take cold?" said Miss O'Reilly, coming up to the window, which she closed with a mistrustful look, that seemed to say to it—"I wishyouwere not there."
I spent about an hour more with Cornelius, who did his best to entertain me, by talking of the gallery, then took me back to my room, where Kate kept me company. I questioned her concerning Miss Russell, but learned little. She supposed it was very kind of her to come, though to be sure I did not want her; and cool people were often peculiar; and other things which I did not understand. I asked if any one else had come.
"Mr. Smalley, who has been disappointed of the Dorsetshire curacy after all, and Mr. Trim came several times."
"I hope Mr. Trim did not kiss me," I said, uneasily, for this amiable individual still persisted in being affectionate to me.
"Nonsense, child, I promise you they were more taken up in looking at Miss Russell, than in thinking of you. Sleep, for they are to come this evening, and I know Cornelius would like to take you down for an hour."
I did my best to gratify her, and soon succeeded, and the same evening I was dressed and wrapped up, or rather swathed like a mummy, said Cornelius, as he carried me down in his arms. He had scarcely laid me on the couch in the parlour, when Deborah announced "Miss Russell."
A pretty head, with drooping ringlets, peeped in, and as suddenly vanished.
"Pray come in, Miss Russell," said Kate, rising.
"You are engaged," lisped a soft voice behind the door.
"Not at all, pray come in."
"You—you are at tea, then."
"We shall not have tea for an hour, pray come in."
"I would rather come some other time," said the little voice, still speaking from the door, but rather more faintly.
"Surely my brother does not frighten you?"
"Oh no," faltered the timid speaker, in a tone that said, "Oh dear yes, precisely."
Kate rose and walked to the door. We heard a giggle, a little suppressed denial, and finally saw Miss O'Reilly re-enter the parlour and lead in the bashful creature. Miss Ducky was in a state of bewitching confusion and under-her-breath modesty. "She came to know how the little girl was— so glad she was well again. Sit down! Oh no, she would rather be excused."
She spoke with girlish fluency of easy speech, with many a gentle toss of the glossy curls, and glancing of the bright dark eyes that looked everywhere save in the direction of Cornelius. Kate was vainly pressing her to sit down, when the fair creature was further alarmed by the entrance of Mr. Smalley and Mr. Trim. In her confusion she flew to the bow window instead of the door—"was astonished at the mistake—so absurd—quite stupid, you know," and stood there blushing most charmingly, when Kate at length persuaded her to sit down. By this time I had received the congratulations of Mr. Smalley and Mr. Trim, both of whom looked with some interest and curiosity at Miss Ducky.
There never was such a little flirt. The introduction was scarcely over when she attacked Mr. Trim with a look, Mr. Smalley with a smile, and Cornelius with look, smile, and speech, and having thus hooked them, she went on with the three to her own evident enjoyment and delight. Mr. Trim, whom the ladies had not accustomed to such favours, seemed exulting, and indulged in the most unbounded admiration. After warning Miss Ducky that she need not mind him, he edged his chair nearer to hers, and peering in her face, asked to know the number of hearts she had broken.
"I broke a cornelian heart the other day," she replied, demurely; "I was so sorry."
"Could it not be mended?" innocently asked Mr. Smalley.
"I don't know," she answered, childishly, "I did not try; I used to wear it round my neck—it is in a drawer now."
"Poor heart!" compassionately said Cornelius.
She laughed, and gaily shook her curls, but suddenly became as mute as a mouse, and, with the frightened glance of a child taken at fault, she looked at the door, on the threshold of which her sister now stood unannounced.
Miriam entered quietly, passing by Cornelius and me without giving either a look, and apologized to Kate for her intrusion; but Miss Ducky had, it seemed, been suddenly missed, to the great alarm of her relatives, whom the sound of her voice next door had alone relieved from their painful apprehensions. Miss Ducky heard all this with downcast eyes and a penitent face, and stood ready to follow her sister, who had pertinaciously refused to take a seat. Mr. Trim seemed rather anxious to detain them, and, bending forward with his hands on his knees to catch a look of Miriam's beautiful face, he said—
"Your sister, Ma'am, was telling us of the hearts—"
"I only spoke of the cornelian," interrupted Ducky, looking alarmed.
Miriam looked through Mr. Trim with her calm blue eyes, bade Miss O'Reilly good evening, smiled at Mr. Smalley, who coloured, then leading away her sister, she again passed by Cornelius and me with a chilling bend of the head.
"Pretty girl!" said Mr. Trim, shutting his eyes as the door closed upon them.
"Has she not very classical features?" observed Mr. Smalley, seeming surprised.
"Oh, you mean the fair one," sneered Mr. Trim. "It is very well for you, Smalley, a clergyman, to admire a girl who is as proud as Lucifer, just because she has a Greek nose—"
"I admire Miss Russell," interrupted Mr Smalley, reddening, "because the first time I saw her she was fulfilling that precept of our Divine Lord, which enjoins that the sick shall be visited and the afflicted comforted."
"Every man to his taste," replied Mr. Trim. "I like that pretty little thing best, and so would Cornelius, if he were not such a confirmed woman-hater. Ha! ha!"
"I hope not," said Mr. Smalley, looking with mild surprise at Cornelius, who did not repel the accusation, but seemed absorbed in my request of being taken upstairs again. I was still weak, and the talking made my head ache. I bade our two visitors good-night, and again had to resist Mr. Trim's attempt to embrace me. I believe he knew how much I disliked his ugly face, and would have found a malicious pleasure—I now acquit him of caring for the kiss—in compelling mine to endure its proximity. As I saw it bend towards me, grinning, I screamed, and took refuge in the arms of Cornelius, who said, a little impatiently—
"Do let that child alone, Trim."
Mr. Trim went back to his chair, saying, mournfully, "he never had luck with the ladies, whereas Cornelius, being a handsome, dashing young fellow, and Smalley rather wild—a thing women always liked—"
I lost the rest, for Cornelius, who was carrying me out of the room, shut the door, muttering something in which "Trim" and "insolence" were all I could hear distinctly.
Two days after this, I was well enough to be carried down to the garden in the arms of Cornelius, who sacrificed an hour of daylight to sitting by me on the bench. It was a warm and pleasant noon, and I was enjoying the delightful sense of existence which recovery from illness yields, when Miriam Russell suddenly appeared before us. She always had a noiseless step and had come down the steps from the porch so quietly that we had never heard her. I saw the blood rush to the brow of Cornelius, and felt the hand which mine clasped, tremble slightly. Miss Russell looked very calm; she asked me how I was; I replied. "Very well," and thanked her, in a low tone. Her statue-like beauty repelled the very idea of familiarity; her white chiselled features had the purity and coldness of sculptured marble; her face was faultless in outline, but it was too colourless, and her eyes, though fine and clear, were of a blue too pale. She gave me a careless look, then said to Cornelius, after refusing to be seated—
"You have kept your child."
"She is still very weak."
"Never mind, she will grow like my child yet."
Cornelius liked me too well not to be partial.
"Yes, she would be pretty if she were not so pale," he replied.
"You spoil her, do you not?" asked Miriam.
"Kate says so. Do I spoil you, Daisy?"
I said "Yes," and half hid my face on his shoulder, whence I looked at Miriam, who smiled, as if the fondness of Cornelius for me, and mine for him, gave her pleasure to see.
"She spoils me, but she won't let me have my way," said a soft lisping voice from the porch. We looked, and saw Miss Ducky's pretty curled head bending forward and looking at us. Her sister's whole face underwent a change on seeing her.
"But then she's so jealous," continued Ducky, pouting, "I hope you are not jealous of Daisy."
"Foolish child!" said Miriam, striving to smile.
"But then she's very fond of me," resumed Ducky, smiling; "when DoctorJohnson, stupid man, said I could not live, she was nearly distracted.Silly of her, was it not, Mr. O'Reilly?"
Her look so pertinaciously sought his that he could scarcely have avoided looking at her. She was very pretty thus in the gloom of the porch, and he smiled at her fresh young beauty. I saw Miriam glance uneasily from one to the other, then a cloud gathered on her brow. She bade us a sudden adieu, went up to her sister, and led her away, spite of her evident reluctance. Cornelius continued to look like one entranced on the spot where Miriam had lately stood; I was but a child, yet I knew he was now listening to the sweet and delusive voice of passion, unheeded during the earlier years of his youth, and enchanting him at last. I was watching his face attentively: he looked down, met my glance, and said quietly—
"Confess Miss Ducky is much prettier than her sister."
If he wanted me to contradict, he was disappointed.
"Yes, Cornelius," I replied, "she is."
"I thought you admired Miriam most," he said a little shortly.
"I did not know then she had green eyes."
This was true: the hue of Miriam's eyes, of a blue verging on green, was the fault of her face; I had been quick to detect it; Cornelius reddened and never broached the subject again.
Miriam came no more near us, and kept such good watch on her young sister, that we never had the opportunity of again comparing them together. Strange and sad to say, as autumn opened, the young girl sickened and in a few weeks died in the arms of her sister, childish and unconscious to the last. Miss O'Reilly and I watched the funeral leaving the house; as I saw it pass by, I felt as if Death, baulked of one prey and unwilling to leave our dwelling unsated, had seized on her, and I startled Kate by observing—
"Kate, don't you think poor Miss Ducky died instead of me?"
"Bless the child!" exclaimed Kate, turning pale; "never say that again."
But the fancy had taken hold of me, and, unless I am much deceived, of another too. Weeks elapsed before we saw anything of the bereaved sister. We heard that, wrapt in her grief, she remained for days locked in her room, and there brooded over her loss, rejecting consolation with scorn, and indulging in passionate mourning. Kate blamed this excessive sorrow; her brother never uttered one word of praise or blame.
Though my health was much improved, I was still delicate and subject to attacks of languor. One evening, Kate, seeing me scarcely able to sit up, wanted me to go to bed; but Cornelius had been out all day, I wished to await his return, so I went to the back-parlour, reclined on a couch, and there fell asleep.
I was partly awakened by the sound of voices talking earnestly in the next room, of which the door stood half open. I listened, still half asleep: one of the voices was that of Cornelius, passionately entreating; the other that of Miriam, coldly denying and accusing him of infidelity to the dead, whilst with ardent warmth he protested that she alone had been mistress of his thoughts. I sat up on the couch amazed and confounded. My room was dark, they could not see me, but I could see them. Miriam sat by the table, clad in deep mourning; Cornelius by her, with his face averted from me; he held her hand in his, still entreating; she said nothing, but she no longer denied. He raised her hand to his lips unreproved; whilst a bright rosy hue, that seemed too ardent for a blush, passed over her face, late so pale with grief.
I sank back on my couch, frightened at having heard and seen what had never been meant for my ear or sight; but I could not help it; I could not leave the room where I was, without breaking in upon them; twice I rose to do so, but each time my courage failed me. So I kept quiet, and stopping my ears with my fingers, did my best not to hear. I could not however help catching words now and then, and once I heard Miriam saying—
"Do you know why I, who never thought of you before this last hour, now wish to love you?—Because you are so unlike me."
What Cornelius replied I know not. Soon after this Miss Russell left. Cornelius had followed her to the door. He returned to the parlour, and throwing himself on the sofa, he there fell into a smiling reverie.
I softly left my couch, entered the parlour, and quietly sat down on a cushion at his feet. Cornelius looked as if he could not believe his eyes, then slowly sat up, and bent on me a face that darkened as he looked.
"Where do you come from?" he asked.
"From the next room."
"Have you been there long?"
"The whole evening."
"I thought you were upstairs sleeping?"
"No, Cornelius, I was lying on the couch."
"And you have just awakened, I suppose?" he carelessly observed, but with his look bent keenly on my face. I answered in a faltering tone—
"I have been awake some time."
"Before Miss Russell left?"
"Yes, Cornelius."
The blood rushed up to his brow.
"You listened?" he exclaimed, with a wrathful glance.
"I heard, Cornelius," I replied, unwilling to lose the distinction, "and heard as little as I could."
"Heard!" he indignantly echoed. "Upon my word! and why did you hear? Why did you not leave the room?"
"Twice I rose to do so; I made a noise on purpose; but you did not hear me, and I did not dare to disturb you."
Cornelius did not say which of the two evils—being disturbed or overheard by me—he would have preferred. I sat at his feet, wistfully looking up into his face. It was always expressive, and now told very plainly his annoyance and vexation. It would scarcely have been in the nature of mortal man, not to resent the presence of a witness on so interesting and delicate an occasion.
"I never heard anything like it," he exclaimed, indignantly. "I am fond of you, Daisy, but you do not imagine I ever contemplated taking you—a little girl too—into my confidence, as twice I have been compelled to do. What do you mean by it?" he added, with a perplexed and provoked air, that to a looker-on might have been amusing.
"I mean nothing, Cornelius."
"Foolish child," he continued, impatiently, "not to stay on your couch, and let me fancy you had slept through it!"
"But that would have been a great shame," I replied very earnestly; "I came out on purpose that you might know."
"Thank you!" he said drily.
"I shall not tell," I observed, in a low tone.
"It is to be no secret," he shortly answered.
I had no more to say. Cornelius rose impatiently, walked about the room, came back to his place, and still looked unable to get over the irritating consciousness of having been overheard.
I rose to go; he suddenly detained me.
"Stay," he said, with a profound sigh, "it is most provoking—the more especially as there is no dipping you into Lethe—but 'Hon[n]i soit qui mal y pense.' I did not say one word of which I need be ashamed, and as to its being a little ridiculous—why, it is very odd if a man cannot afford to be ridiculous now and then—eh, Daisy?"
He gave me an odd look, half shy, half amused. He could not help enjoying a joke, even though it might be at his own expense.
"Then you are not vexed with me, Cornelius?" I asked, looking up.
"Not a bit," he replied, smiling with perfect good-humour; "I acquit you of wilful indiscretion, my poor child; I should have shut the door—but one cannot think of everything."
He had laid his hand on my shoulder. I turned round and pressed my lips to it, for the first time, scarce knowing why I gave him the token of love and homage he had yielded to Miriam. It is thus in life; we are perpetually bestowing on those who give back again, but rarely to us. Every trace of vexation passed away from the face of Cornelius; he made room for me by his side, and as I sat there in my familiar attitude, he shook back his hair, and observed, with philosophic coolness—
"After all, she would have known it to-morrow; only," he added, a little uneasily, "I think there is no necessity to let Miriam suspect anything of all this: you understand, Daisy?"
"Yes, Cornelius," I replied submissively.
He smiled.
"What a docile tone! Do you know, my pet, it is almost a pity there is not some romantic mystery in this matter; how discreet you would be! how you would carry letters or convey messages! but your good offices will never be needed."
He spoke gaily; I tried to smile, but he little knew how my heart was aching.
"I suppose, Cornelius, you will marry Miss Russell," I observed after awhile.
He smiled again.
"Soon, Cornelius?" He sighed and shook his head.
"Will you still live in this house?"
"Provided Miriam does not think it too small," he replied with a perplexed air, "but by uniting it to the next-door house, it would be quite large enough. Then I could have the upper part of both houses with a sky-light,—much better than a place in town; besides, I shall want her to sit to me—eh, Daisy?"
He turned to me; my face was partly averted from his gaze, or he must have read there the sharp and jealous torment every word he uttered awakened within me. Who was this stranger, that had stepped in between Cornelius and me, whose thought absorbed all his thoughts, whose image effaced every other image, who already made her supposed wishes his law, already snatched from me my most delightful and exclusive privileges? He seemed waiting for a reply; I compelled myself to answer—
"Yes, Cornelius."
"For our gallery, you know," he continued.
I did not reply; I felt sick and faint. He stooped and looked into my face with utter unconsciousness in his.
"How pale you look, my little girl!" he said, with concern; "and you are feverish too. Go up to your room."
He bade me good-night, and kissed me two or three times with unusual warmth and tenderness. Jealousy is all quickness of spirit and of sense. I reluctantly endured caresses which I knew not to be mine; if I dared, I would have repelled those overflowings of a heart in whose joy and delight I had not the faintest part. Sweeter, dearer to me was the quiet, careless kiss I was accustomed to get, than all this tenderness springing from love to another. I was glad when Cornelius released me from his embrace; glad to leave him; glad to go upstairs and be wretched in liberty.
Never since Sarah had told me that my father was going to marry Miss Murray, had I felt as I now felt. The grief I had passed through after his death was more mighty, but it did not, like this, attack the existence of love and sting it in its very heart. Cornelius married to Miriam Russell, parted from us in the sweet communion of daily life, living with her in another home, painting his pictures for her and with her sitting to him or looking on,—alas! where should I be then?—was a thought so bitter, so tormenting, that it worked me into a fever, which fed eagerly on the jealousy that had given it birth.
Gone was the time when I stood next to Kate in his heart, and my loss was the gain of her whom I had heard him making the aim of his future, the hope and joy of his life. His love for her might not exclude calmer affections, but it cast them beneath at an immeasurable distance. I could not bear this. I was jealous by temper and by long habit. My father had accustomed me to the dangerous sweetness of being loved ardently and without a rival; and though I had not expected so much from Cornelius, yet slowly, patiently, by loving him to an excess, I had made him love me too; and now it was all labour lost: she had reached at once the heart towards which I had toiled so long, and won without effort the exclusive affection it was hard not to win, but utter misery to see bestowed on another.
The manner of Kate on the following morning showed me she knew nothing; breakfast was scarcely over when she rather solemnly said to her brother—
"Cornelius, what did you do to that child whilst I was out yesterday?"
He stood by the fire-place, looking down at the glowing embers and smiling at his own thoughts; he woke from his reverie, shook his head, opened his eyes, and looked up astonished.
"I have done nothing to her, Kate," he replied, simply.
"She has been crying herself to sleep, though!"
I had, and I heard her with dismay; he gave me a keen look.
"Her nerves are weak," he suggested.
"Nonsense! did you ever know a fair-haired, dark-eyebrowed man or woman to have weak nerves?"
"I know dark eyebrows are a rare charm for a blonde."
"Nonsense! charm!—I tell you it is an indication of character—of energy and wilfulness. It is all very well for the fair, meek hair to say, 'Oh! I'm so quiet;' I say the dark, passionate brow tells me another story, and as Daisy never cries without a reason, I should like to know what she has been crying about."
"Her health affects her spirits, that is all," hastily replied Cornelius; "come up with me, Daisy, it will cheer you."
I obeyed reluctantly. It was some time however before Cornelius took any notice of me. He stood looking at a study for a larger picture begun during my illness. It represented poor children playing on a common, and was to be called "The Happy Time."
"And don't they look happy?" observed Cornelius, turning to me with a smile.
He was perhaps struck with the fact that the child he addressed did not look a very happy one, for, with the abruptness of a thing suddenly remembered, he said—
"By the bye, what did you cry for, Daisy?"
I hung down my head and did not reply.
"Did you hear me?"
"Yes, Cornelius."
"Then answer, child."
I did not; he looked astonished.
"Answer," he said again.
I felt myself turning red and pale, but to tell him I was jealous of Miriam Russell! no, I could not; the confession was too bitter, too humiliating.
"Daisy," he said, "I shall get angry."
I stood by him obstinately mute. I looked up at him with a dreary, sorrowful gaze; he frowned and bit his lip. I summoned all my courage to bear his coming wrath; to my dismay he chucked my chin, and said with careless good humour—
"As if I should not be fond of you all the same, you jealous little thing!"
And with the smile which he no longer repressed he turned away whistling "Love's young dream." Vexed and mortified to the quick, I burst into tears; Cornelius turned round and showed me an astonished face.
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed, laughing incredulously, "you never can be crying, Daisy!"
The laugh, the gay, careless tone exasperated me. I turned to the door to fly somewhere out of his sight; he caught me back and lifted me up. In vain I resisted; with scarcely an effort he mastered me and laughed again at my unavailing efforts to escape. Breathless with my recent resistance, irritated by my subjection, I lay in his arms mute and sullen. He bent his amused face over mine.
"You are an odd little girl," he said, with the most provoking good- humour, looking with his merry brown eyes into mine, that were still heavy with tears, and speaking gaily, as if my jealousy, anger, and weeping were but a jest; "I suppose you object to my marrying—well, that's a pity—but it is all your fault! You know I wanted to wait for you, only you would not hear of it, so I naturally got desperate and looked out elsewhere."
With this, and as if to humble and mortify me to the last, he stooped to embrace me. In vain, burning and indignant, I averted my face; he only laughed and kissed me two or three times more. To be thus gently ridiculed, laughed at, and kissed, was more than I could bear. I submitted, but with a bursting heart, that betrayed itself by ill- repressed sobs and tears. Cornelius saw this was more than childish pettishness: "Daisy!" he exclaimed, with concern, and he put me down at once.
There was a little couch close by; I threw myself upon it, and hid in the pillow my shame and my grief. He said and did all he could to pacify me; but when I looked up a little soothed, it stung me to read in his eyes the smile his lips repressed. The folly of a child of my age in presuming to be jealous of his beautiful Miriam, was evidently irresistibly amusing. My tears and my sobs ceased at once. I locked in the poignant feelings which could win no sympathy even from him who caused them. I listened with downcast eyes to his consolations, and apathetically submitted to his caresses. But Cornelius, satisfied that it was all right, chid me gently for having made him lose "ten precious minutes," gave me a last kiss, and returned to his easel. At once I rose and said—
"May I go downstairs?"
"Of course," he replied; but he looked surprised at the unusual request.
I remained below all day. When after tea I brought out my books as usual,Cornelius very coolly said—
"My dear, Kate will hear you this evening."
He took his hat and left us. As the door closed upon him, Miss O'Reilly shook her head and poked the fire pensively. I saw she knew all. Once or twice she sighed rather deeply, but subduing this she observed with forced cheerfulness—
"Well. Daisy, let us go through those lessons."
We did go through them, but with strange inattentiveness on either side.
"Nonsense, child!" impatiently exclaimed Kate; "why do you keep stopping and listening so, it is only Cornelius singing next door; what about it?"
What about it? nothing, of course; and yet you too, Kate, stopped often in your questioning to catch the tones of your brother's gay and harmonious voice; you, too, guessed that the time when he could feel happy to stay at home and sing to you was for ever gone by; you, too, when the lessons were over, sadly looked at his vacant place, and felt how far now was he whose song and whose laughter resounded from the next house. Oh, Love! invader of the heart, pitiless destroyer of its sweetest ties, for two hearts whom thou makest blest in delightful union, how many dost thou wound and divide asunder!
We had thought to spend the evening alone, but a strange chance, not without sad significance, brought us an unexpected visitor; the Reverend Morton Smalley called, for once unaccompanied by Mr. Trim. He was more gentle and charming than ever. He expressed himself very sorry not to see Cornelius, whom he evidently thought absent on some laborious errand, for looking at Kate in his benignant way over his spotless neckcloth and through his bright gold spectacles, he earnestly begged "she would not allow her brother to work so very hard."
She shook her head and smiled a little sadly.
"I fear Art absorbs him completely," gravely said Mr. Smalley.
"Oh dear no!" sighed Kate.
"We were never intended to lead a purely intellectual life," continued our guest, bending slightly forward, and raising his fore-finger with mild conviction, "and I fear your brother, Ma'am, is too much given to what I may venture to term the abstract portion of life: life has very lovely and tender realities."
Kate poked the fire impatiently.
"And then he works too hard," pensively continued Mr. Smalley, returning to his old idea that Cornelius was engaged on some arduous task: "why not give himself one evening's relaxation?"
I sat apart on a low stool, unheeded and silent; I know not what impulse made me look up in the face of our guest and say earnestly—
"Cornelius is gone to see Miss Miriam."
Mr. Smalley started like a man who has received an electric shock. He looked at me, at Kate; her face gave sorrowful confirmation of all he could suspect and dread. He said not a word, but turned very pale.
"Mr. Smalley," said Kate, "have a glass of wine."
He did not answer, he had not heard her; like one in a troubled dream, he passed his handkerchief across his moist brow and trembling lips. He made an effort to look more composed, as Kate handed him the glass of wine which she had poured out. He took it from her, smiled a faint ghastly smile, and said—
"I wish our friend every happiness."
But he could not drink his own pledge. He raised the glass to his lips, laid it down as if it were poison, rose, pressed the hand of Miss O'Reilly, and left us abruptly.
"Daisy," severely said Kate, "go up to your room." I obeyed, to spend another wretched night, not sleepless, but feverish dreams and sudden wakenings.
I did not go near Cornelius on the following day. Of this he took no notice, and again went out in the evening. I saw him depart with a sharp jealous pang. Ere long we heard him laughing next door.
"Just listen to him!" said Kate, smiling, "is he not enjoying himself! God bless him! that boy always had a gay laugh. Ah! many's the time, when, though I scarcely knew how to provide for the morrow, that laugh has made my heart light and hopeful—God bless him!"
On the next evening Miriam called. She entered the room quietly, sat down on the sofa, took a book from the table, looked listlessly over it, and spoke calmly as if nothing had occurred. Both she and Kate were more civil than cordial. Cornelius sat by Miss Russell. There was still a place vacant by him; it had always been mine; I took it and gently laid my head on his shoulder. As I did so, I met the glance of Miriam. She had not seen me until then: she started, turned pale, and, as if she resented that I, the weak sickly child, should still live, whilst her fair young sister lay cold in the grave, she said—
"How unwell that child looks!—but perhaps it is only because she is so sallow."
Childhood is fatally quick in catching the spirit of contest. I reddened, looked at her, and suddenly pressed my lips to the cheek of Cornelius, conscious this was more than she dare do.
"Be quiet, child!" he said a little impatiently.
I gave him a look of keen reproach; he did not heed it; his eyes were again bent on Miriam; he was again absorbed in her. The child whom he had petted and caressed evening after evening, for two years, was now forgotten as if she had never existed.
"Daisy," said Kate, "come and help me to wind this skein."
She saw my misery, and did this to give me a pretence to leave them; but I would not yield. As soon as the skein was wound, I returned to my place by Cornelius; for two hours I persisted in staying there, vainly striving to win a caress, a word, a look. Alas! he did not even know I was by him. He was talking to Miriam of a new piece of music, and said—
"I shall tell Daisy to look it out for you to-morrow."
"Daisy is here," replied Miss Russell, "by you."
He turned round astonished, and exclaimed—
"Why, so she is!"
To be so near him and yet so far apart, was too great a torment. My heart swelled as if it would burst. Stung at his cruel indifference, I rose, and without looking back I went up to Kate, sat down on the lowly cushion at her feet, and thus silently relinquished the place which had been mine so long.
Miriam Russell was now acknowledged as the betrothed of Cornelius. She was twenty-six, and independent both in her means and in her actions. Her aunt declared "that she had made a very bad match, and that she was throwing herself away on a handsome, penniless Irishman, whose artful sister was at the bottom of it all."
This speech was repeated to Miss O'Reilly, and brought on a great coolness between her and her tenant. Kate resented especially the reflection on her brother. Without letting him know what suggested the remark, she observed to him in my presence—and it was the only comment on his engagement I ever heard her make—
"Cornelius, Miss Russell has some property, but I trust you will not think of marriage before you have won a position."
"No, indeed," he replied, reddening, and throwing back his head half indignantly.
I now never went near Cornelius unless when sent by Kate. At first I had hoped he would miss me, but sufficient companionship to him was the charmed presence which haunts the lover's solitude; he asked not why I staid away, and pride forbade me to return.
Passion had seized on him, and she absorbed all his faculties save one: he remained faithful to Art. He was a most enamoured lover, but not even for his mistress did he leave his easel, or lose an hour of daylight. She did not put him to a test, of which it was plain that, of his own accord, he would never dream. Every moment he could spare he gave to her; evening after evening he handed over my lessons to Kate, and left us to go next- door: he was still kind, but somehow or other the charm had departed from his kindness.
Several weeks had thus elapsed, when Miriam was suddenly summoned to the sick bed of an aged relative, who dwelt in a retired village twenty miles away. Cornelius seemed to feel this first separation very much. He sighed deeply when the hour struck that usually led him to his beloved, opened his cigar-case, and smoked what, if he had used a pipe, might have been termed the calumet of sorrow. But he was not one of those inveterate smokers who, from the clouds they raise around them, can look down on the tribulations of this world with Olympic serenity. When his cigar was out, he brought forth no other, and half sat on the sofa with a mostennuy?aspect. Kate had gone up to her room, complaining of a bad headache. I sat reading by her vacant chair, in that place which had become the type of my altered destiny.
"Daisy!" all at once said Cornelius.
I looked up.
"Come here," he continued.
I rose and obeyed, and, standing before him, waited to hear what he had to say to me. He said nothing, but stretched out his arm and drew me on his knee, smiling as he met my startled look, and felt my heart beating against the arm that encircled me.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
"Oh no, Cornelius," I replied, but I felt astonished and happy at this unexpected return of kindness; so happy that, ashamed of it, I hid my face on his shoulder. He laughed because I would not look up, kissed my averted cheek, and finally compelled my burning face and overflowing eyes to meet his gaze.
"How perverse you have been!" he said, chidingly; "I don't know what tempted me to take any notice of you again; I am too fond of you, you jealous, sulky little creature."
His old affection seemed to have returned in all its warmth; his look had the old meaning, his voice the old familiar accent, his manner more than the old tenderness. When I saw myself again so near him, again petted, caressed, loved, how could I but forget Miriam, the past and the future, to yield to the irresistible charm of the moment? Oh! why was he so imprudently kind? Why, when I was growing almost accustomed to his indifference, almost resigned, did he unconsciously destroy the slow labour of weeks, and sow for us both the seed of future torment? But I thought not of that then, nor did he. If I was glad to be once more near him, I saw in his face—and it was that undid me—that he was glad to have back again the child of whom he had for more than two years been so fond. He caressed me as after a long separation, and smoothing my hair, asked the question he had often put to me during my lingering illness—
"What shall we talk about?"
"The Gallery," was my prompt reply.
"Will you never tire of it, my darling?"
"Never, Cornelius."
"Well, I have been making an addition to it lately: a Gipsy couple in a green lane—the husband lying idly on the grass—his dark-eyed wife cooking."