"And the child?"
"There is none; for I speak of a real Gipsy couple who are to come to sit to me to-morrow, but who have no child."
"Could not I do, Cornelius?"
"Do you, with your fair hair, look like a little Gipsy?"
"I might be a stolen child, Cornelius."
"So you might!" cried Cornelius, his whole face lighting up at the idea; "why, it is an excellent, an admirable subject! What a tender and pathetic contrast!—they the type of rude animal enjoyment and power, you, like divine Una among the Satyrs, a meek and intellectual captive. A sketch! I shall make a picture of it—a fine picture—a great picture, please God."
He rose, and walked about the room quite excited; his eyes had kindled and burned with inward light; his face glowed with triumph. Once he paused, and with his fore-finger rapidly traced on the air lines which had already struck his fancy for the arrangement of the group; then he came back to me and gravely said—
"I see it, Daisy; it is painted, finished, and hung in the great room; in the meanwhile let us discuss the particulars."
We discussed them, or rather Cornelius spoke, and I approved unconditionally every word he uttered, until, to our common astonishment, the clock struck eleven. As he bade me good-night, Cornelius laid his hand on my head, and said, admiringly—
"You clever little thing to have thought of it! no wonder I am fond of you; but do you know you will have to dress in rags, like a poor little drudge?"
"As if I minded it, Cornelius!" I quickly replied.
He smiled and kissed me very kindly. I went up to my room, to be as restless and wakeful with joy as I had not so long ago been with bitter grief.
Early the next morning I stole up to the studio. Cornelius was already at work; he never looked round as I entered, but observed, with a smile—
"So you have at length found your way up here?"
I did not answer.
"What kept you away so long?" he continued.
"I thought you did not want me."
"Did I ever want you?"
"No, that is true."
"Then why do you come now?"
"Shall I go away, Cornelius?"
He turned round smiling.
"Look at them," he said, nodding towards an open portfolio, "you have not seen them yet."
He alluded to several sketches of a child in various attitudes, intended for the "Happy Time."
"I have seen them, Cornelius," I replied.
"And when, if you please?"
"I came up the other day when you were out. Pray do not be vexed, but I could not bear any longer not to see what you were doing."
Vexed! oh, he did not look vexed at all with this proof of my constant admiration. Flattery is so sweet, so subtle, so intoxicating. All he said was—
"Well, which do you prefer?"
I luckily hit on the very sketch he himself approved.
"That child has a great deal of judgment," he observed, with thoughtful satisfaction: "I could trust to her opinion as to my own: it is the best, of course it is. There, put them all away; you have always kept my things in order for me until lately; see the mess in which they now are."
So they were, in a most artistic confusion, which I remedied with great alacrity. When we went down to breakfast, Kate, who had seen with pleasure that I had not of late been so much with her brother, asked, with some asperity, "if I was again going to settle myself upstairs."
"Precisely," replied Cornelius, and with great ardour and enthusiasm he told her of his intended picture. "Such an admirable subject,—not at all so commonplace as the 'Happy Time.'"
Miss O'Reilly was horrified at the prospect of Gipsy sitters, and prophesied the utter ruin of her household. Cornelius laughed at her fears, and promised to keep such strict watch that no disaster could possibly occur. The Gipsy couple came the same day—a wild, restless- looking pair, who tried to the utmost the patience of Cornelius, and gave me many an odd, shy look as they saw me take my attitude, in the costume, more picturesque than attractive, of an old brown skirt, torn and made ragged for the purpose; a shabby bodice; my hair loose and tangled, and my neck, arms, and feet bare. They were very wilful, too, and had on the subject of attitudes ideas which differed materially from those of Cornelius. At length the group was formed, and in this first sitting he could take a rapid sketch of it, "just to fix the idea of it in his mind," he observed to Kate at tea-time; "they were a little restless for the first time, but I have no doubt we shall get on very well, though you looked rather afraid of that swarthy fellow, Daisy."
"I did not like his eyes—nor those of his wife either, Cornelius."
"Why, there is a tea-spoon missing," hastily observed Kate, who had been holding a conference at the door with Deborah; "you had not one in the studio, had you, Cornelius?"
He rose precipitately, left the room, and in a few minutes, came down with a melancholy face.
"There was one and there is not one," he said, sadly,—"the perfidious wretches!"
"I shall send the police after them," warmly cried Kate.
"Will the police make them sit to me again?" impatiently asked Cornelius.
"Indeed I hope not," indignantly replied his sister.
"To leave me in such a predicament for the sake of a miserable tea- spoon!" he observed, feelingly.
"A miserable tea-spoon! one of the dozen that has been fifty years in the family, with our crest, a hawk's head, upon it too! I am astonished at you, Cornelius; a miserable tea-spoon! you speak as if you had been born with a silver spoon in your mouth!"
Cornelius sighed profoundly by way of reply; but even so tender a disappointment could not weigh long on his cheerful temper.
"After all," he philosophically observed, "they left me my idea."
"I wish the tea-spoon had been an idea," shortly said Kate.
"Well, I wish it had," placidly replied her brother; "but I have at least the consolation of having hit on the very characters I wanted—arrant thieves."
"Indeed you did, Cornelius."
"I remember their features quite well, and shall without scruple consider and paint them too as the real abductors of Daisy; for it stands to reason that she would not be here now if they had only found some decent opportunity of abstracting her."
"Or if she had only been a tea-spoon!" sighed Kate.
"This incident will be of the greatest use to me," gravely continued Cornelius; "it will enable me to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the picture story."
This was rather too much for Kate. But Cornelius bore her reproaches with great serenity, and found another motive of consolation in the fact that I, the principal figure, being always under his hand, it really was not so bad after all.
Happy were the three weeks that followed. Cornelius had acquired great facility and worked hard; I sat to him nearly all the day long; we rested together, and he then put by his own fatigue to cheer and amuse me. It was to me as if Miriam had never existed. Cornelius by no means forgot her, but even a man in love may think of other things besides his mistress, and a new picture on the easel was the most dangerous rival Miriam could dread in the heart of her betrothed. They wrote to one another daily; every morning Cornelius consecrated a quarter of an hour to love, then devoted himself heart and soul to his task; and I—as sharing in that task—occupied, I believe, a greater share of his thoughts and feelings than even his beautiful mistress.
One morning indeed, when the postman did not bring him his usual letter, he looked quite mournful, and began his labour with the declaration "that it was no use—he could not work," but after a quarter of an hour his brow had cleared and he was wholly absorbed in his task. He worked until we were both tired, he with painting, I with sitting; he then threw himself on the low couch, and wanted me to sit by him and talk as usual, but I said he looked drowsy.
"So I am, you little witch."
"Then pray sleep awhile."
"No, I should sleep too long."
"Shall I awaken you?"
"You could not."
"Indeed I could, Cornelius."
"Promise not to mind my entreaties."
"I shall not mind them, Cornelius."
"Then take my watch, your poor father's present, Daisy, and wake me in a quarter of an hour."
He closed his eyes, and, having the happy faculty of sleeping when he liked, he was soon in deep slumber. I sat by him, the watch in one hand, the other resting on the cushion which pillowed his head; I neither moved nor spoke until the quarter of an hour was over, then, without a second's grace, I called him up.
"Five minutes more," he drowsily entreated.
"Not five seconds. I wish you would wake up, Cornelius, or I shall have to pinch you or pull your hair."
"Pull and pinch, so you only let me sleep."
Of course I did not pinch; but I pulled one of his raven locks with sufficient force.
"Little barbarian!" he exclaimed, "what do you mean by such usage?"
"I mean to waken you, Cornelius."
"And why so?" he asked, to obtain that second's delay which is so delightful to the sleeper.
"Oh, Cornelius! how can you ask? Must you not work to become a great artist, paint fine pictures, and become famous?"
"Very true!" he exclaimed, starting up; "thank you, Daisy, you are a faithful friend." And in rising, he passed his arm around my neck and kissed me. But even as he did so, I saw his glance light suddenly; I turned round, Miriam was standing on the threshold of the open door looking at us. I sighed: my three weeks' happiness was over.
Cornelius received Miriam with a flushed brow and eager look that betrayed the joy of his heart. And yet with what indolent calmness she let him clasp her hand in his, and stood in the centre of the room, looking at him with an abstracted smile! In answer to his eager inquiries she composedly answered—
"Yes, my aunt is better and I am quite well. Just arrived? no—I came back this morning."
"And I never knew it!"
"And never guessed it from not receiving the letter! I am come up to scold you. Your sister says you take no rest."
"I had been sleeping when you came in."
"I saw you were being awakened very gently."
"Gently! she used me as Minerva Achilles, but I do not complain; I wanted to work: look!" He took her arm within his and led her to his easel.
"Have you done all that since I left?" she asked.
"Indeed I have, Miriam."
"That accounts for your letters being so short." He reddened; she calmly resumed—
"Why are those two figures mere outlines?"
"Thereby hangs a tale, or rather a tea-spoon. They are to be Gipsies: the child is stolen."
"And a miserable little creature it looks."
"I see I have not caught the likeness," said Cornelius, looking mortified: "it is Daisy."
"Why, so it is!" exclaimed Miss Russell, seeming astonished; "how could I recognize the child in such unbecoming attire?"
"Unbecoming! Do you know, Miriam, I rather admire Daisy in her rags: her attitudes are so graceful and picturesque; and is she not wonderfully fair?" he added, taking up one of my arms and seeming to call on Miss Russell for confirmation.
"You have made quite a drudge of her," she said, looking at the picture.
"Not a degraded one, I hope," rather quickly replied Cornelius: "Marie Antoinette looked a queen, even when she swept the floor of her prison; if I have not made Daisy look superior and intellectual in her rags, the fault is mine, Miriam."
He looked at her, she did not reply; he continued—"I am taking great pains with that stolen child; as a contrast to the coarse enjoyment of the two Gipsies, and a type of unworthy degradation borne patiently and with unconscious dignity. I mean it to be the principal figure of the group: you understand?"
"I should not have guessed it," was her discouraging reply. He looked mortified; she smiled, and added, "I know nothing of Art. I have nearer seen an artist at work. Let me look at you and learn."
Cornelius looked delighted, and giving her a somewhat proud smile, set to work at once. She stood by the easel in an attitude of simple and attentive grace; she had taken off her black beaver bonnet, and the wintry light by which the artist painted, fell with a pale subdued ray on her fair head, and defined her perfect profile on the sombre background of the room. But his picture and his sitter absorbed Cornelius; his glance never wandered once to the spot where his beautiful mistress stood in such dangerous proximity. I saw her look at him with wonder, almost with pity, then with something like displeasure.
Cornelius was more than usually intent. From his face I knew he was obstinately striving against some difficulty. He frowned; he bit his lip; his very manner of holding palette and pencil was annoyed and irritated. At length he threw both down with an impetuous and indignant exclamation—
"I cannot—do what I will—I cannot!" I was accustomed to such little outbreaks, but Miriam drew back, and said in a tone of ice—
"Mr. O'Reilly, you will break your palette."
"I beg your pardon," replied Cornelius, with a start that showed he had forgotten her presence, "but Daisy and the palette are used to it, and there are things would provoke Saint Luke himself, saint and painter though he was. Would you believe it? I cannot render the thoughtful look of that child's eyes otherwise than by a stare!"
He spoke quite mournfully: Miriam laughed; her lover looked astonished.
"What about it?" she said.
"Why, that I am painting a bad picture."
"What matter?"
"And the disappointment! the shame!"
"Be more philosophic," she coolly replied: "success is but a chance."
"Begging your pardon, Miriam, it is a chance that falls to the good pictures, consequently it is worth any toil, any sacrifice."
"Yes," she replied, with reproach in the very carelessness of her tone, "you are, like all men, absorbed in your ambition."
"Would you have me sit down in idleness?"
"I would have you not set your heart on a picture and on fame."
"I must work, Miriam, and the workman cannot separate himself from his work, nor be careless of his wages."
He spoke very warmly; she coldly smiled.
"I can do so," she replied; "I can tell you: paint good or bad pictures— what matter? you are still the same man."
"Ay, but there is a bit of difference between a good and bad painter," answered Cornelius, looking half vexed, "and Cornelius O'Reilly hopes to paint good pictures before he dies! But for one or two things this would not be amiss. Daisy, come and look at it."
"You appeal to her?"
"She sometimes hits the right nail on the head. Are the eyes better,Daisy?"
"No, Cornelius," I frankly replied.
"No!" he echoed, giving my neck a provoked pinch, "and why so, pray?"
"I don't like them much; they look in."
"You silly child, that is just what I want," he replied, smiling and chucking my chin: "I don't know what I should do without that little girl," he added, turning to Miriam, "she is a wonderful sitter, not a bad critic—"
"Are you not afraid she will take cold?" interrupted Miriam; "that dress looks thin."
"I trust not," answered Cornelius; "the room is kept warm; she says she is quite warm, but she is so anxious to be of use to me that I can scarcely trust her. Oh, Daisy! I hope you have not been deceiving me."
He made me lie down on the couch, drew it by the fire, threw over me a shawl that was kept in the studio for that purpose, and wrapped me in its folds. I smiled at his anxiety; Miriam looked on with surprise, as if she had forgotten that Cornelius was fond of me.
"I am so thankful to you for mentioning it," he said, turning towards her, "I am forgetful of these things; but if anything were to happen to Daisy, even for the sake of the best picture man ever painted, I should never forgive myself. How do you think she looks?"
"Sallow, as usual," she replied, in passing by me to leave us.
"You are not going yet," he said, going up to her, "you know I want to convert you to Art."
"Not to-day," she replied coldly, and, disengaging her hand from his, she left the studio.
Cornelius came back to the fireplace and looked pensive. I attempted to rise.
"No," he said quickly, "you must not sit any more to-day."
"Oh! Cornelius," I entreated, "pray let me; I do so want to see the picture finished."
Cornelius sighed; he looked down at me rather wistfully, and said, involuntarily perhaps—
"Yes,youlike both the workman and his work."
I had felt, after the death of her young sister, that Miriam never would like me; from the very day she came back to the Grove, I felt she disliked me. Her return, without making Cornelius less kind, brought its own torment. She now daily came up to the studio, and from the moment her calm and beautiful face appeared in the half-open door, I felt as if a baleful shadow suddenly filled the room. She did not banish me from the only spot she had left me, but she followed me to it and mercilessly embittered all my happiness. Never once did she leave without having stung me by slights and covert sneers which Cornelius was too frank and good to perceive; which I dared not resent openly, but over which I silently brooded, until jealousy became a rooted aversion.
She had been back about ten days when I again fell ill. Cornelius thought at first I had taken cold in sitting to him, and was miserable about it; but the doctor on being called in declared I had the small-pox, and though Cornelius averred he had gone through this dangerous disease, Miss O'Reilly was morally convinced of the contrary, and banished him from my room.
Nothing could exceed her own devotedness to me during this short though severe illness, and my slow recovery. She seldom left me, and never for more than a few minutes. One evening however, as I woke from a light sleep, I missed Kate from her usual place, and to my dismay I saw, by the light of a low lamp burning on the table, her brother, who stood at the foot of my bed, looking at me rather sadly.
"Oh! Cornelius, go, pray go," I exclaimed, in great alarm.
"There is no danger for me, child," he replied gently; "how are you?"
"Almost well, Cornelius, but pray go; pray do."
Without answering he hastily drew back and stepped within the shadow of the bed-curtain as the door opened, and admitted, not Kate, but Miriam. She did not see Cornelius, for the room was almost dark; she probably thought I slept; she at least approached my bed very softly, moving across the carpeted floor as dark and noiseless as a shadow. When she reached the head of my bed she stood still a moment, then taking the lamp lowered it so that its dim light fell on my face. Our eyes met; I looked at her with a wonder she did not seem to heed; I had never seen her calm look so eager. With a smile she laid down the lamp.
"Oh, Miriam, Miriam!" exclaimed the reproachful voice of Cornelius, who came forward as he spoke, "you have broken your word to me."
She started slightly.
"What brought you here?" she asked.
"I wanted to see my poor child."
He took her hand to lead her to the door; but she did not move, and said in a peculiar tone—
"Have you seen her?"
"Not well."
"Look at her then."
She handed the lamp to him; he took it reluctantly, just allowed its ray to fall upon me, then laid it down with a sigh.
"Poor little thing!" he observed, sadly.
"But it might have been much worse," said Miriam, gently.
"Much worse," he echoed.
I could not imagine what they were talking of.
"I am almost well again, Cornelius," I said.
"I am glad of it," he replied, cheerfully; then turning to Miriam, he again entreated her to go.
"With you," was her brief reply.
He complied: as they went out together, I heard him chiding her for her imprudent kindness. She did not answer, but smiled silently as the door closed upon them.
On learning the visit Cornelius had paid me, Kate was very angry. To our mutual relief he did not suffer from it, and even repeated it in a few days, in order to take me down to the parlour, where I had begged hard to take tea with him and Kate. As he lifted me up in the heavy shawl which wrapped me, Cornelius sighed.
"My poor little Daisy," he said, "how light, how very light you are getting!"
"Oh! but," I replied, a little nettled, "I am to improve so much, you know—at least Miss Russell said so—you remember?"
He gave me a rueful look, and, without replying, took me downstairs. Miss Russell sat by the table looking over a volume of prints; she just raised her eyes to say quietly—
"I am glad you are well again, Daisy," but took no other notice of me.
Cornelius laid me down on the couch, and sitting on the edge, asked me how I felt.
"Very well, Cornelius," I replied, and half rising, I passed my arms around his neck and kissed him. He returned the caress, and at the same time gently tried to make me lie down again. I detected the uneasy look he cast at the mirror over the mantle-piece which we both faced; I wanted to look too; he held me down tenderly, but firmly.
"Not yet, my pet," he said with some emotion, "you must promise not to look at yourself until I tell you."
The truth flashed on me: I was disfigured; I know not how it had never occurred to me before. I burst into tears, and hid my face in the pillow of the sofa. Cornelius vainly tried to comfort me: I would not even look up at him; to be told by him, and before her, of my disgrace, was too bitter, too galling.
"Shall we love you less?" asked Cornelius.
"Besides, what is beauty?" inquired Kate.
Miriam said nothing.
I did not regret beauty, which had never been mine to lose, but I lamented the woful change from plainness to downright ugliness. "I know I am like Mr. Trim," I despairingly exclaimed,—"without eyebrows or eyelashes."
"Indeed," replied Cornelius, "your eyelashes are as long, and, like your eyebrows, as beautifully dark as ever. Let that comfort you."
I thought it poor comfort—there are so many things in a face besides eyebrows and eyelashes; but drawing the shawl over mine, I checked my tears, and asked Cornelius to take me back to my room. He complied silently, and, as he laid me down on my bed, said gently—
"Have I your word that you will not look at yourself?"
"Yes, Cornelius," I replied, scarcely able to speak. "Oh! Kate," I added, as the door closed on him, "am I so very ugly?"
"Never mind, child," she answered cheerfully, "bear it bravely."
I bore it bravely enough in appearance, but in my heart I repined bitterly. Kate and Cornelius were both deceived, and praised me for my seeming fortitude. I did not leave my room for some time, and had no difficulty in keeping my promise; I never felt tempted to break it; I sickened at the thought of meeting in a glass my own scarred and disfigured face. My only comfort was, that as Miriam came not near me, I was spared the look I should have found it most hard to bear in my humiliation. But I could not delay this moment for ever. One evening, when I knew Miss Russell to be below, Kate, in spite of my entreaties and my tears, insisted on making me go down.
I entered the room like a criminal, and without once looking up or around me. I was going straight to the stool by Kate's chair, when Cornelius, who sat on the sofa with Miriam, said, making room for me—
"Daisy, come here."
I felt my unhappy face burn with mortification and shame, as I obeyed and sat down by him. He kissed and caressed me very kindly, but though Miriam never turned towards me her face so pale and calm, nor inflicted the look I dreaded, the thought of her secret triumph rendered me dull and joyless.
"You don't seem very merry," said Cornelius, stooping to look into my face.
"The silly thing is afraid of the looking-glass," pitilessly observedKate.
"Have you really not yet looked at yourself?" asked Cornelius, in a tone of surprise.
"No, Cornelius," I replied, in a low voice, "I had promised, you know."
"So you had, and you kept your word like a good little girl. Well, I release you—you may look now."
I felt in no hurry to avail myself of the permission.
"Why don't you look?" he asked, very coolly.
"I would rather not," I faltered.
"But you must look at yourself some day; better have it over," was his philosophic advice.
"Indeed I would much rather not."
"Pshaw!" he said, impatiently, "I thought you had more sense."
"So did I," observed Kate.
I thought it was very easy for them, who were both handsome, to talk of sense to a poor plain girl.
"Is it possible," composedly continued Cornelius, "that you mind it? Now, if you find your nose a little damaged, for instance, will it affect you?"
"Indeed. Cornelius, I should not like it," was my dismayed reply.
"Would you not?"
"No, indeed; is there anything the matter with my nose?"
"Just give one good, courageous look, and see."
He took my hand, made me rise, and led me to the glass. In vain I turned away—he compelled me to look, and I saw my face—the same as ever; not handsomer, certainly, but not in the least disfigured. I turned to Cornelius, flushed and breathless with pleasure: he seemed to be enjoying my surprise.
"Ah! how uselessly we have frightened you!" he said, smiling, "but your face looked bad at first, and that wise doctor said it would remain thus. Kate and I have watched the change with great interest, but seeing how well you bore it, we resolved not to speak until you were once more metamorphosed into your former self. Confess the pleasure was worth the fright."
I glanced at the mirror, then at Cornelius, who stood with me on the hearth-rug, and with an odd, fluttering feeling, I observed—
"I don't think I am disfigured, Cornelius."
"Not a bit," he replied, gaily: "oh! you will grow up into a beauty yet."
He was holding my head in both his hands, and looking down at me very kindly. I earnestly gazed in his face, and said—
"Did I look very bad on that evening when you brought me down, Cornelius?Was I quite a fright?"
"Almost," he replied, frankly. "Well, what is it?" he added, as he saw my eyes filling with tears: "you do not mind that now, do you, child?"
"No. Cornelius, but I remember you kissed me."
He smiled, without answering, and went back to Miriam. I quietly resumed by him the place to which he had summoned me, and which I had so reluctantly taken. He paid me no attention, and pertinaciously looked at his betrothed; yet when my hand silently sought his, its pressure returned told me that he was not unconscious of my presence. I felt too happy to be jealous, and for once sitting thus by Cornelius, unnoticed, but with his hand in mine, I could be satisfied with that humble degree of affection which a plain, homely child may receive in the presence of a beautiful and beloved woman. Kate, pleased to see me recovered and happy, was smiling at me from her low chair, when she suddenly frowned and started, as a low, timid knock was heard at the street-door.
"That's Trim!" she exclaimed astonished, for, like Mr. Smalley, he had not come near us since the engagement of Cornelius and Miriam; "I know him by his slinking knock, which always seems to say, 'Don't mind me— nobody minds me, you know.'"
Miriam smiled scornfully; the parlour door opened, and Mr. Trim's head appeared nodding benevolently at us all. He entered with his usual slouch, shuffled his way to Kate, and holding her hand in both his, kindly hoped, "she was quite well."
"Quite," was her prompt reply. Mr. Trim was so happy to hear it that he forgot to release her hand, until that of Cornelius, laid on his shoulder, made him turn round. Mr. Trim's eyes seemed to overflow with emotion. "God bless you, my dear fellow, God bless you!" he said, shaking both the hands of his friend up and down several times with great fervour, "it does me good to see you; I wanted Smalley to come, and thought it would do him good too, but he declined. He returns your Byron with thanks and his love, and hopes Byron was a Christian, but he would not come. Ah! my dear fellow, clergymen are men."
"What else did you think they were?" shortly asked Kate—"birds?"
Mr. Trim's fancy was much tickled at the idea. He shut his little eyes and laughed immoderately. When he recovered, he went up to Miriam, who sat indifferent and calm, like one taking no share in what was passing. Mr. Trim hoped she was quite well; she replied quite, with the most scornful civility. He hoped she had been quite well since he last saw her. She had been quite well. He hoped she would continue to be quite well. She hoped so too, and took up a book. Undeterred by this, Mr. Trim drew a chair near the angle of the sofa in which she sat, and spite of her astonished look, there he remained.
Cornelius had resumed his place between Miriam and me, and I had the honour of next attracting Mr. Trim's attention.
"I am quite well now," I replied, in answer to his inquiries, "but I have had the small-pox."
"Had the small-pox, eh? Let me see; I am half blind, you know."
He raised the lamp, surveyed me through his half-shut eyes, then said admiringly—
"A very fair escape. Don't you think the little thing's complexion is improved, Ma'am?"
He addressed Miriam, who acquiesced by a silent bend of her queen-like head.
"Altogether," continued Mr. Trim, "she looks better. Now do you know,Ma'am, that at sixteen Daisy will be quite a pretty girl."
Miriam smiled ironically. Cornelius looked at me, and complacently observed—
"Three years may make a great difference."
"Is Daisy thirteen?" suddenly asked Miriam.
"Not yet; her birthday is in May."
"You told Dr. Mixton she was ten."
"Twelve, Miriam; she was ten when I brought her home."
She did not reply.
"How goes on the Happy Time?" asked Mr. Trim, bending forward with his hands on his knees.
"It is finished, and I am engaged on another picture."
Mr. Trim shut his eyes and nodded to Miriam, as much as to say, "I know all about it;" then asked how she liked sitting.
"I do not sit to Mr. O'Reilly," she replied in a tone of ice.
"Now, Ma'am, I call that cruel, to deprive our friend—"
"Mr. O'Reilly has never asked me to sit to him."
"But you know I mean to do so when I have finished my Stolen Child," saidCornelius, whose look vainly sought hers.
"Allow me to suggest a subject," rather eagerly said Mr. Trim: "if it won't do, you need not mind, you know. Did you ever read 'The Corsair,' Ma'am?"
"Yes," impatiently replied Miss Russell.
"Then what do you say to Medora?"
"Medora, my favourite heroine!" exclaimed Cornelius; "that is not a bad idea, Trim."
He looked at his betrothed; she was looking at Mr. Trim, who, as usual, was in a state of blindness.
"Medora in her bower," he resumed, "or parting from Conrad, or watching for his return—do you object, Ma'am?"
"Not if you will sit for Conrad," she replied, her eyes beaming scorn on his ungainly person.
"But Mr Trim is not like the print of Conrad," I put in pertly, "andCornelius is, is he not, Kate?"
Mr. Trim laughed; Kate gave me a severe look and rang for tea. Our guest rose; Miss O'Reilly civilly asked him to stay; but he declined, he had an engagement, he said. Scarcely had the street door closed upon him, when he knocked again. Deborah opened, and his head soon appeared at the parlour door.
"Dreadful memory!" he said, chuckling, "quite forgot Byron; Smalley was rather shocked at some passages, and says you are to read his notes on Manfred."
"Daisy, go and take that book from Mr. Trim," said Kate.
I rose, went up to him, and held out my hand for the volume. He stretched out his arm, caught me, lifted me up, and attempted to kiss me. As I saw his face bending towards mine, I slapped it with all my might, and cried out, "Cornelius!"
"Put that child down," said his somewhat stern voice behind us.
Mr. Trim put me down as if he had been shot. I ran to Cornelius, who looked dark and displeased, and clung to him for protection.
"Like him best—eh, Daisy?" said Mr. Trim, trying to laugh it off, "he is Conrad, eh? but I have no Medora. You foolish thing! why it is only a joke—who minds me?"
"Do not be alarmed, Daisy," observed Cornelius, addressing me, but givingMr. Trim an expressive look; "Mr. Trim will never do it again."
"Catch me at it!" rather sulkily answered our visitor, rubbing his cheek as he spoke, "I have enough of such valiant damsels. Well, well," he added, relapsing into his usual manner, "no malice; good night, I am glad to see you so happy and comfortable. God bless you all!" He cast a sullen look around the room, and vanished.
Cornelius said nothing; but there was a frown on his brow, and he bit his nether lip like one who chafed inwardly. He led me back to my place on the sofa, and, sitting down by me, did his best to soothe me.
"Why, Daisy," merrily said Kate, "I did not know you had half so much spirit."
I hid my burning face on the shoulder of her brother.
"Never mind, child." she resumed, "he won't begin again."
"I should like to see him." observed Cornelius.
I looked up to say aloud—
"Cornelius won't let him, will you, Cornelius?"
He smoothed my ruffled hair and vowed no Trim ever should kiss me against my will.
"Come, come," put in Kate, "she is only a child."
"Child or not, he shan't kiss her," muttered Cornelius.
"Nonsense!"
"Nonsense! I tell you, Kate, that the child does not like it, nor I either." He spoke sharply.
"You do not look as if you did," said the chilling voice of Miriam.
She had beheld all that had passed with her usual indifference, and now sat leaning back in the angle of the sofa, looking at us with calm attention. Cornelius turned round and replied quietly—
"You are quite right. Miriam, I do not like it."
The entrance of Deborah interrupted the conversation. After tea Cornelius played and sang. Miriam left early.
On the following morning, Kate sent me up my breakfast as usual, and accompanied it with a message that I was not to think of rising before twelve. But I felt strong again; besides I was eager to surprise Cornelius; I hastily donned the ragged attire of the Stolen Child and ran up to the studio. I entered abruptly, then stood still.
In the centre of the room stood Miriam, clad in strange attire. A white robe fell to her feet; a blue cashmere scarf was wrapped around her fine person; her fair hair was braided back from her face; her arms, as beautiful as those of an antique statue, were as bare. Cornelius stood looking at her with eager delight, and never noticed my entrance.
"I am not sure," he said, "that the costume is correct, but I know I never saw even you look so beautiful!"
She smiled, and sank down on the low couch, with negligent grace. One arm fell loosely by her side, the other supported her cheek.
"Do not stir," eagerly cried Cornelius: "that is the very attitude! Oh! Miriam, what a glorious picture it will make!" and walking round her, he surveyed her keenly.
"You think of nothing but your pictures," she said, impatiently.
"Why do you tempt me? Just allow me to move your left arm."
With chilling indifference, she passively allowed him to move her beautiful arms at his pleasure.
"There!" he said, drawing back, "it is perfect now."
"Outstretched! theatrical!" she replied ironically.
"Can you mend it?" asked Cornelius, looking piqued.
She did not answer, but by just drawing in a little, and bending more forward, she threw into her face, into her look, attitude, and bearing, a strange intensity of eager watchfulness, that made her fixed gaze seem as if piercing the depths of an invisible horizon. Cornelius looked at her with wonder and admiration.
"That is indeed Medora," he frankly said at length: "Oh! Miriam, never tell me, after this, you do not care for Art! and now be merciful, let me sketch you thus."
"And the stolen child, who is waiting?" she said, glancing at me.
"What, Daisy!" he exclaimed, seeing me for the first time.
Miriam attempted to rise; he eagerly turned back to her, and entreated her so ardently to remain thus, that she yielded. When he had prevailed, he turned to me.
"Daisy," he said gaily, "you are a good little girl, but you may take off your picturesque attire."
Alas! so I might: the sorceress had conquered me in my last stronghold!
At first Miss Russell would not hear of sitting for anything more finished and elaborate than a sketch in crayons, but from the sketch to a water-colour drawing, and from this again to an oil painting, the progression was rapid: at length the Stolen Child was wholly set aside and replaced on the easel by Medora. I had before lost Cornelius in the evening, in his moments of leisure and liberty, I now lost him at his labour; the intruder stepped in between him and me on the very spot where I thought myself most secure, and I had to look on and see it, for Miriam objected, it seems, to sitting to Cornelius alone; Kate had something else to do than to keep them company: the task was left to me.
That Miriam should sit to Cornelius instead of me, was the least part of my grief; I had never expected that he would always paint little girls: the sitting in itself was nothing, but it led to much that it was acute misery for a jealous child like me to witness.
I was not accustomed to be much noticed by Cornelius in the studio, but if he had a look to spare from his picture, a word to utter in a pause of his work, he gave both look and word to the child who sat to him, or silently watched him painting, and now this was taken from me! I was to my face robbed and impoverished, that another might be enriched with all I lost. For two years I had reigned in that studio, of which not even Kate shared the empire; for two years Cornelius had there spoken to me of his art, of his future, of everything that was linked with this proud aim and darling ambition of his life; and now another listened to his aspirations; another heard every passing thought and feeling which, though a child, it had once been mine to hear, and I had to look on and see it all.
But it was not all.
I did not merely see Miriam enjoying whatever I had once enjoyed; I saw her loved as I had never been loved, possessed of a thousand things which had never been mine to lose. Miriam was a woman, an intellectual, educated woman; she could do more than listen to Cornelius, she could converse with him; she did do so, and constantly she showed me the immense superiority which her knowledge and her years gave her over a mere child like me. She had also become converted to Art, and if not so fervent a disciple as I had been, she was certainly a far more discriminating critic. Her sense of the beautiful was keen and peculiar. She seldom admired it under its daily external aspects, but she could detect it where it seemed invisible to others, and was by them unsought for. She never agreed with Cornelius about what he considered the merits of his pictures; but then, by showing him other real merits of which he had remained unconscious, she charmed more than she ever provoked him. With his fair mistress to sit to him, to look at and talk to—what could Cornelius want with me? It was natural that involuntary and unconscious carelessness should creep into his kindest words and caresses; that, exclusively absorbed in Miriam, he should often forget my presence; that his look, perpetually fastened on her, should seldom fall on me; that every word he uttered should be directed to her: it was natural; but to see, feel, know this, not once in a time, but daily, not for an hour in the day, but all day long, was a torment that acted on me as a slow fever.
But it was not all.
Though Cornelius had been, was still, very fond of me, he had never of course been in love with me. He was in love with Miriam, and if he had enough self-control and self-respect not to show more of the feeling than it was becoming for a child like me to see, he loved too ardently not to be for ever betraying himself to jealous and watchful eyes like mine. His look rested on her with a tenderness and a passion, his voice addressed her in lingering accents, of which he was himself unconscious. His very tones changed in uttering her name, just as the meaning of his face became different when he looked at her. If I had known the frail and fleeting nature of human feelings, I might not have trusted these first signs of a first passion; but all I knew of love was what the fairy tales had told me, and in them I had never read but of loves that had no ending, and were not less ardent than enduring. That Cornelius might one day be less absorbed in Miriam, less oblivious of me, was a thought I never knew nor cherished. The future, when I could forget the present enough to think of the future, had but one image—Cornelius eternally loving Miriam, eternally forgetting me.
But even this was not all.
Miriam was in all the beauty of womanhood; Cornelius in all the fervour of man's young love. She was with him almost all the day long, not alone, but with the check of a constant presence that irritated the fever liberty and untroubled solitude might have soothed to satiety; and this, or I am much deceived, she knew well. He had to repress himself perpetually, in a way which must have been wearying and painfully irksome. His temper was too generous to wreak itself upon me, but I became conscious of a most galling and yet most inevitable truth: in that studio where I had won my place by so much perseverance; where I had shown to Cornelius a faith so entire and unshaken; where I, a child, and restless as all children are more or less, had been the patient slave of his art; where Cornelius had always welcomed me with a greeting so sincere and so cordial in its very homeliness; yes, there, even there, I was no longer welcome. Daily, hourly, I read in his face, in his eyes, in his voice, that my presence was burdensome, my absence a release. I knew it, and I had to endure it; I had to be ever drinking this last sickening drop of a cup that was never drained. I was jealous: and the word sums up all my miseries. I was also what is called a precocious child, and perhaps I felt more acutely than many; I sayperhaps, for jealousy is an instinct,—is not the dog jealous of its master?—assuredly it is not a feeling that waits for years or knowledge. It is the very shadow of love; and who yet watched the birth of love in a human heart?
I loved Cornelius as an ardent and jealous daughter loves her father, and I was miserable because he bestowed on another that which I neither could wish for, nor even imagine the wish to claim. As was my love, so was my jealousy, filial and childlike: a jealousy of the heart, in which not the faintest trace of any other feeling blended. It was sinful, but it was pure. I did not suffer because Cornelius was in love with Miriam, but because he loved her. If, at twelve, I could have understood and separated feelings that blend so strangely in the heart, I know that I would not have envied Miriam one spark of the passion, but I know that I would still, as I did bitterly, have grudged her every atom of the tenderness. If I did not feel jealousy in that mysterious intensity which has stung so many hearts to madness. I felt it in its calmer bitterness and more patient sorrow. The peculiar agony of this tormenting passion seems to me to lie in the blending of two most opposite feelings: love, from which it springs, and hatred, which it engenders; it has thus the warmth of one and the fierceness of the other, and there also lies the evil and the danger. I loved Cornelius, I detested Miriam. My only salvation from what might have been the utter ruin of my soul, heart, mind, and whole nature, was that I loved him infinitely more than I hated her; woe to me had it been otherwise!
But even as it was, I suffered—and justly—from my sin as well as from my sorrow; and most unhappily I brooded over both unsuspected. Cornelius had detected my jealousy, treated it as a jest, and forgotten it; Kate had, I believe, vaguely conjectured its existence, but I was little with her and on my guard; the only one who really knew what I suffered and why I suffered, was the one who had first inflicted and who now daily embittered the wound. Yes, Miriam knew it: I saw it in her look, in her speech, in her manner; and, if anything could render me more unhappy, it was the consciousness that my miserable weakness lay bare for her to triumph over.
Thus, and more than thus, I felt. Our true life lies in our heart; from within it, according as we feel with force or weakness, we rule the outward world in which we are cast. Strange and dramatic incidents make not the eventful life: it borrows its charm or tragic power from the ebb and flow of feelings. There never was a child who led a more sheltered existence in a more sheltered home; whose life was less varied by adventure beyond the routine of daily joys and sorrows; and yet to all that I felt then I may trace the whole of my future destiny. When I look back on the past, I feel that but for that which preceded, the plain incidents that are to follow would seem, even to me, tame and trifling; but the stakes make the game, and when happiness has to be lost or won the heart will leap at each throw of the dice, and beat fast or slowly with the faintest alternations of hope and despair.
I remember well one day at the close of winter. They both felt tired, and sat on the low couch where I had so often sat by him or watched him sleeping; he now exerted himself to amuse her as he had once done for me; I sat at a table by the window; a book lay open before me, but I could not read; I seemed all eyes, all ears, all sense for them.
"You must sit to me some day for a Mary Magdalene," said Cornelius.
"You spoke of a Juliet the other day," she replied, with a careless smile; "what am I not to be?"
"Say, what should I not be if Cornelius O'Reilly had the power?"
"And why should not Cornelius O'Reilly have the power?"
Her tone was scarcely above indifference, and yet hard to witness and to know; Cornelius had never looked half so delighted when I boldly assigned him a rank among the princes and masters of his art, as he now seemed with these few ambiguous words of his mistress. He started up to work like one who has received a fresh stimulus to exertion.
"I am still tired," coldly said Miriam.
"I do not want you yet."
"Why work then?"
"Oh! Miriam, must not my beautiful Medora progress?"
"Your beautiful Medora!" she echoed, with something like scorn passing across her face, and as if she thought that Medora interfered with the rights of Miriam.
Cornelius was standing before the easel; I saw him smile at the image it bore.
"She is beautiful," he said in a low tone, "though I say it that should not, and though I know you will never grant me that she is."
She smiled a little ironically as he turned round to her.
"I will grant you anything," she replied; "Medora is not my portrait, but an ideal woman for whom you have borrowed my form and face."
"What will not an artist attempt to idealize?" asked Cornelius with a touch of embarrassment.
"Oh!" she observed very sweetly, "I do not mean to imply it was not required. Only if this were a portrait, I should object to having Daisy's eyes and brow given to me."
Cornelius became crimson, and felt that the artist had made the lover commit a blunder. He tried to pass it off carelessly.
"Ah!" he said, "you think that because I gave too dark a tint to the eyebrows, and in attempting to make the eyes look deep, rendered them rather grey—"
She smiled and rose.
"You are not going?" he asked with surprise.
"Why not, since you do not want me."
"No, do not; pray do not!" he entreated; he looked quite uneasy, and in his earnestness took both her hands in his. She withdrew them with an astonished and displeased air, and a look that fell on me.
"Daisy," impatiently said Cornelius, "have you nothing to do below? no lessons to learn?"
He could not have said "You are in the way" more plainly; I did not answer, but rose and left them.
"What brings you down here?" asked Kate, as I entered the parlour, where she sat alone sewing.
"Cornelius said I was to learn my lessons."
"Then take your books upstairs."
I objected to this; but Miss O'Reilly was peremptory.
"I am sure Cornelius wanted to get me out of the way," I said at length, to explain a refusal that naturally surprised her.
"Oh, he did!" indignantly exclaimed Kate.
"Indeed he did, Kate."
"I don't care a pin about that," was her decisive rejoinder, "but I am determined that he shall not lose his days as he loses his evenings: go up directly."
I obeyed with deep reluctance; even when I reached the door of the studio, I paused ere I opened it, then stood still and looked.
They had not heard me; how could they?
Miriam, no longer intent on going, had resumed her place; Cornelius sat at her feet, one elbow resting on the edge of the couch, his eyes intently fixed on her face. She bent over him; her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted; one of her hands was buried in her own fair hair which fell loosened on her neck, the other slowly unravelled the dark locks of Cornelius.
"It is not at me, but at Medora, you are looking," she said impatiently.
"Are you jealous of her?"
"Jealous! when I begin it shall be with Daisy."
"Jealous of Daisy! as if you could be!"
And he smiled. I entered; Miriam looked up, saw me, and smiled too; Cornelius turned round and, reddening like a girl—she had not blushed— he rose hastily. I came forward, closed the door, and, as if I had seen, had heard nothing, I sat down and opened my books; but the words of Cornelius, "Jealous of Daisy!" seemed printed on every page; the smile, with which he had uttered and she had heard them, was ever before me. He cared so little for me that I could not be, it seems, an object of jealousy. Miriam staid for about two hours more, then left; scarcely had the door closed on her, when I rose to go: but as I passed by Cornelius, he laid his hand on my shoulder, and arrested me with a reproachful—
"Are you, too, deserting me?"
I stood before him with my books in my hand; I looked up into his face; there were no tears either in my eyes or on my cheek, but he must have seen something there, for, looking surprised—
"Why, child," he asked, "what is the matter?"
He did not even know it!
"Does your head ache?" he continued, with the most irritating unconsciousness.
"No, Cornelius," I replied in a low tone.
"Are you feverish, then?" and he felt my pulse.
This time I did not answer.
"Lie down for awhile," he said kindly. He made me sit down on the couch; placed a pillow under my head; told me to sleep, and returned to his easel.
Alas! it was not the sleep of the body that I wanted, but the calm peace which is to the mind what slumber is to the senses. His kindness irritated more than it soothed me. I watched him painting; I saw that the eyes of Medora were going to change their hue, and I remembered the time when Cornelius would not have given a stroke of the pencil, more or less, to please mortal creature. I tossed about restlessly; he heard me, and thinking me unwell, he came to me.
"Poor little thing!" he said compassionately, and stooping, he left a kiss on my forehead; but this pledge of old affection had lost its charm; I felt betrayed, and involuntarily turned away. Cornelius smiled with astonishment.
"Why, what have I done?" he asked, gaily.
His unfeigned ignorance humbled me to the heart. Without answering, I started up, and ran away to my room, where I could at least cry in liberty.
If Cornelius guessed by this what was the matter with me, he certainly did not show it. He treated me exactly as usual; he did not appear to notice that I now never returned his morning or evening caress, nor even that, as soon as he was obliged to put by Medora for the more profitable, though less interesting occupation of copying bad drawings, I scarcely went to the studio. This was perhaps good-humoured forbearance, but I took it as a proof of carelessness and indifference, which strengthened me in my jealous resentment, more felt, however, than expressed. This had lasted about a week, when Cornelius, one evening, came down to tea, looking so pale and ill that his sister asked at once what ailed him. He sat by the table, his brow resting on the palm of his hand; he replied that his head ached.
"Do you go out this evening?" inquired Kate after awhile.
"No," he answered, without moving.
Kate looked surprised, but made no comment. I sat by her, as usual, but, being lower down, I could see his face better than she did; it was rigid, and ashy pale; he neither moved nor spoke. I rose, went to the table, and tried to catch his eye; but his glance fell on me, and saw me not. I asked if the lamp annoyed him; he made a sign of denial. I stood before him, and looked at him silently.
"Sit down, child," impatiently said Kate.
I obeyed by pushing my stool near Cornelius, and sitting down at his feet; then seeing that this did not appear to displease him. I softly laid my head on his knee.
"You obstinate little thing," observed Kate, "why do you annoyCornelius?"
"She does not annoy me," he said, and his hand mechanically sought my head, and rested there, in memory of an old habit, of late, like many another, laid aside and forgotten.
After awhile Kate sent me up to her room for a book; whilst looking for it, I heard the door of Cornelius open and close again; his headache had compelled him to retire several hours earlier than usual. It was worse on the following day, for he did not come down; once I fancied I heard him stirring, and I said so to Kate.
"Not he, child; he will remain in bed all day, so you need not start and listen every second."
But her back was no sooner turned than I slipped upstairs. I had not been mistaken; Cornelius was up, and in his studio, but not at work; he stood before his easel, gazing on Medora, and looking so pale and ill that I felt quite dismayed.
"What do you want?" he asked, coldly but not unkindly.
"Nothing, Cornelius; am I in the way?"
"You may stay."
I sat down by the table; he began to pace the narrow room up and down; once he stopped short to say—
"There is no fire; the room must be cold; you had better go down."
"I am not cold; pray let me stay."
He did not insist; resumed his promenade, then threw himself down on the couch, with an impatient sigh and a moody face. I rose, stepped across the room, and sat down by him. Encouraged by his silence, I passed my arm around his neck. I had meant to say something, to tell him I was grieved for his pain or trouble, whichever it might be, but when it came to the point, all I could do was to kiss his cheek. Cornelius made a motion to put me away impatiently; but when his eyes, looking into mine, saw them filled with tears, he checked the movement.
"Poor little thing!" he said, with a sad smile; "you put by your childish anger the moment you think me in pain."
"Oh! Cornelius," I exclaimed, with much emotion, "though you should like another ever so much, and me ever so little, I shall never be so naughty again. Ah! if you knew how miserable I felt last night when I saw you looking so ill!"
"And came and laid your head on my knee like a faithful spaniel—yes, child, I knowyoulike me."
He said it with some bitterness. I replied warmly—
"Indeed I do, Cornelius, and always shall, even though you should not care for me at all."
"Would you?" he answered, his thoughts evidently elsewhere.
"Why, how could I help it?" I asked, astonished at the question.
He started like one whose secret thought has received some sudden sting.
"Ay," he said, "one cannot help it; to wish to leave off, and wish in vain; there is the torment, there is the misery."
"But I don't wish to leave off," I exclaimed, almost indignantly, and clinging to him, I added, a little passionately perhaps, "I could not if I would, and if I could I would not, Cornelius."
There was a pause; as I looked at him, something like a question debated and solved seemed to pass across his face. Then he pressed me to his heart with some emotion, as he said, rather feverishly—
"Daisy, you are wiser than those who sit down and write books or preach sermons on self-subjection, as if it were not the very hardest thing in this world. Let them!" he added, a little defiantly, "the very children rebuke them and know better."
If children reflect little and imperfectly, their faculty for observation is marvellous. It suddenly occurred to me that I had been unconsciously pleading for one whom I had little cause to love; the thought was both sweet and bitter. I looked at Medora, then at Cornelius, and said in a low tone—
"Why did she vex you, Cornelius?"
He gave mc a distrustful look, and putting me away—
"The room is cold," he observed, "go down, child."
I would rather have stayed and learned more; but his tone, though kind, exacted obedience.
When Cornelius came down to tea, his sister asked how his head felt; he said first, "Much worse," then immediately added, "Much better." His movements, like his words, were irresolute; he rose, he sat down; he stood by the table; he went to the hearth; suddenly he went to the door.
"And your headache!" observed Kate, seeing he was going out.
"Never mind the headache, Kate!" he replied impetuously: he was gone, slamming the door behind him.
Kate laid down her work with an astonished air.
He came in as I was going up to bed. I stood on the first steps of the staircase and turned round to look at him: his face was flushed; his eyes sparkled; he looked excited—more excited, I thought, than joyous or happy. In passing by me he took me so suddenly in his arms that he nearly made me fall, then begged my pardon, and finally kissed me two or three times so tenderly that Kate, who saw us from the parlour, looked quite jealous, and uttered an emphatic "Nonsense!"
"Can't a man kiss his own child?" asked Cornelius, putting me down with a gay short laugh.
"Cornelius," said Kate, "your headache was a quarrel with Miriam—confess it."
He reddened and looked disconcerted.
"I knew it," she observed triumphantly.
"No, Kate," he replied quietly, "you did not know it; you mistook; I can give you my word that I have never had the slightest difference with Miriam; by the bye, she sends her love to you."
With this he entered the parlour and closed the door. I thought it odd, and yet I knew not how to disbelieve Cornelius. At the end of the same week Miriam again came to sit for Medora. If there was a change in his manner to her, it was that he seemed to be more enamoured than ever.
Cornelius had not attached sufficient importance to our tacit quarrel to alter in the least after our tacit reconciliation. A young man of twenty- two, passionately in love with a beautiful woman of twenty-six, was not likely to care much whether a little girl of twelve sulked and would not kiss him. I liked to think the contrary—that he had been angry with me, and that I should show my penitence. This proved a most unfortunate mistake. Since she had wholly superseded me, Miriam had allowed me to remain in peace; but when I endeavoured to render myself useful or agreeable to Cornelius, she resented it as an insolent attempt to divert even a fragment of his attention from herself. She was sitting to him as usual one afternoon, when he suddenly exclaimed—