"Look!" I said, "and tell me if you ever saw such water, even in Italy?"
"The true test lies in the taste."
He raised my hand to his lips, drank the little it contained, then said with a smile—
"Rather a shallow cup, Daisy."
"Well, but did you ever taste such water?"
"Never—it is as exquisite—"
"I told you so."
"As exquisite as water can be, which is not saying much."
Necessity however compelled him to have more of it; he brought it up himself, for he positively refused to let me try again. Our meal being now fairly over, I wanted him to indulge in a siesta, a habit which he acknowledged having taken during the hot noons of Italy; but he would not.
"I do not feel in the least inclined for it, Daisy; pleasant though it may be to sleep away here an hour or two, I fancy it must be more pleasant still to lie awake and dream."
It was indeed the very place for day-dreams. It lay in a gentle curve of the stream, and far as the eye might look it could see above nothing but the overhanging branches of old and majestic trees, with sudden glimpses of bright blue sky, and below the same trees and sky ever imaged again in glassy depths. The reflection was so distinct and vivid that the water almost seemed to flow between two forest solitudes, one above the other beneath the wave, but both beautiful, wild, and lonely, and yielding the same delightful sense of coolness which shade and water always give.
In the park beyond the sun shone with burning heat, and even the blue sky had caught a golden glow; but here the breeze was pleasantly chill, the trees sheltered us from its strength, and left us all its vivifying freshness. It came every now and then, sending through my veins a thrill of vague delight, for earth has many sounds and murmuring voices which are to me a part of her beauty, and it woke them every one. The rustling of leaves in the trees above blended with the faint ripple of the flowing waters below; birds broke forth into snatches of song, or flew away with flapping of wings; then there were strange undefined sounds of short twittering, low monotonous hum, and sudden splash mingling into nothing continuous, ever interrupted and ever renewed, faint, indistinct, but soft and soothing as a dream.
And as I sat at the foot of the old willow, half bending forward and looking at the stream which flowed almost beneath me, so steep was the bank, and so near the edge did I sit, I felt as if its scarcely audible murmur, as if its scarcely visible flow, were slowly wrapping me in a dream of bliss. I was steeped in happiness; it was sweet, it was delightful to know that Cornelius was come back, that he was sitting there by me. I did not look at him; there was no need. Besides, strangely enough, it seemed more pleasant by far to feel his presence in my heart, than to gaze on him for hours with my eyes. He had been two long years away—severed by the sea, by Alps, by strange skies, strange lands, strange languages, and now, if I wished, I had but to put forth my hand to touch him as he sat by me beneath the same shade, gazing on the same clear brook. How he felt I know not; but I know that gradually my reverie deepened, until at length external objects seemed to fade away, and I remained sitting there gazing at the dark water, and fully conscious but of two things—the presence of Cornelius, and the low gliding of the stream. Happy day!—happy moments! I felt as if I could have sat there, even as the waters flowed—for ever.
The sound of a tramp, swift and light, on the heath of the park, made me look up; a herd of deer, with heads erect and startled looks, were floating past like a vision. They vanished down a beaten track leading to some favourite haunt. I looked at Cornelius, and smiled; but he had heard, he had seen nothing. He sat by me on the grassy bank, half-leaning on one elbow; his brow rested on the palm of his hand; his dark and heavy hair partly shaded his face. I followed the direction of his glance; it was fixed on the stream, not with abstracted or dreamy gaze, but as if beholding something there that charmed attention irresistibly. I looked down rather curiously, and saw nothing, save my own face reflected in the placid wave, and seeming, Oread-like to bend forth from a background of dark foliage. He detected my change of attitude, for he looked up immediately. I laughed, and said—
"I know what you were doing, Cornelius."
He did not answer.
"You were studying 'effects' again."
"Precisely," he replied, smiling; "effects of light and shadow."
"Are you always studying effects, Cornelius?"
"Whenever I can get them. To look is the delight, ay, the very life, of an artist."
The words awoke within me a train of thoughts that made my heart beat and my blood flow with a warmer glow. I could not keep silent. I looked up and said—
"Oh! Cornelius, what a great painter you will yet be! How much fame and honour await you! Well, why do you smile so?" I added, somewhat annoyed: "is it not true?"
"Because, as you speak, your cheeks flush, and your eyes kindle. You look like a young sybil just now, Daisy."
"A sybil in white muslin!" I replied, laughing in his face; but remembering how disrespectful this was, I became suddenly grave again. He seemed anything but offended, and listened like one whose ear has caught a pleasant sound.
"Do you know," he said, "I think this is the first time I ever heard you laugh outright. I remember your smile, but not your laugh. Oh, Daisy, are you sure you are the same? When I hear your voice, I think of my pale, sickly child. When I look, I am perplexed to see a tall, slender girl— fair as a lily, fresh as a rose, demure as a young Quakeress, yet who looks kindly at me, like an old acquaintance. Speak!—say something that will throw a sort of bridge from the past to the present."
"The only bridge I can give you is, that you have been two years away; that I am now always well, instead of being always ill; and that, as I began at the wrong end, by being dull as a child, I now mean to make up for the lost time by being as merry and as mad as I can."
"How old are you?"
"You have already asked me. Subtract ten years from your own age and you will know."
"What is ten years?"
"A mere trifle, like the walk awhile ago."
"Then in another year you will be eighteen."
"And you twenty-eight."
"You are very tenacious of that ten years' difference," he said a little impatiently. "What is age—any one's age? I don't care about yours; all I care about," he said smiling, "is to find you so changed from what you were."
"In one or two things I certainly am changed, as you will perceive, if you close your eyes and promise not to look."
"Why so?"
I would not tell him, so he complied, looking rather curious. I rose so softly that he could not hear me; the stream was neither wide nor deep; besides at this spot it suddenly grew narrower; I lightly sprang over; as I alighted safely I said—
"You may look now."
He turned pale on seeing me on the other bank.
"Daisy," he cried, "how could you do such a thing!"
"Could you not do it, Cornelius? it really is not so difficult. Try."
He refused, and said he was very angry. I laughed.
"No, Cornelius," I said, "I see in your face you are only surprised. I mean to astonish you still more; you said you had never heard me laugh, I am at least certain that you never heard me sing. Pray open your ears, for I mean to sing you a song."
I sat down in the high ferns, so high that they almost hid me, and I sang him the song of her who loved the lad at the sign of the Blue Bell. He heard me, his chin in his hand, his look on my face; seeing me so fearless, his own uneasiness had vanished.
"Well!" I said.
"Well," he replied, smiling, "it is as wild and sweet a ditty and as pleasant a voice as one need wish to hear on a summer noon. Sing me something else."
"No, it is your turn now."
He lay down at the foot of the willow, and in his clear rich voice, he sang me that pleasant song of Burns—it had always been a favourite of his—of which the burden is 'Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the birks of Aberfeldy?'
I listened, thinking how delightful it was to hear that voice again. When its last tones had died away, I thanked him, and said—
"This is not Aberfeldy, but we have the birks."
"And the bonnie lassie too."
"To be sure; but will you just move a bit?"
"Why so?"
"I want to get back again, and the spot where you are lying is the only convenient one."
"Thank you for the information. I was wondering what sort of punishment I could devise for you: it is now settled; you shall stay there."
"And be taken up for trespassing?"
"Why not?"
"Or for poaching?"
"Why not?"
At length he relented, but said I was to sing him another song; then another, and so on, until I had sung him every song and ballad I knew. The intervals of rest were filled up with talking, laughing, and jesting at one another across the stream. I had never felt so merry, seldom so happy; yet once I could not help observing remorsefully—
"And Kate, who is alone at home, and thinks you are so busy sketching!"
"Why did she make me take you with me?"
"Do I prevent you from sketching, Cornelius?"
"Of course you do; but for you I should have travelled for miles, and come home at night groaning beneath the load of crags, lonely fountains, cottages, farm-houses, snug little woods, ruins, etc. Instead of which, here I am lying on my back, looking up at trees and sky, and losing all my precious time in listening to 'Auld Robin Gray,' 'The Exile of Erin,' 'Charlie, you're my darling,' and I know not what else. Oh, Daisy, Daisy! are you not ashamed of yourself?—sing me another song."
"Indeed, Cornelius, I do not know another."
"Then I must have mercy on you."
He moved away, but kept a keen, watchful look fastened on me. There was however no need to fear. In a second I was by his side. He chid me for form's sake, then smiled, stroked my hair, and passing his arm around me, said—
"The other one could not have done as much, could she, Daisy?"
"What other one, Cornelius?"
"The one I carried in my arms from Leigh to Ryde."
"No, Cornelius, she could not, and that was why Providence sent her so kind a friend."
I forget his answer, but I remember that we sat again on the grassy banks and lingered there until the little brook shone red and burning in the light of the broad round sun that slowly sank down behind us, filling with fiery glow the space between earth and sky.
Oh! surely it was a lovely thought in the worshippers of southern lands, to link an act of prayer with the close of day and the setting of the sun. If ever there was an hour for thanksgiving, praise, and adoration, it was this. When should we, poor travellers towards the dark goal of time, find fitter moment to pause, take breath after the journeying of another day, and give a look back to the past, a hope to the future, an aspiration to heaven? At that moment meet, to part almost as soon as met, the splendour and beauty of the day and the soothing solemnity of eve. We can give thanks at once for the gladness that is going, and for the silent rest of coming night. It is the very time for intense and brief worship; for aspiration purer than prayer; for theSursum corda. I did raise my heart in that hour. Was the word too earthly? I know not; God who gave us hearts that love so warmly alone can tell; but as I sat there by Cornelius, my head, in attitude familiar of old, resting on his shoulder, I thanked Him who had given him to me, for the gift, and blessed Him who had sent him back for the return.
At length we rose, and left the spot where half a day had passed in enjoyment so pure. We followed a green path where we met, and soon outstripped a friendly couple whom we left, slowly lingering in the cool shadow of the winding lane. They looked like lovers, or a newly married pair—young, happy, oblivious of time, and heeding not the passing of hours. Cornelius gave them a stealthy look, and repressed a half smile. I smiled without disguise, for in the gladness of my heart I thought—"the lady may be fair, and the lover may be devoted, but she cannot be more happy than I am now—to feel within mine the arm of Cornelius; and sure am I, that he whom she seems to like so well, is not half so good, ay, nor half so handsome, as he who reared me."
And thus, arm-in-arm, we walked on through landscape scenes that would have gladdened the genial heart of Rubens. The warmth of the setting sun, the rich verdure of the undulating plains, the herds of fair cattle grazing by the green banks and full waters of a calm river, made one feel as if gazing on a land of untroubled peace and untold abundance.
But, oh! how glorious o'er the sea, was the hour thus beautiful on land. We reached the extremity of the downs as the sun began to dip in the broad ocean. Blue, green, purple, and burning gold glanced through every wave; the receding coast slowly vanished through glittering mists; the masts of distant ships rose on the golden horizon like the turreted castle of some enchanted region. As we descended a winding path that gently led to the beach, the sun set and the glorious pageantry suddenly vanished. The first pale stars glittered from the depths of the grey sky; the sea looked of a darker and colder blue, and returned to her fathomless bed with a faint murmur; a chill breeze rose, swept along the coast, then died away again; on all things silence set, and the high arch of heaven rose deep and solemn over the plain of the receding sea. Oh! brief life of ours, how beautiful is thy dwelling-place! How deeply did I then feel in my heart, the presence of that Great Spirit which broods over and hallows all it has given to the eye of man to scan!
We silently walked homeward along the beach, now grey, quiet, and lonely. A low, large moon hung over the silent downs, from which even the melancholy cry of the plover had died away. Everything seemed subdued to repose, and even in the low rush of the breaking waves, as they rose and fell ever again on the shore, there was a murmur inexpressibly soft and soothing to the ear. We did not speak until we reached the foot of the cliff on which Rock Cottage rose. A light burned in one of the windows and spoke of pleasant welcome. Cornelius looked up and said—
"It is a wild-looking place, quite an eagle's nest, and yet there is a strange sense of home about it."
We went up the path, and found the little wooden gate unlocked as usual. Miss O'Reilly came out to meet us, with a shawl thrown over her head. She seized on her brother; I slipped away to my room. When I came down again, in the grey dress after all, I found Kate presiding over a tea-table covered with provisions sufficient for a whole legion of famished travellers, and Cornelius laughing at the extent of her preparations. When the meal was over she took up his sketch-book.
"Oh, Kate!" I cried, "don't look—it is such a shame—he would not sketch at all; he began the little fountain and did not even finish it. Is it not too bad?"
She sat with the open sketch-book on her lap, but looking at us with a pleased, happy smile.
"Yes," she said at length, "it is a shame—but he will do better to- morrow."
"Must we go out again to-morrow, Kate?" I asked, a little hesitatingly.
"To be sure you must—that is, if you both liked it to-day well enough to wish to begin again."
I sat by him—he looked down—I looked up, and we exchanged a conscious smile.
"Yes," he said, laying his hand on my head; "I think we both found it a pleasant day."
"Delightful, Cornelius, delightful!" I exclaimed, with a warmth that made Kate smile, brought a transient glow to his brow, and won me a tacit and quiet pressure of the hand that was free. I only spoke as I felt. Pleasant days I had known before and was to know again, but none in which, oblivious of the past and heedless of the future, I surrendered myself so freely to the charm of the present time. I laid it all to the return of Cornelius. I had yet to learn from experience that this singleness of enjoyment, this simplicity in receiving happiness, belong almost exclusively to the pleasant season of youth, and—pity that it should be so—only to its first fresh untroubled hours, before the coming of grief or the wakening of passion.
How pleasant is the privilege, so little valued, because it is so common, of living in one home with those we love. Life has few things more true or more deep, and holds forth no promises more delightful. To sleep beneath the shelter of the same roof, to meet morn, noon and evening at the same board, to converse familiarly by the same fireside, to share the same sorrows and pleasures, is the ideal of those who love, whatever name their affection may take. The imagination of lovers themselves—and yet what can they not imagine?—has never gone beyond this. After all the trials, temptations and griefs, which may have beset their path, the magic hope of their future is still: one home.
Of one part of this happiness, we may be fully conscious, but another we seldom feel, unless after long separation; even as we know that life is sweet, yet rarely pause and stand still to enjoy its sweetness, so though we are well aware of the happiness of union, we sometimes forget to be happy. Too often do we accept the presence of those we love best, as we receive sunshine and our daily bread; wants of our nature fulfilled.
I rejoiced in the return of Cornelius with an eager delight I never strove to hide, and which he seemed to share. To hear his step, his voice, his laughter about the house; to meet him daily, and out or within to be constantly near him, was now my happy fate. Twice Miss O'Reilly accompanied us in our long daily walks; but the rest of the time she found some excuse to stay within, and we went out alone. That we should do so, gave her a degree of satisfaction I could not quite make out; but which I could not help perceiving. As I sat alone sewing one morning in the back parlour, Cornelius came, and leaning on the back of my chair, said:
"Where shall we go to-day?"
"Indeed, Cornelius," I replied, gravely, "I cannot always be going out with you, and leaving Kate alone."
"Kate is very fond of solitude," was his calm answer.
"Yes, but she might think it selfish."
The entrance of Kate interrupted the remark.
"The morning is getting very hot," she said, looking at her brother.
"Yes," he carelessly answered, "therefore I shall go out before the heat of the day."
"Quite right."
"I shall even go now."
"Of course, but what else?"
"What else?"
"Yes; do you not take Daisy with you?"
"If you can spare her."
"Of course I can," replied Kate, whose clouded face immediately brightened, "child, why are you not ready?"
What could I do but comply, and again go out walking with Cornelius? I resolved, however, that it should not be so on the following day. I declined accompanying him, giving him my reason, to which he submitted with a silent smile. I even managed to send him off without the knowledge of his sister. He had not long been gone when she came up from the kitchen where she had been engaged. She gave a rapid look round the room, and said hastily:
"Where is Cornelius?"
"He is gone out sketching, Kate," I replied without looking up from my work.
"Why did not you go with him?"
I did not answer.
"Did he not ask you?"
"I did not like to leave you."
"Did he ask you?"
"Yes, he did."
"Do you know where he is?"
"He said he would go down the beach."
"Well, then, put on your bonnet and be off."
I remonstrated, but she was peremptory. I felt the kindness hidden beneath her imperative ways, and, as I rose and passed by her, I could not help giving her a kiss, and saying:
"How good you are, Kate."
"And how foolish you and he are," she replied, smiling, "not to make the most of this good time."
"Why, Kate, we have a whole summer before us, and with it I trust, plenty of fine weather."
She told me not to stand dallying there; in a few minutes I was ready, and running down the path that led to the sands. To my surprise, I found Cornelius quietly sitting on a rock at the base of a cliff, and smoking a cigar. He rose on seeing me, came to meet me, and as he took my arm, said:
"How long you were."
"Did you expect me?"
"Of course I did."
"But you could not know Kate would send me?"
"But I could guess it."
"And if she had not sent me, Cornelius?"
"I should have gone to fetch you."
"Then it seems it is quite a settled matter that I must go out with you every day?"
Cornelius stopped short, and looking at me, said earnestly:
"Do you object, Daisy?"
"Ah," I replied, with a remorseful sigh, "you know very well I only like it too much."
He smiled, and we walked on. There were woods about Leigh, and I took him to one, where we lingered, until its glades and avenues, instead of a golden light pouring in from above through the green foliage, were lit up from beneath by the long, red streaks, of a low, setting sun. As I write, there rises before me a vision of a mossy dell, low sunk down and overshadowed by three wide-spreading oaks, beneath which Cornelius and I sat during the still and burning hours of noon. There was little sketching, yet what we said and of what we conversed I know not now. But memory will sometimes keep the aspects of outward nature, when that which impressed them on the mind has faded away and is lost for ever. I had often seen that wood before, but on no day do I seem to have felt so much the calm of its silence, the freshness of its deep shadow, the sweetness of its many murmurs, ever rising from unknown depths, and dying away again as mysteriously as they had awakened. Never do I seem to have breathed in with so much delight, that wild forest fragrance sweeter than the perfumes of any garden.
Thus passed not merely that day, but many other days, of which I remember still less. There is always something vague and dreamy in the memory of happiness. Seen from afar, that time is like a sunny landscape, beheld through light and warmth. Dazzled and enchanted, you scarcely know what the passing hour was like, and scarcely remember afterwards what it has been; all that remains is a warm, golden hue cast over all things, and such to me was then in the present, and is in memory, the presence of Cornelius.
At the end of a delightful fortnight, I wakened to the consciousness that, though Cornelius went out sketching daily, he sketched very little; and that the two rainy days we had been obliged to spend at home, had been devoted to the task of teaching me Italian, and to nothing else. The little back parlour had been destined, by Kate, to be her brother's studio; but though Mary Stuart stood there, with her face turned to the wall, there came no intimation of a successor to this hapless lady. "Decidedly," I thought, "things cannot go on so." Accordingly, the morning, when, after breakfast, Cornelius stepped up to me, and said:
"Where is it to be to-day?"
I put on a grave face, and replied:
"I must stay at home to-day, Cornelius. I cannot leave everything toKate, you know."
"Very true," answered he, submissively.
"Therefore, whilst you are out sketching, I shall just sit here in the window, with work-box and work-basket, and make up for lost time."
Before I knew what be was about, the chair was in the window, and near it stood the work-box and work-basket. I felt a little confused at his civility, for which I was, however, going to thank him, when I saw him draw a chair near mine.
"Are you not going out?" I asked.
"No," he quietly replied, and sat down by me. I worked in perfect silence. He sat, with his elbow resting on the back of my chair, and his eyes following the motion of my darning-needle, handing me my scissors when I wanted them, and picking up my thimble, which fell once or twice. I thought he would get tired of this, but he did not. At length, unable to keep in, I looked up, and said:
"Do you not feel dull, Cornelius?"
"Not at all," he replied, smiling. "I had no idea that to watch the darning of stockings was so entertaining."
As to entertain Cornelius was, by no means, my object, I quietly put by my work, and went up to my room. I had not been there half an hour, when I heard a low tap at my door. I guessed from whom it came, and did not answer it any more than the cough, and the low "Daisy!" which followed. He waited a while, then went down. In a few minutes, Kate entered my room.
"Child," she said, "what keeps you here? Cornelius has just found his way to the kitchen, to inform me that you had vanished, and that he felt morally certain you were unwell."
"I am quite well," I replied, gravely; "but, as you see, particularly engaged in airing my things, for fear of the moths."
"Make haste, then, for he is fidgeting in the front parlour."
"Indeed," I thought, "he may fidget. I am not going to make him lose all his time."
Instead, therefore, of joining him, when my task was done, I quietly slipped down to the garden; but I had scarcely sat down on the bench beneath the pine trees, when Cornelius came, and settled himself by me. I seemed intent on my crochet; but, as this produced no effect, I rose, and composedly observed the sun was very hot.
"Burning!" replied Cornelius, rising too.
We went in. The front parlour faced the east, and was as warm as the garden; the back parlour, on the contrary, looked cool and shady. Cornelius quietly brought in my work-basket and work-box, placed a chair for me by the open window, another chair for himself, near mine, then closed the door, and smiled at me.
"Yes," I thought, as I sat down, "I am caught; but, since you have such a relish for my company, you shall even hear a bit of my mind."
I sat darning my stockings, and meditating how to bring this about, whenCornelius observed, with a touch of impatience:
"Am I to see only your side face to-day?"
"Do you object to my side face?" I gravely asked.
"Oh, no!" he hastily replied. "It is a very charming profile; and I was thinking, just now, how well it would look on a medal or ancient coin."
"And why not on a modern coin, as well as on an ancient one?"
"With the legend, Daisy Regina, &c," he answered, smiling.
"Do you mean to imply I could not grace a throne, and bear a sceptre?"
"Heaven forbid; but I wonder what History would say of Queen Daisy!"
I looked up to answer calmly:
"History would despatch her with a few more &cs., Cornelius; such as: 'The most obscure of our long line of sovereigns, &c. Instead of emulating the Elizabeths and the Catherines, &c. Although with the intellectual mediocrity of her sex, &c. Her reign was nevertheless illustrated by a certain Irish artist, &c, &c.'"
"The Irish artist respectfully kisses her Majesty's hand," said Cornelius, raising my hand to his lips with mock homage; "he ventures to hope that, spite of the distance of rank, something like friendship existed between him and Queen Daisy."
He still held my hand in his; encouraged by the friendly kindness of the clasp, I replied:
"So much friendship that, on one propitious occasion, Queen Daisy ventured to remind her friend that time was passing fast, and his fame yet to win."
Cornelius dropped my hand, and asked, gravely:
"Does History say how this advice was received?"
"History is silent," I replied, with a beating heart. "How do you think it ended, Cornelius?"
"I think," he replied, smiling as our looks met, "that most artists would have civilly requested her Majesty to mind the affairs of the State. Painters are a touchy race, better accustomed to royal favour than to royal advice. The brush of Titian was picked up by Charles V.; Holbein found the English Bluebeard gentle; Leonardo da Vinci died in the arms of Francis I.; and, I suppose the artist we now allude to must have been spoiled by favours still more high, for I have heard that on this occasion he had the presumption to request of her Majesty—"
"To mind the affairs of the State," I interrupted, again taking up my stocking.
"Nay," he replied, gently taking it from me, "to leave by those important cares, and idle away a day with him, was the request, says History."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, "I am so glad you are not offended, Cornelius!"
"Then you thought I was; and that explains why you looked at me with a sorrowful audacity that seemed to say: 'Be angry if you like. I have said the truth, nothing but the truth, and by that I stand fast.'"
"Yes, Cornelius, that is just what I felt; but I am very glad that you are not offended for all that."
"Then if you are so glad," he answered smiling, "how did you come to risk it?"
"Because I am not quite a child now," I replied earnestly. "Oh! Cornelius, do you not understand that I can love you better than your good pleasure, and your honour better than you?"
"And do you not understand," he answered, bending over me a warm and animated face, "that I cannot be offended to see the child's blind affection make room for the heart, mind and feelings of the woman; and call that look in the eyes, and that flush on the cheek?"
"I meant to be very quiet," I replied, deprecatingly; "and if I reddened as I spoke, it was because my heart was in it, Cornelius, as it is in everything that concerns you; and I could not help it."
"Who wants you to help it?" he asked with mingled tenderness and impatience in his accent, "or to be quiet either. Quiet affection is nonsense: there is but one way of loving or of doing anything, and that is, as much as one can, Daisy."
He uttered not a word to which something within me did not echo and reply. To this day, I do not understand placid affection, even though it should take the calmest name. Like him I hold that there is but one true way of loving any one, or anything, with one's whole heart.
"As much as one can," I echoed, passing my arm within his; "that's how you are going to set at painting, is it not?"
My upraised face looked into his; he did not reply.
"You know," I continued, "you said you could paint over again CountMorsikoff's pictures."
"And so I will, but not just yet."
"Cornelius, do you no longer like painting?"
"No longer like it! I like it but too well; and as I know its power over me, I delay placing myself under a spell, even you, Daisy, might not be able to break."
"As if I should wish to break it! When do you begin, Cornelius?"
"What a hurry you are in!"
"I am in a hurry to see you famous."
He smoothed my hair with a flattered smile.
"Will you begin to-morrow?" I persisted.
"No."
"After to-morrow?"
"No."
"Next week?"
"No."
"But, Cornelius, when will you begin?" I inquired, rather disappointed.
"Now."
"Now!" I exclaimed, delighted.
"Why did you not tell me sooner that you wished for it?" he asked, reproachfully. "I thought you liked the walks, and put off talking of work from day to day."
I had a confused impression at the time, that there was something odd in this speech, but in my joy at having succeeded, I forgot it.
"It is quite early yet," I said, "you can begin at once. Which shall it be, Cornelius, the women praying, or the children by the fountain?"
"Neither one nor the other for the present," he replied, "that is to sayI hope not. I have thought of another subject to begin with."
"What is it, Cornelius?" I asked, much interested.
"I saw a young girl once," he said in a thoughtful tone, like one who looks back into memory, "and she brought to my mind's eye a full and charming picture. She sat within the meditative shadow of an ill-lit room, reading by an open window—well, why do you look at me so?"
"I only think that I was sewing that day—you know, not reading; therefore you cannot mean me."
"Logically concluded. To resume: the room was gloomy, but the open window gave a sense of space, and admitted the light, high and serene, of a pale evening sky. The book lay open on the lap of her who read, one hand rested upon its pages; the other supported her cheek; the eyes were rapt and thoughtful; the silent lips met and closed with a charming and austere grace; the attitude was meditative, even down to the garment's quiet and gathered folds. The slender figure told of early youth, but there was the calmness of an immortal spirit on the brow, and something beyond time in the bearing and the mien. I remembered the Greek's meditating muse, and Corregio's divine Magdalen reading in the wilderness, and I thought though Pagan times be gone and art may have lost her early faith, she still can tell the story of earnest spirits that live and move within the shadow of our own homes, yet ever seem to dwell serene in their own heights. That is the subject, Daisy, and there is a speech for you."
"Is that all, Cornelius?"
"All. It will stand in the catalogue, as 'A Young Girl Reading,' and many, unable to see more in it, will give a brief look and pass on. If a few linger near, even though they scarcely know why; if to them it embodies thought, meditation, or some such thing, I am satisfied. Daisy. Well, what do you think of it?"
"Nothing for the present; I am thinking whether Jane will do."
"What for?" he asked promptly.
"To sit for you. She is very pretty, you know."
"And she looks very meditative, with her bright black eyes ever open, and her cherry lips ever parted."
"I wish you had seen Miss Lindley. She is tall, graceful, and dresses with so much taste. Then she has a pale olive face, and looks very lady- like."
"And a lady-like Meditation—who dresses well too—would be the very thing."
"But Cornelius," I said, rather perplexed, "how will you manage? I can do for the figure pretty well, I dare say, but the face?"
He gave me an odd look, and answered:
"Yes, there is a puzzle."
"How thoughtless of you."
"Very."
"Then how will you manage?"
"Really," he said, turning round to confront me, "is it possible you do not guess whose face I want, Daisy?"
"Mine!" I exclaimed, much astonished.
"Yes, yours," he replied, taking my hand in his. "I once saw you reading—"
"Sewing, Cornelius."
"No [!] reading—do you think I never looked at you but that one time?— and I liked it, for I saw it would make a very charming picture. The attitude is one in which you often fall unconsciously—simple, true, and graceful. I like it. I like, too, the exquisite colour of your hair, and the meditative light of your gray eyes. Dark eyes may be for passion; blue, for love and sweetness; gray, less beautiful, perhaps, but also less earthly, are for meditation and spiritual thought."
"And the meaning of hazel eyes?" I said, looking up at his.
"Sincerity," he replied, biting his nether lip to repress a smile. "If, for instance, a person with hazel eyes ever tells you 'you are truly pretty, Daisy, though you do not seem to know it,' believe that person, Daisy."
"I shall see about that when the time comes. In the meanwhile, I wish you would begin."
He called me a little tyrant, but it was a tyranny he liked, for he yielded to it with an ardour and alacrity that betrayed him. He placed me in the attitude he wanted—sitting by the window, with a book on my lap— and began at once. I saw he was quite in his element again; and when, after a long sitting, we both rested, I said to him, a little reproachfully:
"You like it more than ever, Cornelius. I see it in your face."
"It does not annoy you?" he asked, giving me an uneasy look.
"Annoy me, Cornelius! Have you forgotten Daisy?"
"Ah! but she was a sickly child: and for the merry young girl to be shut up—"
"She does not mind being shut up the whole day long, provided it be withCornelius."
"Who, when once he is at his easel, has scarcely a word or a look to give her."
"She does not want him to give her words or looks. She wants him to paint a fine picture, than which, she thinks, there is nothing finer; and to become a great painter, than which, she believes, there is nothing greater."
"Indeed, then, there is not," he replied, laughing and reddening, and his brown eyes kindling with sudden, though lingering light. "Oh, Daisy!" he added, after a pause, laying his two hands on my shoulders, and looking down at me intently, "what a fine, generous little creature you are!"
"Because I do not mind sitting," I replied, smiling. "You forget.Cornelius, I always liked it. Let us return to it, and surprise Kate."
Miss O'Reilly was certainly surprised when she came up—much more surprised than pleased—to see the historic style put aside; but when her brother gently informed her that Mary Stuart was not quite a masterpiece, she waxed wroth, indignantly said he would never do better, and only hoped he would do as well. Cornelius heard her quietly, and smiled at me with the security of conscious power.
As he went on with his "Young Girl Reading," I was struck with the wonderful progress he had made—it more than fulfilled the promise of the Italian sketches. I expressed my admiration without reserve, and I could not but see in his face, how much it gratified him. The time that followed was, indeed, a happy time, as happy as the past, with much that the past had never known. Cornelius looked engrossed and delighted. He worked either with the impassioned ardour of a lover, or with a lingering tenderness as significant. He dweltcon amore, over certain bits, or stood back and looked at the whole fondly, through half-shut eyes, drinking in, with evident delight, that sweet intoxication which lies in the contemplation of our own work, when we can behold in it the fulfilment of some cherished idea. But, at the end of a fortnight, there came a change. He looked gloomy, misanthropic, and painted with the air of an angry lover, who has fallen out with his mistress. Ardour had become scorn—tenderness was changed into sullen languor. I guessed that one of his old desponding fits was on him, and, at length, I spoke. It was on a day when, spite of all his efforts, I could see that he scarcely worked. I left my place, and went up to him. For a while, I looked at the picture; then said:
"How it progresses."
"Wonderfully."
"I wish you would not be ironical, Cornelius."
"I wish you would not, Daisy."
"I only say what I think: that it progresses."
Cornelius laughed, but by no means cheerfully.
"I know you long for me to praise it," I observed, quietly.
"Indeed, I do not," he interrupted.
"Yes, you do: it would give you so good an opportunity of abusing it."
"Do you kindly mean to spare me the trouble?"
"No; for then you would defend it against all my criticisms. I know very well how you rate your picture, Cornelius."
"Do you?"
"Yes; I do. You know it will make your reputation; that it will be praised and admired; but it fails in something on which you have set your heart, and, though it may do for the world, it will not do for Cornelius O'Reilly, his own severest judge, public and critic."
"Oh, you witch!" he replied, unable to repress a smile.
"Do you not like it better now?" I asked, thinking the cloud was beginning to break.
"No, Daisy. It is the old story; something within me to which, do what I will, I cannot give birth; it is this torments me, Daisy, it is this."
"And let it be this," I replied gravely; "let it be this, Cornelius, you will be better than your pictures: if you were not, if you could give all to art, would art be any longer worth living for? Where would be the mystery, the desire, the hope, the charm, to lure you on for ever. I dare say painting resembles life; and that to feel I am better than my pictures, is like the pleasure of feeling 'I am better than my destiny.'"
"And what do you know about that pleasure?" asked Cornelius.
"I have felt it," was my involuntary reply. "Well, why not?" I added, reddening beneath his look, "do you think that because I am a girl, I have had no ambition, no dreams of my own, no longing for a little bit of the heroic? We all have, Cornelius, only we don't confess it, for fear of being laughed at."
He looked attentively at me and smiled.
"What were your dreams about, Daisy?"
"Not worth your losing time in listening to them, Cornelius—time, that leads to fame!"
The smile vanished from his face.
"Not for me," he replied, with a clouded brow.
"Why not?"
"Because I have no genius."
"No genius?"
"No," he said impatiently, "not a bit."
"Do you mean to say, Cornelius, that you will never be one of the celebrated artists of whom I have read so much?"
"Never!" he replied, with a dreary seriousness that proved him, for the moment at least, to be quite in earnest.
"Cornelius," I said, decisively, "I am not going to put up with that, you know; fame is not a thing to be laid aside in that fashion."
"Fame! what is fame?"
"A poor aim, but a glorious reward."
"Empty, Daisy, empty. I do not care one pin for fame."
"Sour grapes," was the prompt reply which escaped me.
"Thank you, Daisy," he answered, reddening.
I felt rather disturbed. He resumed:
"Sour grapes! The illustration is kind and civil. Sour grapes!"
"They must be very sour," I ventured to observe, in a low tone, "for you seem unable to digest them, Cornelius."
"I beg your pardon," he said, very gravely, "I do not care for celebrity, and do not want to be famous."
"But I do," I warmly answered, "you were asking a while ago about my day- dreams: I will tell you one, a favourite one, of which the fulfilment lies with you:—I am out somewhere; for of course we shall not always live in this quiet way, and I overhear Mrs. H— asking Mrs. G—, in an audible whisper: 'Who is that commonplace-looking girl in white?' 'Something or other to the celebrated artist, Cornelius O'Reilly.' Mrs. H— looks at me with sudden veneration, whilst I give her a compassionate glance, implying 'Who ever heard of Mr. H—?'"
"You saucy girl," said Cornelius, passing his arm around me, but looking down at me, with anything but a displeased face.
"I am not saucy; I am very humble. I am proud by temper, and yet I cannot fancy that if I were to go and earn my bread, it would have a sweeter taste than that you have earned for me so long. I am ambitious, and instead of winning fame for myself, here am I suing you to do it for me!"
"And shall it not be won for you?" he asked, fondly smoothing my hair, "that and anything else you wish for, my darling."
"Then, don't you see," I replied, triumphantly, "that you have got genius?"
"Oh! Daisy," he said sorrowfully, "what brought up that unlucky word?Look at that figure, cold, lifeless thing, it tells its own story."
I lost all patience. I felt my face flush, and turning round onCornelius, I put by at once all the filial reverence of years.
"Cornelius!" I exclaimed, indignantly, "you are as capricious as a spoiled child. How can a man of your age indulge in such whims?"
"I am not so old as to have my age thrown in my face!" he replied, looking piqued. "I am only a few years beyond legal infancy."
"You ought to be ages beyond thinking and speaking as you do. If you have no faith in yourself, why do you paint at all? If I were a man, I would rather be a shoemaker or a tailor, than an artist without faith."
"On my word," said Cornelius, looking very angry, "you do speak strongly."
"BecauseIhave faith in you," I replied, passing my arm around his neck, and looking into his averted face. "Call the picture bad, but do not say you have no genius. It cuts me to the heart, indeed it does. Besides, I cannot believe it. I never look at your face, but I seem to see the word 'Genius' written there."
And, as I spoke, I laid my lips on a brow where eyes less prejudiced than mine might have read the same story. A sudden and burning glow overspread the features of Cornelius; he looked another way, and bit his lips, as if seeking for calmness, as striving to curb down that impatient fever of the blood which, in good or in evil, it is always a sort of pain to betray. I half drew back, thinking him vexed again, but he detained me; and turning towards me a flushed and troubled face, he said with a forced laugh:
"Your head has been turned by reading those Lives of the Painters, and you want to turn mine too. To satisfy you, I should be the first painter in England."
"In England!" I echoed; "in Christendom, Sir."
"Rather high-flown, Daisy. Besides that it sounds like a reminiscence of the seven champions."
"High-flown! Ambition is a bird of high feather, Cornelius. I would scorn to aim at the second place when there is the first to win."
"Oh! you witch!" he said again, "how well you know me!"
"What has become of the evil spirit that possessed you?" I asked, smiling.
"Gone to the winds for the present," he answered gaily.
"Well then work."
"Not yet. Let us rest awhile."
He sat down on a low couch by the open window, and made me sit down by him. Since his return, I had not seen his face wear so free and happy a look, as it then wore. His brilliant and deep-set hazel eyes shone beneath the dark arch of the brow, with unusual light, and rested on me with a triumphant tenderness that perplexed me; a warmer glow tinged his cheek, embrowned by a southern sun. There lurked both joy and exultation in the half smile that trembled on his lips: like his sister, he had a very beautiful and fascinating smile; and, as I now gazed at him. I could not help smiling, too, for I thought I had never seen him look half so handsome. In the freak of the moment, I told him so.
"Do you know, Mr. O'Reilly?" I said, taking hold of his curved chin, and looking up at him laughing. "Do you know that you are very good-looking?"
He half threw back his head, as if in scorn of the compliment; but when I added, "I suppose all great artists are so!" he smiled down at me; and if his smile was somewhat conscious, it was still more fond and tender.
"You like me, Daisy; don't you?" he said, bending over me a flushed and happy face.
I laughed, and he laughed, too, with the security of the knowledge.
"Oh! you may laugh," he said with sparkling eyes; "I know you do. I know it, but I have not deserved it," he added, remorsefully. "Oh! when I think how cold, and how careless I have been; and how you might serve me out now!"
"How so, Cornelius?"
He smiled, and smoothed my hair without replying.
"Why it is you who might serve me out," I said.
"Is it?"
"Of course, for it is I who have all to gain or lose."
"Are you afraid?"
"No."
He repressed a smile, gave me a curious look, and said I was an odd girl.
"And won't the other girls be jealous of me, Cornelius?" I asked, proudly.
"Jealous! What for?"
"Because you are immortalizing me in a picture."
"What else?"
"Because you like me."
"What else?"
"Because I am to be always with you."
"And how do you know you are to be always with me?" he asked with a mischievous look; "answer me that."
I did not at first; he laughed.
"Well," I said, piqued, "am I not to be always with you? Was it not agreed before you went to Italy? Am I not to be the governess?"
"The governess!" he echoed, astonished.
It was some time before I could make him remember what had passed between us. If I had not been positive, he would have denied it altogether.
"How can you think of such nonsense?" he asked, impatiently; "the governess of what?"
"Of the children; and please not to call themwhat."
"Them!Will you be pleased to remember that I am a poor artist."
"Sceptic! Providence will send for every child a new picture to paint."
"Providence is very kind. I hope her liberality will know some limits."
"The first must be Cornelius or Kate, second ditto, third—"
"Daisy!"
"There must be a third to be called after the mother, and the fourth after one of her friends; the fifth—"
"Daisy!" indignantly asked Cornelius: "do you mean to make a patriarch of me?"
"Patriarch or not, there must be a fifth—mine, whom you will call Daisy, in memory of the other Daisy you brought home, wrapped in your cloak."
Cornelius turned round to look at me smiling:
"So you were piqued," he said, "and brought up the governess to punish me!"
"Piqued!" I echoed, laughing in his face, "what about?"
He looked a little disconcerted. I thought him vexed, and apologized at once for my want of respect.
"Respect!" he replied seeming half astonished, half displeased, "what do I want with respect—your respect?" And he gave me a glance of mingled incredulity and uneasiness.
"Cornelius, you said before you went to Italy—"
"What about the foolish things, I may have said years ago." he interrupted impatiently; "Surely," he added, looking down at me reproachfully, "surely, we have both outgrown that time."
"I hope I have not outgrown my respect for you, Cornelius," I replied rather gravely.
"Again!" he said with subdued irritation; "why don't, you ask to call me'Papa?'"
"I would if I thought you would say yes, Cornelius."
"No, you would not," he answered reddening and looking vexed; "you know you would not. You know all this is mere childish talk."
"Put me to the test!" I said laughing.
"I dare you to do it." he replied hastily. "Take warning, and, if troubled with filial feelings, look out for some other paternal parent. C. O. R., Esq., is not the man."
"When Louisa Scheppler asked the good Pastor Oberlin—he consented."
Cornelius looked at me uneasily and tried to smile.
"I know you are only jesting," he observed; "I know it, of course. But yet, Daisy, I would rather you did not."
"Is the idea of a daughter so formidable?" I asked.
"A daughter! Oh, Daisy!" exclaimed Cornelius a little desperately, "this is too childish! The next thing will be, that you will get out of the teens altogether, and go back to the little girl of ten whom I found here seven years ago."
"And you don't want me to do that?" I said amused at the idea.
He looked at me expressively.
"Oh, no!" he murmured, "oh, no! Surely, you know yourself how charming you have grown."
I smiled incredulously. I knew I was improved, but thought it was his affection which transformed a little freshness and colour into so comprehensive a word as charming.
"I wonder you will never believe me," he said, looking half annoyed. "I wonder, what is your real opinion of yourself. I do not mean that conventional opinion of one's own inferiority, or at the best mediocrity which, under penalty of being hunted out from decent society, every civilized individual is bound to profess, but that honest opinion of our merits and defects, by which we judge ourselves in our own hearts. Do you mind answering that question?"
"No, it is not worth minding."
"Then answer it."
"You must question me categorically. I have not a ready-made certificate of my good or bad points, to deliver on such short notice."
"What do you think of Daisy morally?"
"A good sort of girl; has received honest principles; devoutly believes she will never do anything very shocking."
"What of her intellectually?"
"Sensible, not brilliant."
"What of her person?"
"Like her mind—plain; but, thank Heaven, has the use of her limbs and senses."
"And this common-place character is your real opinion of yourself!" exclaimed Cornelius almost indignantly.
"My real opinion; but it is scarcely civil to tell me to my face that I am common-place."
"I never said so. That is not my opinion of you, Daisy."
"Ah!" I said a little embarrassed, for it was plain he meant to favour me with that opinion.
"No," he continued very earnestly, "I do not think you that pale, every- day girl you described. I think you more than good, for you are high- minded; I think you more than sensible, for you are original. You may as well laugh out at once," he added in a piqued tone, "for to crown all, Daisy, I think you pretty, ay, and very pretty."
"Oh, Cornelius!" I replied endeavouring to look melancholy; "if you had not made that unlucky addition, I could have believed in the rest—but now!"
"Daisy, beauty is manifold: the greatest fool can discover the beauty of a perfectly beautiful woman."
"Whereas it requires a peculiar talent to find out the invisible sort of beauty. Judicious remark!"
"Allow me to return to the point. My meaning is, that to be able to see and feel none save the self-demonstrative sort of beauty, is common- place."
"The other course is decidedly more original; is that the point,Cornelius?"
"The point," he replied, fairly provoked, "is, that such as you are, pretty or plain,Ifind you charming."
"Well, then," I said, amused at his persistency, "glamour has fallen on your eyes, and you see me through it."
"What if I do?" he answered, in a tone that, like his look, suddenly softened; "will that sort of magic vex you? What is there so pleasant in this world as the face of one we love; and if your face has that pleasantness for me; if the glamour, as you call it, of affection has fallen on my eyes and heart, why should you mind?"
Oh! not indifferent, even in the purest affection, are these things. I glanced up into his face; and as it told me how thoroughly he meant all he said, I blushed; then ashamed of blushing, I hung down my head. He stooped to look at me.
"Perverse girl," he said, chidingly, "don't you see it was useless to try to frighten and torment me? But you have provoked me. Shall I tell you why I find you so very, very charming?"
I looked up at him, and, passing my arms around his neck, I smiled as I replied:
"Cornelius, it is because as a father you have reared me; because as a father you love me. What wonder, then, that a father should see some sort of beauty in his daughter's face?"
Cornelius looked thunder-struck; then recovering, he gave me an incredulous glance, and attempted a smile, which vanished as he met my astonished look. A burning glow overspread his features: it was not the light blush of boy or girl, called up by idle words, but the ardent fire of a manly heart's deep and passionate emotions. He untwined my arm from around his neck; he rose: his brown eyes lit—his lips trembled. At first he seemed unable to speak; at length he said:
"You cannot mean it, Daisy—you cannot mean it."
"Why not, Cornelius?" I asked, amazed at his manner.
"Do you mean to say that I love you as my daughter or child?"
"Yes, Cornelius."
"Do you mean to say that you love me as your father?"
"Yes, Cornelius."
His voice rose and rang with each question; mine sank with every reply.He darted at me a look of the keenest reproach.
"Never," he exclaimed, with a fire and vehemence that startled me, "never have I loved you, or shall I love you so; never for a second in the past; never for a second in the future; never, Daisy, never!" And turning from me, he paced the room with hasty steps, a flushed brow, and angry look. At length he stopped before me; for, being somewhat calmer, the fire of his look seemed more earnest and concentrated, the accents of his voice more measured and deep. He said:
"Confess you have been jesting."
"No, Cornelius, I spoke as I thought."
"And you thought that I liked you, as a father likes his child; I defy you to prove it! Since I returned from Italy, have I not done all I could to show you that your esteem, approbation, praise, and love were dearer to me than language could express? Have I not, through all our old familiarity, say, have I not mingled reserve and respect with all my tenderness? Have I not acknowledged the woman in you, and that in a hundred ways? The love of a father? I defy you to prove it, Daisy!"
He again paced the room with angry steps. I followed him, and laying my hand on his arm, I said earnestly—
"Cornelius, you should not be angry with me. Have you forgotten that, before you went to Italy, you called me your adopted child? that in your letters you addressed me thus? That on the very evening of your return, when Kate seemed vexed about it, you were not displeased, though you are so angry now?"
Cornelius turned a little pale.
"I had forgotten it," he said bitterly, "but you forget nothing—nothing; years pass, and words spoken in the heedlessness of ignorance and the presumptuousness of youth, still live in your pitiless memory."
"Cornelius," I said, gently, "is it a sin to remember the truth?"
"The truth!" he echoed, indignantly, "do not call that the truth. I may have said it, been fool enough to have believed it, but true it has never been. Never, I tell you, never have I felt for you one spark of the affection a father feels for his child, never. Do not think, dream, or imagine such a thing. I deny it in every way in which man can deny. I would, were it in my power, efface from your mind every such remembrance of a past, beyond which we both should look."
I began to feel startled. What did Cornelius mean? Why did he object so pertinaciously to a matter like this? I looked up at him and said earnestly—
"Cornelius, I do not understand at all why you are so vexed. Pray tell me."
He looked down at me very fixedly. Every trace of ungentle passion had passed away from his features, and there was a strange, undefined tenderness in his gaze, as he said in a low tone—
"If I have been vexed. Daisy, it is to find out a mistake—a great mistake of mine."
"What mistake, Cornelius?"
"Do you really want to know, Daisy?"
"Yes," I said, almost desperately, "I want to know."
There was a pause. He still stood by me, looking down in my face.
"Do not look so pale, and above all so frightened," he said, gently; "there is no need. How you tremble!" he added, taking my hand in both his, and speaking very sadly, "Oh, Daisy! Daisy!" And he turned his look away with a strange expression of disappointment and pain, of shame and mortification.
I hung down my head; I did not dare to look at him, to withdraw my hand, to move. I stood mutely expecting—what I knew not exactly; but I seemed to feel that it must be some shock, dreadful, because violent, that would perforce turn the current of my destiny, and compel it to flow through regions, where of itself, my will would never have led we. Vain fear; unfounded alarm. Cornelius turned to me, and said very calmly—