We were not prepared for the sudden return of Cornelius; his room was
neither aired nor ready; Miss O'Reilly accordingly gave him up her own
apartment, and slept with me. She complained of my restlessness; well she
might! tossed on a sea of unquiet joy, I scarcely slept. I woke and rose
early. The morning was bright and gay, and my little room overflowed with
sunshine.
"Now, Daisy," said Kate, in a tone of remonstrance, "you need not be in
such a hurry: he is not awake yet, child!"
I was opening the window as she spoke. I drew back quickly, for it looked
on the garden; I was but half-dressed, and, though I saw no one, the
fresh breeze brought me the scent of a cigar. My heart leaped with joy,
and something seemed to say within me, "Yes, yes, he is come back."
"Not awake!" I exclaimed aloud, "why he is already in the garden! Oh!
Kate, do help me to fasten on my dress."
"Not that dingy, everyday grey thing!" decisively said Miss O'Reilly, "he
hates dull colours."
She went to my drawers, and drew forth a light blue muslin.
"But it has short sleeves!" I observed, a little uneasily, "and it looks
so dressy!"
"Never mind the short sleeves or the dressiness either--the chief thing
is, not to annoy him with an ugly colour he cannot endure."
I yielded against my own wish and judgment; partly to gratify her, and
still more to lose no time. I gained nothing by the ready compliance.
Miss O'Reilly dressed me as she had never dressed me before; she
suggested or rejected improvements with unusual and irritating
fastidiousness. Now a snow-white habit-shirt "would look so nice, or if
my hair were braided, instead of being in plain bands, it would become me
so much better."
I could not help crying.
"Oh, Kate, if you would only let me go! What will Cornelius care about
all this?"
"But I care," replied Miss O'Reilly. "I thought Cornelius would find you
so much improved; but all he noticed was that you had grown."
"Because that is all!" I said, laughing.
"It is not. But last night you were pale and wild-looking; besides, you
had that ugly grey thing on; but now, Midge, let me tell you there is a
difference."
She was holding me out at arm's length, with a satisfied look and smile.
"There!" she said, dropping my hand, and releasing me, "you may go now."
I waited for no second bidding. I ran down the stairs, then up the gravel
path that led to the pine-trees. The scent of the cigar had not deceived
me: he stood leaning against the trunk of the farthest pine, looking at
the fresh sparkling sea that spread beneath, and went far away to meet a
white line of horizon arched over by a sky of brightest blue. He turned
round as I reached him all out of breath, and welcomed me with a smile. I
stood by him, looking at him with the delighted eyes with which we gaze
at those we love. He laid his hand on my shoulder, and looked at me too,
silently at first, then all at once he said--
"God bless your pleasant face!" and stooping, kissed my brow.
My heart beat a little; I could not help being glad. There was nothing in
me beyond what there is in every girl from fifteen to twenty; but then
this is the golden age of woman, when the youthful grace of the outlines
makes the gazer forget their irregularity, and seeing the cheek so fresh
and clear, he asks not whether it be dark or fair--when he is charmed by
the sense of a being who has not dwelt on earth too long, and gives
pleasant welcome to this late arrived guest.
Our first greeting over, Cornelius and I sat down on the wooden bench.
The wind came from the west. It blew fresh in our faces, and bowed over
us the pine-trees and their rustling branches, through which the slanting
rays of the sun behind came warm and pleasant. Our glance rested on a
sweep of winding shore, half veiled in light sparkling mists; on that sea
which looked so serene, and yet seemed so living and so free in its very
repose. Our ear was greeted by the low dash of waves on the beach below,
by the murmurs of a breeze that died away far inland amongst low hills
and lonely places, and looking up at one another with a smile, we both
said what a lovely morning it was. I passed my arm within that of
Cornelius, and clasping both my hands over it, I looked up into his face
and began a series of questions.
"Tell me all about your pictures and your painting."
A light cloud passed over his brow, as he replied--
"Never mind about the pictures just now, Daisy."
"Well, then," I said, though a little disappointed, "tell me all about
Italy."
"All about it--there's a modest request!"
"Well, then, tell me something. Are the Italian women so handsome?"
"Some are, some are not."
His tone and manner were abstracted. I could not but notice that he was
surveying me from head to foot.
"What else?" I asked, a little impatiently.
"What else?" he echoed, still looking at me.
"Yes, what else?"
"Nothing else; save that I am thinking of something else just now."
"I knew you would notice it," I exclaimed, feeling myself reddening; "I
told Kate so."
"Indeed?"
"Yes; it was her doing, not mine. She said you hated grey, and made me
put on this blue muslin, though it looks so gay for the morning."
"Well," replied Cornelius, with a smile, "blue is as charming a colour as
grey is cold and dull to the eye. But to tell you the truth, I was not
thinking about your dress."
"Ah!" I said, rather abashed.
"No,--I was thinking of the change two years have wrought, and wondering
I never noticed it last night. The other one was a pale, sickly little
thing, a poor wee Daisy, coming up weak and stunted on the outskirts of
the town; this one is fresh and fair as any wild flower that grows. Why,
where did she, once so wan and sallow, get that clear, rosy freshness?
What kind fairy has changed the pale yellow hair I still remember, into
those heavy tresses of rich brown, tinged with gold--a hue both exquisite
and rare, which I shall assuredly transfer to my next picture. As for the
eyes, she could not improve them,--so she left them what they still are--
the finest I have ever seen."
I opened them a little on hearing him speak so. He quietly took out my
comb; my hair rolled down in waves below my waist; he surveyed it
admiringly, with a glance in which blended the fondness of a father for
his pet child and the ever-observant eye of the artist.
"A pretty little effect, so," he added, "especially with your startled
look, reminding one of Cervantes' Dorothea."
"So she does!" said Miss O'Reilly, coming up from behind.
She kissed her brother, and looking at me as I rose to do up my hair, "It
is like her father's," she added with a subdued sigh, "but not quite so
bright."
"Why did you never write to me that Daisy was so much improved?" asked
Cornelius, perhaps to divert her thoughts.
"Because I knew you had eyes of your own to find it out," answered his
sister smiling. "And now don't sit looking at the girl, as if she were a
beauty; she has grown tall and has good health, that is all."
"All! is not that a great deal?"
"Of course it is; but I came to tell you breakfast is waiting, and not to
talk about Daisy's looks."
We went in to breakfast; I sat opposite Cornelius and could scarcely take
my eyes off his face; he could not help smiling now and then, but Miss
O'Reilly chose to be in a pet about it.
"Don't be foolish, Midge! I wish, Cornelius, you would mind what I say,
instead of paying so much attention to that silly girl. When do you mean
to have that case opened?"
"In a day or two."
"Nonsense! you don't think I am going to wait a day or two to see your
pictures? After breakfast you mean?"
She carried the point as usual, and after breakfast it accordingly was.
As Cornelius drew back the last covering which stood between us and his
picture, I felt my heart beat with expectation; as for Kate, from the
moment it became visible, she was lost in wonder and admiration. The
picture, though not very large, was an elaborate historical performance;
it represented the death of Mary Stuart, with mourning ladies-in-waiting,
knights, pages, executioner and all.
"How beautiful, how very beautiful!" exclaimed Kate with tears in her
eyes; "what a subject, and how you treated it! But what a pity, what a
mortal pity it was not finished in time for the academy, Cornelius!"
There was a pause, he stooped and brushed away some dust from Mary
Stuart's face, but never answered. His sister resumed--
"Who is that dark-looking fellow in front?"
"The Earl of Salisbury."
"Ah! I remember, I knew he could not be good; it is in his face, I assure
you. And who is that girl in the corner?"
"A looker-on."
"I knew it!" triumphantly exclaimed Miss O'Reilly, "I knew it by her
unconcerned air. Cornelius, there is wonderful character in it all."
He did not reply: he was untying the strings of a large portfolio, and
looking over the sketches and drawings it contained. His sister called
him to her side with an air of concern. "Was he sure Mary Stuart had a
velvet robe on? She hoped it was not a mistake. Critics are such harpies,
you know," she added with a sigh, "they would pounce on a mistake
directly."
He laid his hand on her shoulder, and, with a kind smile, looked down at
her upraised face.
"Make your mind easy, Kate; Mary Stuart died in a velvet robe, which,
poor thing, she kept for solemn occasions."
Miss O'Reilly's face brightened.
"Indeed I am glad to hear it; the imitation is perfect; real velvet could
not have more depth and softness. How much pains you must have taken with
it!"
"Yes, it gave me some trouble."
"But how sorry I am, the other pictures are sold!"
"It could not be helped! I wanted the money."
"Yes, but it has kept you in the shade all this time. What a pity Mary
Stuart was not finished for this year's Academy!"
She looked at him so earnestly that he reddened.
"Cornelius," she continued rather seriously, "why was it not finished for
this year's Academy?"
Jane spared him the trouble of answering, by looking in, and conveying
the intimation that more luggage had come, and that there was a bill of
one pound ten and elevenpence halfpenny to pay.
"I wish they may get it!" hotly said Miss O'Reilly; "it is perfectly
shameful; let me manage them, Cornelius, only just come to see whether
they have not changed your luggage for that of some one else. My opinion
is," she added, raising her voice, "that people who charge one pound ten
shillings and elevenpence halfpenny for carriage are capable of
anything."
He smiled; they went out together, closed the door, and left me alone
with Mary Stuart and my bitter disappointment. I could not understand it;
it was strange, incredible, and yet it was so, I looked and did not
admire. I could have cried with vexation to feel that this stately Mary
Stuart did not touch me; that her sorrowful beauty, the grief of her
weeping women, the insolent scorn of the English nobles, the
impassiveness of the headsman, the commonplace pity of the lookers-on,
actually left me cold and unmoved. And yet thus it was, and the longer I
looked, the worse it grew; so I gave it up in despair, and turned to the
portfolio.
Sketch after sketch I turned over with a pleasure that gradually grew
into delight. All Italy, in her sunshine and beauty, seemed to pass
before me. Here a dark-eyed girl danced the Tarantella; there swarthy
boys with eager faces played at the morra; beggars held out their hand
for alms with the look and mien of princes; and village women, of a
beauty as calm and pure as that of the image above them, knelt and prayed
before the shrine of some lowly Madonna. Nor was I less charmed by the
glimpses of landscape and out-door life. I felt the warmth of that blue
sky which looked as if the very heavens were opening; the sunshine on the
steps of the white church dazzled me with its brightness; there were
depths of coolness in the dark shade of those old trees beneath which the
women sat reposing; there was life and dewy freshness in the waters of
the stone fountain by which the children played. Charmed and absorbed, I
never heard Cornelius enter, and knew not he was by me until he said in a
careless tone behind me--
"Oh! you are looking at these odds and ends."
"I like them so much," I replied, carefully abstaining from looking
towards Mary Stuart.
"Do you?"
"Indeed I do; they are beautiful, and then they remind me of our
Gallery--you remember our Gallery, Cornelius?"
"Yes, I think I remember something of the kind,--you were an odd little
girl, Daisy."
"I wish you would explain these sketches to me."
He sat down by me; leaned one arm on the back of my chair, and, with the
hand that was free, turned over the sketches, giving a few words of brief
but graphic explanation to each. He allowed me to admire them, but made
no comment of his own. At length the pleasant task was ended; Cornelius
rose and put away the portfolio; I was thinking with inward self-
gratulation that he had forgotten all about the picture, when to my
dismay he said very quietly--
"Daisy, you have not told me what you think of my Mary Stuart."
"Have I not?"
"No, indeed. Whilst Kate was here you looked at it, but never opened your
lips; when I came back, I found you sitting with your back to it, intent
over these sketches, mere foolish trifles, Daisy, with which I relaxed my
mind from graver labours; so pray forget them, look at Mary Stuart, and
give me, without flattery of course, your candid opinion."
Here was a predicament! I came out with--
"A picture of yours cannot but be good, Cornelius."
"Thank you, Daisy, but that is stating a fact, not giving me your
opinion."
"I dare not give an opinion."
"Very modest; but you know whether you like a thing or not; _ergo_, do
you or do you not like Mary Stuart?"
Oh for a good genius to suggest some reply that might please him and not
violate truth! All I could find was a foolish "Of course not," which
prolonged, but did not elude the difficulty.
"Do you like it or not?" he repeated.
I did not reply.
"A plain yes or no, Daisy."
"Well, then,--no," I exclaimed, desperately.
Cornelius whistled.
"She is grown up," he said; "not like my picture! decidedly she is grown
up! Why, the other one would have admired any daub I painted!"
Tears of vexation rose to my eyes; he stooped, and smiled in my face.
"Why should you be annoyed when I am not?" he asked, very kindly.
"I am mortified at my bad taste, Cornelius."
"Then since you are conscious of bad taste, why don't you like Mary
Stuart?"
"I can't help it; I am afraid I have no feeling, for when I look at Mary
Stuart I feel as if I did not care whether they put her to death or not."
"How hard-hearted you must be! but go on; what else?"
"Nothing else, Cornelius, save that I fear I don't care about Mary Stuart
at all."
I looked at him rather shyly; he was laughing.
"You are as odd a girl as you were an odd child," he said, with his look
bent on my face; "why, Daisy, that is just my case; I did not care about
Mary Stuart whilst I painted her, and, poor thing! I don't care much
about her now."
"Don't you, Cornelius?" I asked, astonished.
"No, history may be a fine, grand thing, but give me lowly beings and
quiet feelings. Oh! Daisy, I wonder now that disappointed ambition ever
made me bend the knee to the false goddess, success, who moreover always
leaves me in the lurch; but our life is made up of mistakes; we stumble
at every step, and the last thing we learn is to be true to ourselves."
"Were your other pictures like this, Cornelius?"
"Oh, Daisy, they were such charming things." he replied, sighing; "but
Count Morsikoff wanted them, I wanted his rubles; but, never mind, I
shall repeat them, and show Kate that my journey to Italy has not been
quite lost."
"Why did you let her admire Mary Stuart?"
"How could I undeceive her? I had brought the unfortunate thing as a
proof of my industry, not to encumber the walls of the Academy, or for
her to admire; but when she looked at it with tears of admiration, what
was I to do?"
"To show her the sketches."
"She won't care about them, Daisy."
"Try her."
I opened the door, and called her in eagerly. But the event proved the
correctness of her brother's conjecture. Miss O'Reilly thought the
sketches very pretty things, but she hoped Cornelius had not lost too
much time with them. It would be such a pity, considering how admirably
fitted he was for historical compositions. He winced, but did not
contradict. She proceeded--
"I have been thinking of such a series of subjects: what do you say to
the battle of Clontarf, or to Bannockburn? something to make one feel as
if that grand lyric of Burns were being sung in the distance."
Cornelius stroked his chin and looked puzzled.
She resumed: "Perhaps you would like a subject more pathetic,--The
Children in the Tower, eh, Cornelius?"
"I have been thinking of something more domestic."
Kate's face expressed the deepest disappointment.
"History is a grand thing, Cornelius."
"And Home is lovely."
She said he knew best, but that he would never surpass Mary Stuart.
Cornelius did not reply, and put away the portfolio with a smile at me.
Then we all three went out into the garden, where we lingered until the
noon-day heat sent us in: that is to say, Kate and I, for Cornelius,
accustomed to an Italian sun, remained out, walking up and down the
gravel path, and every now and then making long pauses of rest by the
back parlour window, near which we sat sewing. Once Kate, called away by
some domestic concern, left us; he stood on the side facing me, his elbow
resting on the low window; he looked long, then smiled.
"Well!" I said.
"Well," he replied, "it would make a pretty picture; you sitting there
sewing by the window, with the cool shady back-ground of the room, a
glimpse of the bright sunny garden beyond."
"And you standing there looking in, leaning on the window-sill, and the
warm sunshine upon you, Cornelius."
"Yes," said the pleasant voice of Kate, now coming in, "that would
complete the picture." Then she suddenly added, "Cornelius, are you not
tired?"
"Not at all; I rested in London, you know."
"Go and take a walk then."
"What for, Kate?"
"Go out sketching."
"I feel very comfortable here."
"Go, I tell you; Daisy will show you the way; she knows Leigh by heart,
and, for England, it is pretty enough."
Cornelius looked at me and I looked at Kate. She smoothed my hair and
answered the look: "No, child, I can't go; bless you, my hands are full
of domestic concerns, so make haste and get ready. Stay, I shall go with
you."
She accompanied me to my room, opened my drawers and drew forth a white
muslin frock.
"Put that on," she said; "do not open your eyes, but do as I bid you."
"If we walk in the grass--" I began.
"You will soil it,--what matter?"
"But why put it on? it is my best."
"Bless the child! don't you see that I tell you to put it on because it
is your best, or rather because you look best in it? Don't be dull,
Midge, I want Cornelius to like you and your looks too."
There was no resisting an argument so plainly stated. Still when Kate
went down on some mysterious errand into the kitchen, and I hastened to
the parlour with my scarf on my arm and my bonnet in my hand, in order
not to keep Cornelius waiting, I was under a nervous apprehension that he
would think me very vain and fond of dress. He did look at me, and very
fixedly too. I exclaimed, deprecatingly--
"I knew you would think it odd to go and put on a white dress for a walk
in the country, but Kate would have it so."
He laughed, and gave me an amused look.
"What a strange girl you are, Daisy! I never noticed your dress. I was
studying the effect of that bright sunlight on your hair, and thinking
how it made it look more rich and deep than the hues Titian loved to
paint."
It was my turn to laugh.
"How like an artist, to be always thinking of effects!"
"Now don't stand giggling and chatting there," said Miss O'Reilly,
appearing with an ample provision of sandwiches neatly packed up, "but go
out whilst the day is still pleasant. Cornelius, take these; you are to
stay out the whole day. Daisy, why don't you take his arm? you are tall
enough for that now."
He held out his arm for me with a smile, and as I took it and looked up
into his face, I felt a proud and happy girl. The time had been when the
hand of Cornelius was as much as I could claim, and I longed in vain for
the present privilege and honour.
We left Rock Cottage by the garden gate. As we walked arm in arm down the
path that led to the beach, I saw Miss O'Reilly stand on the door-step,
and, shading her eyes with her hand, look after us, until the winding of
the path concealed us from her sight.