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, _you_ like 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 observed
Kate.
"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," said
Cornelius, 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, "and
Cornelius 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 giving
Mr. 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.