Thus began the short and bitter contest between Miriam and me. I
apologized to her, humbly enough, on the following day; but in domestic
life, reconciliations seem only to lead to fresh quarrels; to make it up
is nothing; whilst the spirit remains unchanged, strife cannot cease. I
continued to be jealous of Miriam; she continued to resent every poor
attempt I made to secure the love and attention of him whose every
thought and feeling she wished to engross. I loved him too ardently, and
I was too rash and proud, to bear this passively. My persistency cost me
dear: I was daily wounded in the most tender and sensitive point--the
affection and the regard of Cornelius. I had faults, no doubt, but
Cornelius never seemed to have perceived them as he now perceived them:
how could he? before, they slumbered in peace, lulled by the love I felt
for him and that which he felt for me, whereas now they were--not pointed
out to him, she had too much tact for that--but awakened and drawn forth
under his gaze, daily, nay hourly. I felt this; I resolved to be good if
it were only to provoke my enemy, but I never could keep to the
determination. She knew so well how to make me defiant as I had never
been, or silent and sullen as Cornelius never had known me; above all,
how to rouse me to a pitch of obstinacy which not even he could subdue.
He saw the change with wonder and regret. He felt, rather late, that the
jealousy of a child was not a matter to be slighted; he tried to reason
me out of it; he was kind, severe, and indulgent by turns--uselessly. The
mischief was, I could not help loving him more than ever, and, loving him
thus, it was impossible I should not be jealous. Once this excessive
affection had pleased him, and he had encouraged it injudiciously; it now
wearied him--and no wonder; it had become the source of a daily
annoyance, paltry yet most irritating.
I remember well one morning. Oh! how those childish incidents have burned
themselves into my brain! She had as usual been provoking me by allusions
to my pale and sickly aspect, and then by questions so insidiously framed
to make me break forth into impertinence or ill-temper, that I would
answer her no more. This availed me little.
"Pray let her alone, Miriam," said Cornelius, greatly disgusted, "she is
a sulky little thing, unworthy of your notice."
"The poor child would not be so if she were not so unhealthy," kindly
observed Miriam.
This was one of the speeches with which she used to sting me; she knew,
and I knew too, how much Cornelius admired health, with its fresh aspect
and its joyous feelings, in both of which I failed so lamentably.
"You are too good to be always framing excuses for her," replied
Cornelius, with a severe look at me.
"Excuses!" I thought; "yes, it was easy to frame such excuses." But I
never replied; I never looked up from my books. I sat at the table by the
window, as if I had heard nothing; for this took place in the studio,
where Miriam still daily sat for Medora. Towards noon she rose to go.
"Give a look at our little garden first," said Cornelius; then turning to
me, he added--"Put on your bonnet and cape--the sun is warm, and the air
will do you good."
It was one of the mildest days of early spring. Our garden boasted but
few flowers. Cornelius gathered the freshest and fairest for his
mistress; but some snowdrops which she admired especially, he did not
gather.
"These I cannot give you," he said, "they are Daisy's; the others are
Kate's, and consequently mine."
She took the flowers he was handing her, with a smile of thanks, and sat
down on the wooden bench by the house. He was soon by her side--soon
wholly wrapped in her. The sun shone bright and warm in the blue sky; the
breeze was very pleasant; the old house had many a brown, rich tint; the
ivy on the porch was green and glossy; the garden had begun to wear the
first fresh blossoms and light verdure of spring; a bird had perched on
the highest bough of the tallest poplar, and thence broke forth into many
a snatch of gay song. It was a morn for happy lovers to sit thus side by
side, looking out on heaven and earth, but still lingering within the
shelter of a warm home.
I looked at them, and I keenly felt the words of Cornelius. Those
snowdrops were mine. I had set them myself, and daily watched them
growing up and unfolding their shy beauty; but I had never attached to
them an idea of selfish enjoyment. To place them some morning in the
studio of Cornelius, enjoy his surprise, his pleasure, and his thanks,
was all I had dreamed of; but if it pleased him better to bestow them on
her in whom he now most delighted, what mattered it to me? I felt
bitterly that she had taken from me his affection, his thoughts, his
looks, his kindness, his very caresses, and that she might as well have
the flowers with the rest. I gathered them, and silently placed them on
her lap. Miriam looked at me and coloured slightly. Cornelius seemed
charmed, and passed his arm around my neck with a sudden return of
kindness.
"Ah!" said Miriam to him, "those flowers are given to you, and not to me,
and it is you must give the thanks."
By the "thanks" she evidently meant a kiss, but Cornelius had perhaps a
fancy for caressing me when he chose, for he did not take the hint.
Miriam placed the snowdrops amongst the other flowers, and inhaled their
mingled fragrance with a dreamy look and smile. Cornelius looked at her
and exclaimed--
"Ah! you are Moore's Namouna now,--the eastern enchantress who lives on
the perfume of flowers."
"How can you be so cruel?" she replied, glancing up, and her green eyes
sparkling in the sun with perfidious light.
"Cruel?"
"Yes, that poor child is still waiting for her kiss."
Those were her very words. They made my blood boil then, and as I write,
I still feel within me something of that old resentment over which years
have passed in vain. Who, what was she, that she should speak thus? I had
been kissed and caressed by Cornelius, I had lain in his arms and slept
on his bosom, before he had ever seen her fair and fatal face,--whilst he
was still unconscious of her very existence. He might love her more than
he loved me, but he had loved me first: even how, changed as he was, I
knew I was still dear to him. She had taken much from me; did she mean to
take all? Was he to caress me but at her bidding and pleasure? Were his
lips to touch my cheek but when she permitted it? Was she to mete out to
me even that paltry drop which she had left in my cup, once so full?
I felt this, not in these words, but far more intensely, for it passed
through me during the brief seconds which Cornelius took to smile at her
words, and then turn to me to comply with her behest. I abruptly averted
my face from his: if he would embrace me but on such conditions, never
more might he do so!
Cornelius looked surprised, then indignant. As I walked away from them, I
heard the sweet voice of Miriam saying, sadly--
"How unfortunate I am to make mischief when I meant a kindness!"
"Do not mention it," replied Cornelius, in a tone of sincere distress,
"it is inexpressibly bitter to me to trace such feelings in Daisy."
I stood by the sun-dial, with my back turned to them, and still trembling
from head to foot with the intensity of those feelings which Cornelius
deplored, but which--I felt he might have known that--sprang from the
sincerity of my love for him. But it was destined that she should ever be
in the right, and I in the wrong. I attempted no useless justification,
and heard them going in, without so much as looking round.
Domestic quarrels are an endless progeny: each has a distinct existence;
but as it dies it gives birth to a successor, and so on for ever. Even
for this day, this was not enough. When Miriam returned in the afternoon,
she had scarcely sat an hour to Cornelius before she said to me--
"Daisy, I never thanked you for your beautiful snowdrops; you must
forgive me the omission."
"Forgive!" echoed Cornelius, who was now sitting by her for a few
minutes, and who probably thought this much too condescending.
"Why not? It is the very least I can do to thank the poor child for her
flowers; I also want to give her something: what would please you, my
dear?"
She was again addressing me, and she spoke very sweetly: she always did
speak so to me. There was the misery and the snare: she knew well enough
I could never speak so to her; that, though I dare not say much on
account of Cornelius, my very voice changed when I had to address or
answer her. I now felt what a mockery it was for her, who had robbed me
of everything I cared for, to talk of making me a present, yet I
compelled myself to reply--
"Anything you like, thank you."
"Anything means nothing, my dear," she said, very gently.
I did not answer; she resumed--
"Would you like a book? you are fond of reading."
"Yes. I like books, thank you."
"Or a new frock; you do not dislike dress?"
"Oh no, I do not dislike it, thank you."
"But I want to know what you prefer," she insisted.
"I prefer nothing, thank you."
Cornelius knit his brow.
"Daisy," he said sharply, "tell Miss Russell directly what you would
like."
Tell her what I should like! be indebted to her for a pleasure! no, not
even his authority could make me do that. Cornelius insisted, I remained
obstinate; he became angry, I did not yield; I was getting hardened; all
I would say was that I preferred nothing; and so far as her gifts were
concerned this was true, they all seemed equally hateful.
"Disobedient, obstinate girl!" began Cornelius, in great wrath.
"Daisy shall not be scolded on my account," interrupted Miriam, laying
her beautiful fingers on his lips, "and she shall have her present too;
we must subdue her by kindness," she added in a whisper that reached me.
Cornelius looked at her with mingled love and admiration, and then at me
with sorrowful reproach.
I had my present, too, the very next morning; it came in with Miss
Russell's kind love: a beautiful green silk frock, that made me look as
yellow as saffron. It exasperated me to try it on, but Cornelius, who
admired it greatly, insisted that I should do so. I was obliged to
comply. I just looked at the glass and saw that the benevolent intention
of the donor was fulfilled.
"How kind of Miriam!" said Cornelius, as I stood before him. "It is very
pretty. Kate, is it not?"
"An odd colour for Daisy," she replied, drily.
"Saint Patrick's Day was last week," he answered, smiling.
"And Daisy's dress is green in honour of Saint Patrick, of course,"
rather ironically said Kate; "well, it is a great deal too 'fine for
everyday wear, so just come up-stairs and take it off, child."
"Oh, Kate!" I began, as soon as we were alone.
"No," she interrupted, "that is quite an idea of yours, Daisy."
She seemed so positive that what I had not said must be "quite an idea of
mine," that I abstained from saying it. She helped me to take off the
dress, then looked at it a little scornfully, said it was pretty, but
that she fancied me a great deal better with my old everyday merino,
which did not make me look quite so much like a bunch of primroses in its
leaves. I made no such picturesque comment, but I resolved that though I
had not been able to refuse this dress, nothing save force should make me
wear it. But my troubles with regard to this unlucky present were not
over. When Miriam came in, Cornelius thanked her very warmly; was
grateful for her kindness, and praised her taste. I sat by the table
apparently absorbed in my books, and secretly hoping it might pass off
thus; but it did not.
"Daisy," said Cornelius.
I looked up; there was no mistaking his gentle, admonishing glance, but
as I did not seem to have understood it, he added--
"You have not thanked Miss Russell."
If the dress had been a becoming one, if I could have fancied that there
was anything like kindness in the gift, I might have subdued my pride so
far as to comply. But to thank Miriam for that which I had refused and
which she had forced upon me; to thank her for that which I believed
destined to make me look plainer than nature had made me, in the sight of
Cornelius, and which, as I knew but too well, accomplished the desired
object, was more than I could do.
"You have not thanked Miss Russell," again said Cornelius.
I did not answer; I hung down my head and locked myself up in mute
obstinacy. Several times Cornelius said to me, in a voice that boded
rising anger--
"Daisy, will you thank Miss Russell?"
I did not say I would not, but then I did not do it; and yet I felt sick
and faint at the thought of his coming wrath and indignation. Well I
might! Cornelius had the fiery blood of his race; but his temper was so
easy and pleasant, that you could spend weeks with him and never
suspect--save perhaps for too sudden a light in his eyes--that he could
be roused to violent passion. Provoked beyond endurance by my obstinacy,
he now turned pale with anger; he left by his work to stride up to me; I
quailed before his look and shrank back. Miriam rose, swiftly stepped in
between us, and placed me behind her, as if for protection.
"Mr. O'Reilly!" she exclaimed, "command yourself."
She spoke with a look of reproof and authority. Cornelius gazed at her
with wonder, then coloured to the very temples.
"Oh! Miriam," he said, drawing back from her with a glance of the keenest
reproach, "how could you imagine such a thing?"
He looked as if he could not even name it; then perceiving me as I still
stood behind Miriam, he took me by the hand, and, sitting down on the
sofa, he held me from him, looking me intently in the face as he slowly
said--
"And did you too think I meant, I will not say to hurt, but so much as
touch you?"
I looked at him; I thought of all his past kindness,--my heart swelled,
the tears which had not flowed at his anger, gushed forth with the
question; I threw my arms around his neck.
"Oh no, no!" I cried, "I never did think that, Cornelius, and I never
could."
"Never?" he echoed; "are you sure, Daisy?"
"Never," I replied almost passionately, "never, Cornelius; if I angered
you ever so much; if I saw your very hand raised against me, I should not
fear one moment--for I know it never would come down."
His lips trembled slightly, the only sign of emotion he betrayed. He
looked at me; our eyes met, and I felt that there was in his something
which answered to all the love and faith of my heart.
"You have been very perverse," he said, at length; "you have provoked me,
so that I have lost all my self-control; but for the sake of those words,
it shall not only be all forgiven to you, but if ever we quarrel again,
remember that, whatever you may have done, you need only remind me of
this day, for peace to be once more between us."
He pressed me to his heart and kissed me repeatedly, then put me away,
rose and went up to Miriam. She stood where he had left her, pale and
almost defiant-looking, as if she already repelled the expected
reproaches of Cornelius.
"I beg your pardon," he said very gravely.
"My pardon?" she replied, looking up at him with a cold doubt in her
eyes.
"Your pardon," he repeated precisely in the same tone. "When I stepped up
to Daisy, it was to take her by the hand and lead her out of the room, a
little indignity which I thought her obstinacy merited; but how utterly I
must have lost my temper, how much I must have forgotten myself, for you
to misunderstand me so cruelly?"
She did not appear to perceive the reproach that lingered in this
apology.
"You looked provoked enough for anything," she quietly answered, "but it
was that unhappy child who made you lose all patience."
"I have enough power over myself to promise you that, no matter what
Daisy may do, I shall never again allow it to betray me into passion,"
said Cornelius very calmly; "I shall try the effect of forbearance; with
regard to what passed this morning, I forgive her freely; may I trust
that you also forgive her."
"Indeed I do, poor thing!" sighed Miriam, as if she pitied my evil nature
too much to resent any of its peculiar workings.
No more was said on the subject; but Cornelius was as much pleased with
my trust in him, as he was secretly hurt with the suspicion of Miriam. If
in his manner to her I could see no difference, there was no mistaking
the sudden increase of tenderness and affection with which he treated me.
Had I only been wise, I might have availed myself of this opportunity to
regain almost all I had lost; but who is wise in this world? I was
foolish enough to fall into the first snare Miriam placed before me;
again I showed myself an obstinate, sullen, jealous child.
Cornelius however kept to his word; he bit his lip, curbed down his
anger, and did not allow his voice to rise above the tones of a calm
remonstrance.
But better, far better for me that Cornelius should have given way to
hasty speech, punished me, and the next hour forgiven me, than that he
should have thus checked himself every time I transgressed. The
resentment he daily repressed rankled in his mind; I irritated him
constantly, and yet I compelled him to incessant self-control: I became a
secret thorn in his side, the source of an unacknowledged pain, a warning
that met him at every turn: if Miriam had designed it all in order to
render my presence insupportable to him, she could scarcely have
succeeded better.
How changed was our once happy and peaceful home! a spirit of strife, of
unquiet jealousy had entered it and poisoned all its joys; a sense of
trouble and unhappiness hung over it like the sword over the head of
Damocles, and robbed everything of its pleasure and its charm. Kate was
grave, Cornelius irritable; I was wretched; she alone who had caused it
all remained unalterably serene.
Such a state of things could not last: we all vaguely felt it. The close
of April brought the change. Breakfast, which had passed off as usual,
was over when Cornelius told me to go up with him to his little studio. I
obeyed with pleased alacrity; Medora was again lying by, and Miriam was
not therefore to come; he had not shown of late much inclination for my
society; I hailed this as a symptom of returning favour. As I found
myself once more alone with him in the little room I knew so well, I
exclaimed joyfully--
"How kind it is of you, Cornelius, to have asked me to come up!"
"Is it?" he replied, without looking at me.
"Yes, I did so want to come up yesterday; but Kate would not let me. May
I come to-morrow?"
"To-morrow? no."
"After to-morrow then?" I said persistingly.
"Be quiet, child, and let me work."
I obeyed and looked at him, as he continued the task on which he had for
the last week been engaged--copying a little Dutch painting for a
picture-dealer. After awhile I said--
"When you are a great artist you won't copy pictures, will you,
Cornelius?"
"Did I not tell you to let me work?"
"I shall speak no more."
But to make up for speaking, I got up on the table and attempted to take
down some of the portfolios from the shelf. He heard me, turned round,
and uttered an imperative--
"Come down!"
As I obeyed with regret, I exclaimed--
"Oh! if you only would, Cornelius!"
"Would what?"
"Let me have the portfolios, look at the drawings, and arrange them,--I
am sure they are in a great mess. By beginning to-day I might have them
all sorted before the end of the week. May I have one to begin with?"
"No; must I for a third time tell you to let me work?"
I promised to interrupt him no more, and taking a chair, I sat for awhile
both quiet and silent: but the spirit of speech must have possessed me,
for I forgot my promise and spoke again.
"Cornelius," I said suddenly, "do you think your Happy Time will be
accepted?" for Cornelius had sent in his picture to the Academy; but
though Kate and I felt some anxiety on the subject, he professed total
indifference.
"I neither know nor care," he replied negligently; "I set no value on it,
and shall not think the better of it for its being accepted."
"It makes my heart beat to think of it. I am sure it is a beautiful
picture."
"How can you tell?"
"Surely, Cornelius," I replied, "I know?"
"I know," he interrupted, "that I never knew you in such a chattering
humour. What possesses you, child, on this morning above all others?"
He had sat down to rest, and, leaning back in his chair, he looked round
at me; I stood behind him; passing my arm around his neck, I replied, "It
is that I am glad to be again up here."
"Have you never been here before?"
"Not much of late,--I mean when you are alone; not this whole week; I
thought you were vexed with me, and when you said 'Come up' this morning,
just in the old way, I felt so glad that, if Kate had not been looking, I
should have jumped up and kissed you."
But Kate was not there now to restrain me--for the most innocent
affection is shy and shuns the eye of a gazer--so I kissed her brother as
I loved him--with my whole heart.
"That will never do," exclaimed Cornelius, looking very uncomfortable;
"listen to me, child, I have something to say to you."
"I am listening, Cornelius," I replied, without changing my attitude.
"I cannot speak in that sideways fashion."
I walked round and sat down on his knee.
"I shall be quite opposite you so," I said.
Cornelius looked disconcerted, and observed gravely, "My dear, you are
getting too old for all this; you must be near thirteen."
"My birthday is in two months' time; yours in five."
"True. Well, as I was observing, there are things natural in the child
which might seem foolish in the young girl."
I rose submissively.
"I shall not do it again, Cornelius," I said, as I stood before him; "are
there other things I do, and which you think foolish?"
"I did not say so."
"Because if there are," I continued, earnestly, "and I should do them in
company, for instance, you will only have to say, 'Daisy!' in that way, I
shall be sure to understand."
"Nonsense!" he interrupted, reddening.
"Indeed, Cornelius, it is no nonsense: I could understand even a look; I
am so accustomed to your face. Have I not been with you nearly three
years?"
"That will never do, never!" exclaimed Cornelius, seeming more and more
uncomfortable, and stroking his chin with half puzzled, half sorrowful
air; "but there is no help for it," he added more firmly; "come here,
child."
He drew me on his knee as he spoke.
"But you said it was foolish!" I said, surprised.
"As a habit; not for once."
I yielded; he passed both his arms around me, looked down into my face
and said abruptly--
"You know, Daisy, I am fond of you. I think I have shown it; I hope you
believe it."
I said I did; but I could scarcely speak, my heart beat so. Why did he
tell me of his affection?
"You have not been happy of late," he continued; "at times I have
noticed, with pain, an expression of perfect misery on your face: I do
not mean that it was justified, but it was there, and, even whilst I
blamed you, it grieved me to think you should be unhappy in our home."
"Do not mind it, I don't," I exclaimed eagerly; "I do not mind being
unhappy now and then--I would much rather be miserable here with you and
Kate, than ever so happy elsewhere."
"Perhaps you would," he replied, "for if you have great faults, no one
can say that want of affection is amongst them. You can love, too much
perhaps; but that is not the question; on your own confession you are not
happy, and to that there is but one remedy. I see in your face that you
have guessed it--separation."
Yes, I had guessed it, but not the less acutely did I feel the blow; I
did not answer; he continued--
"We must part. You do not know, perhaps you could not understand, how
much it pains me to say so; and yet it must be. You are not happy
yourself, and there is in the house a sense of unquietness, of strife,
that cannot last any longer. But my chief reason for taking this
determination concerns you wholly. You are not aware, my poor child, that
the feeling you have been indulging is fast spoiling your originally good
and generous nature. You are morally ill. I have done what I could to
eradicate the disease, but it passed my power. There is but one cure--
absence. And now one last remark: you cannot change my resolve; spare me
the pain of refusing that which I cannot and must not grant."
I did spare him that pain. I lay in his arms mute and inanimate with
grief. The blow had been inflicted by the hand I had trusted, and had
reached me where I had always sought for refuge and consolation. I had
been jealous, perverse; I had provoked and tormented him, but I had never
thought he could have the heart to banish me. I believe Cornelius had
expected not merely entreaties, but lamentations and tears; seeing me so
quiet, he wondered.
"Did you understand?" he asked.
"Yes, Cornelius."
"But what have you understood, child?"
"That you will send me away somewhere."
"Where?"
"I don't care where, Cornelius."
"I shall send you to school," he said.
"To Miss Wood's?" I asked, naming a day-school close by.
"To a boarding-school," he replied gravely.
I felt that too, but all I said was--
"Then I shall only come home every Sunday."
"My dear," he answered with evident embarrassment, "Kate and I should
like it greatly; but would it be accomplishing the object in view?"
So it was to be a complete, a total exile! I looked at him; I did not
want to move him, to appeal to his compassion, but my glance wanted to
ask his if this could be true. That silent questioning look appeared to
trouble him involuntarily.
"Shall Kate come and see me?" I asked after awhile.
"Certainly."
"And may I write to you, Cornelius?"
"No doubt you may. What makes you ask?"
"Because of course _you_ will not come."
"Why not?" asked Cornelius, looking both surprised and hurt; "am I
sending you away in anger? I am not, Daisy. I mean it as a cure,--painful
perhaps, but short. I am to marry Miss Russell this summer. We will live
next-door; you will be here with Kate. I trust that by that time good
sense will have prevailed over exaggerated feelings; that you will learn
to love and respect Miriam as my wife and the companion of my existence.
This is the true reason of what you perhaps consider a very harsh
measure--that your embittered feelings may have time and opportunity to
soothe down in peace."
I understood him. This was but the beginning of a life-long separation.
Cornelius married, was lost to me. I felt it, but resistance was useless;
I heard him apathetically. Thinking perhaps to rouse and interest me, he
said--
"You do not ask to what school you are going?"
"I do not care, Cornelius."
"It is not, properly speaking, a school. The Misses Clapperton are
amiable and accomplished women, who eke out a somewhat narrow income by
receiving a limited number of pupils. At present they have only two; they
can therefore devote all their attention to them and to you. It has
always been my ambition that you should be well educated."
I could not help looking at him. Well educated, and his ambition! Ay, I
had had a master once, loved, preferred, honoured beyond any other
teacher, who taught me every evening, often on his knee, with looks of
kindness and caresses of love. Him I had long lost; but then why tell me
of others hired to impart the teaching he had grown weary of giving?
"When am I to go?" I asked after awhile.
"To-morrow morning; you can stay longer if you wish."
"No, thank you."
"Is there anything you wish for? Tell me freely."
"I should like to see all your drawings again and to arrange them; they
want it, I know."
He put me down, rose, brought me the portfolios, and emptied their
contents for me. I began my task; I had the spirit of order in details
which most women possess; I had often before been of use to Cornelius in
such matters, and I found a sorrowful pleasure in being of use to him
again, in leaving him this last token of my presence. I could not cease
loving him because he chose to banish me; the less I received and the
more I gave; it seemed as if what he withdrew, I should make up, that the
sum of love between us might never grow less.
Whilst I was busy with my task, Cornelius worked. Every now and then I
ventured to disturb him: either it was a drawing I wanted him to look at,
or I begged of him to notice the system of my arrangement.
"Because, you know," I once observed, "I shall not be here to tell you."
"Very true," he replied, rather ruefully.
I believe he was not prepared for so entire and resigned a submission. He
forgot that it was only in the presence of Miriam he could not master me.
My docility seemed to affect him more than might have done my tears, had
I shed any. His kind face became quite sorrowful; once he left by his
work to come and look over my task, and seeing a little drawing in which
he had represented himself at his easel with me looking on, and which we
had christened "The Artist's Studio," he told me to leave it out, for
that he should hang it up.
"Will you indeed?" I said.
I was kneeling on the floor, with the drawings scattered around me; he
sat half behind me; I turned round and looked up into his face, smiling
with mingled pleasure and sadness. He took my head in both his hands, and
looked at me intently; there seemed a charm that kept my eyes on his.
"Ah!" he said at length, "if I dare! but I should only repent it the next
five minutes--so it must not be."
With this he rose, and came not again near me. My task occupied me for
the whole of that day; it served to divert me. I did not however grieve
so very much; there was a sort of incredulousness in my heart which I
could not conquer. Kate and Cornelius were much sadder than I was; they
knew that it was to be, and I felt as if it were, though decreed,
impossible. But when I came down to breakfast on the following morning,
when I saw the sorrowful face of Kate, and met the troubled glance of
Cornelius, I suddenly awoke to the dread reality. I sat down to table as
usual, but I could not eat. Cornelius pressed me, uselessly; even to
please him I could touch nothing. It was a beautiful Spring morning, and
I was not to go for another hour.
"Shall I give you a walk in the lanes?" suddenly asked Cornelius, turning
to me.
"Thank you," I replied, in a low tone, "I prefer the garden."
He took me by the hand and led me out; I liked that little garden, where
I had spent so many happy hours, and from which I was now going to part.
I looked at the shrubs, trees, and flowers, at the very grass and earth
on which I trod, with lingering love and tenderness; but I said nothing.
Cornelius looked down at me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said
abruptly--
"Daisy, will you promise not to be jealous?"
An eager and joyful "Yes" rose to my lips--a most bitter thought checked
it.
"I cannot," I exclaimed, desperately, "I cannot, Cornelius."
"You will not promise?" he said.
"I cannot."
He looked at me very fixedly, but uttered not a word of praise or blame.
"Daisy," called the sad voice of Kate from the house, "come and get
ready, child."
I was obeying; Cornelius detained me to observe--
"Ask me for something before we part."
"I have nothing to ask for, Cornelius."
But he insisted--I yielded:
"If when the time comes you will write to tell me whether your picture is
exhibited or not, I shall like it, Cornelius."
"Have you nothing else to ask for?"
"Nothing else," I replied, looking up at him.
Love is proud: he was banishing me--what could I want with his gifts? He
said nothing, and allowed me to go in.
At length came the moment of our separation. I was ready and in the
parlour again; the cab was waiting in the lane. Miss O'Reilly, who was to
take me, said abruptly--
"Go and bid Cornelius good-bye."
I went up to him trembling from head to foot. He sat by the table reading
the newspaper: he laid it down, looked at me, then took me in his arms.
All my fortitude forsook me on finding myself once more clasped in the
embrace from which I should so soon be severed. I wept and sobbed
passionately on his shoulder. I felt as if I could and would not go--as
if it were impossible; a thing to be spoken of, never carried into
effect. Cornelius pressed me to his heart, and tried to hush away my
grief, but ineffectually. At length he said, very ruefully--
"Oh, Daisy!"
Looking up, I saw that his eyes were dim. I grew silent at once, ashamed
to have moved him so much.
"Well!" said Kate.
"Yes," replied her brother. He gave me a kiss, put me down; Kate hurried
me away, and it was over.
We passed through the garden and entered the cab, which rolled down the
lane. I remembered how tenderly Cornelius had once cared for me during
the whole of a long journey; how he had carried me when I could not walk,
and brought me, wrapped up in his cloak and sleeping in his arms, to the
home whence he now banished me. And remembering these things, I cried as
if my heart would break.