CHAPTER X.
I knocked at the door of Cornelius; he opened it; the landing was dark, I could not see him distinctly. I delivered my message; he did not reply, but quietly followed me downstairs. As he entered the parlour, the look of Kate became riveted on his face; it was pale but perfectly collected. He sat down and drank his tea in total silence. No sooner was the tray removed, than Miss O'Reilly entered abruptly on the subject, by saying—
"What mean jealousy there is, Cornelius!"
"Yes, Kate, very mean jealousy."
"In this case especially."
"It was not jealousy," he replied, looking annoyed.
"The name then! I said so: a Smith, a Jones, a Jenkins would have got in, but an O'Reilly—"
"Kate," interrupted her brother, reddening, "it was not the name."
"What then?" she asked, with a wistful look.
His lip trembled, but he made an effort, and replied firmly—
"The picture."
"The picture!" echoed Kate, looking disheartened.
"Yes, the picture," resumed Cornelius, inexorable to himself, to his youthful ambition, to his long-cherished dreams; "it is not its being rejected that troubles me, but its having deserved the rejection. Kate, I have committed a bitter mistake, and I found it out, not to-day, but weeks ago. So long as Art was unattempted, faith was in me as a living stream; it has ebbed away, and left the bed where it once flowed, barren and dry."
He sat by the table, his brow resting on his hand, the light of the lamp falling on his pale face, where will vainly sought to control the keen disappointment of a life-long aim. There was a pause, then his sister said—
"What will you do?"
"Seek for some other situation; anything will do."
"The City again! Why not try for work as an artist?"
"And do as a drudge the work I so long hoped to do as a master," replied Cornelius, colouring to the very temples. "No, Kate, that indeed would be degradation!"
"Then you give up painting?"
"Utterly."
She started from her seat, went up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and said warmly—
"Leave the City to drudges, and painting to enthusiasts. You have youth, talent, energy; choose the career of a gentleman, work, and make your way as you can, if you will—I shall find the means."
"I cannot," replied Cornelius, after a pause.
"Then you mean to return to painting," vehemently exclaimed his sister.
"If I cannot paint good pictures, Kate, I will not paint bad ones."
"What will you do?"
"The City—"
"The City! the dirty, smoky City for an Irish gentleman, of pure Milesian blood, without Scotch or Saxon stain, and who calls himself O'Reilly too! Cornelius, return to painting rather."
"Kate," he replied, with an expression of pain and weariness, "this is not a matter of will; I cannot paint now; my faith is dead. You may lock up the studio; the easel may stand against the wall; pencil or palette your brother will never handle again."
"Nor shall my brother be a clerk," she said resolutely.
Cornelius knit his brow and looked obstinate.
"But why?" she exclaimed, impatiently; "will you just tell me why?"
"You ask!" he replied, tossing on the couch, where he had again thrown himself with listless indolence.
"Ay, and I want to know, too, Cornelius," she said, quietly returning to her chair.
"Kate, when James could not marry his cousin, a plain, silly girl, why did he go to London Bridge and jump over?"
Miss O'Reilly jumped on her chair.
"Nonsense!" she cried, reddening, "you are not going to take that leap because you cannot paint pictures!"
"No, but I'll do like James. I cannot have the girl I like—I'll have no other. I cannot marry painting, a maid as fair as May, as rosy as June, fresh as an eternal spring: and you think, Kate," he added, quite indignantly, "you actually think I would wed surly law, ill-favoured medicine, or any of those old ladies whom men woo for their money—no, 'faith!"
He spoke resolutely, and sank back in his old attitude with great decision.
"James was a fool!" hastily said Kate.
"He was; and though there is no girl can compare with painting; though the love about which so much has been sung is cold and tame compared to the passion which fills a true painter's heart, I am not going to drown myself because the glorious gift has been denied me, and I cannot be that man."
He laughed rather drearily as he said it.
"Yes, but you will do nothing else," replied Kate.
"I can put my heart to nothing else. Daisy, why do you not bring the books as usual?"
I obeyed, but I could not give my attention to the lessons.
"Child," impatiently said Cornelius, "what can you be thinking of?"
I was thinking that he was not to be an artist; that he had given up painting, fame, and fortune; and, as he put the question, I burst into tears.
"I understand," quietly said Cornelius: "you do not know your lessons."
He closed the book, went to the piano, and sang as usual.
It was plain Cornelius rejected sympathy. He showed no pity to himself, and would accept none from others. If he suffered, the jealous pride of youth would not let him confess it, yet we could see that he was not happy. He set about looking for another situation, with the dogged sort of satisfaction a man may find in choosing the rope with which he is to hang himself. His pleasant face contracted a bitter expression; his good- humoured smile became ironical and sarcastic; he had fits of the most dreary merriment; of pity he was so resentfully suspicious that we scarcely dared to look at him. Three weeks had thus elapsed, when, as I sat with Kate and Cornelius in the garden, I ventured, thinking him in a better mood than usual, to say, in my most insinuating accents—
"Cornelius, what will be the subject of your next picture?"
He turned round and gave me a look so stern that I drew back half frightened.
"How dare you be so presuming?" said Kate, indignantly.
I did not reply, but after a while I left them. I re-entered the house, and stole up to the studio, there to brood in peace over what it was now an offence to remember. The easel stood against the wall; the papers and portfolios were covered with dust; a sketch of a group of trees—the last thing on which I had seen Cornelius engaged—lay on the table unfinished, but soiled with lying about. I opened one of the portfolios: it contained the drawings he most valued. I took them out, and, kneeling on the floor, spread them around me. Absorbed in looking at them, I never heard Cornelius enter, until his voice said close to me—
"What are you doing here?"
"I was looking at these," I replied in some confusion.
"Then you were taking a great liberty."
I silently began to restore the drawings to the portfolio; he said shortly—
"They will do on the floor." And he walked across them to the window.
"Cornelius," I observed, timidly, "you are standing on the head of the poor Italian boy, and you are going to tread on the flower-girl."
"They are only fit to burn," was his misanthropic reply.
"Let me take them away," I urged.
He seemed disposed to answer angrily, but he restrained himself and stepped aside. I removed the drawings, carefully replaced them in the portfolio, gently slipped in a few more, then stole up a glance at Cornelius: he was looking down at me with a displeased face.
"Lay down that portfolio," he said.
"Pray don't burn them!" I exclaimed, tearfully.
"Leave the room," he said, impatiently.
I obeyed, but as I reached the door I saw Cornelius go to the fire-place and take down the match-box. It might be to light a cigar, or make a bonfire of the drawings.
"Don't, pray don't," I entreated.
"Don't what?" he asked, lighting the match.
"Don't burn your beautiful drawings, Cornelius, pray don't."
"Daisy! did I or did I not tell you to leave the room?"
I stood near the door: I opened and closed it again, but unable to resist the temptation of ascertaining to what fate the drawings were reserved, I was stooping to look through the keyhole, when the door suddenly opened, and Cornelius appeared on the threshold.
"Go down at once," he said, angrily.
I obeyed, and, crying with vexation and grief. I entered the parlour where Kate sat sewing.
"Oh, Kate!" I exclaimed through my tears, "Cornelius is burning his drawings!"
"Is he?" was her calm reply.
"He turned me out, pray go and prevent him."
"Is there a great quantity of them?" she asked.
"Three large portfolios and a little one."
"That must make quite a heap."
"You might save a few by going now, Kate."
"He will be some time about it," she musingly observed; "better delay the tea a little."
"Kate, they will be all burned if you don't go."
"I hope he will be careful," said Miss O'Reilly, a little uneasy; "I hope he will not set the chimney on fire."
It was plain she would not take a step to save the drawings. I sat down in the darkest corner of the room and grieved silently over this miserable end to so many bright day-dreams. It was a long time before Cornelius came down; he apologized for having delayed the tea.
"Never mind!" said Kate, sighing. "Daisy, where are you? That child does nothing but mope and fret of late."
"I am here, Kate," I replied, rising.
"Hand Cornelius his cup."
"What is the matter with her?" he asked.
"She is a foolish child," replied Miss O'Reilly.
As I handed his cup to Cornelius, I saw his sister give him a look of gentle pity. He smiled cheerfully; she sighed; he kindly asked what was the matter.
"There are hard things to be gone through," was her ambiguous reply.
"Why, yes, Kate, there are."
"They require a brave spirit," she continued.
He looked puzzled.
"But it is quite right to cut the matter short."
"Kate, what has happened?"
"Well, it is not an event; but I admire your courage."
"My courage! in what?"
"Why, in burning your drawings, of course."
He bit his lip, reddened, and said gravely—
"I have not been burning them, Kate."
"Not burning them!" she exclaimed, with a sharp look at me.
"Daisy is not to blame," quickly observed Cornelius.
"Not burning them!" resumed Miss O'Reilly; "and I who kept tea waiting until it was spoiled in order not to disturb you!"
"Thank you all the same, Kate."
"Not burning them!" she said, giving him a very suspicious look, "and what were you doing up there. Cornelius?"
"Finishing a little thing which I will show you to-morrow."
"He's going to flirt with painting again!" desperately said Miss
O'Reilly, rocking herself to and fro.
"I hope to go beyond flirtation, Kate."
"My poor boy, don't trust her,—she is a heartless coquette."
"No, Kate, she is merely coy,—a charming feminine defect that only makes her more irresistibly alluring."
"You have tried her once."
"And failed; I must try again: faint heart never won fair lady."
He spoke so gaily, he looked once more so happy, so confident, that the cloud left his sister's handsome face. She checked a sigh, to say with a smile—
"I was a fool to trust to the vows of a man in love; that is all."
"Yes," he said, resolutely, "I know I vowed to give her up a few weeks ago; but now, Kate, I vow I cannot—I cannot; no man can divide himself from his nature."
"What will you do?" she asked.
"Anything, Kate," he replied, his eyes kindling with hope and ardour; "no drudgery will seem drudgery, no work too hard."
I could keep in no longer. At the imminent risk of upsetting his cup, I threw my arms around the neck of Cornelius, and, crying for joy, I exclaimed—
"Oh! I am so glad that you are to be a great artist after all—and that you did not burn the Italian boy nor the poor flower-girl!"
"Am I an inquisitor?" asked Cornelius, smiling.
"She is as mad as he is," said Kate, shaking her head; "indeed I rather think she is worse."
He laughed, and, drawing me on his knee, petted me even to my craving heart's content. I had not been well of late; the joyous excitement with which I had learned his return to Art once over, I became listless and languid. Cornelius had to remind me of the lessons; I know not how I answered him, but in the very middle of them he pushed away the books, said that would do, and made me sit by him on the sofa. Kate looked at me a little uneasily. Cornelius was always kind, but I had never known him so kind as on this evening. He read to me, sang and played, then returned to the couch on which I lay, and, with a tender fondness I shall ever remember, he pressed me to tell him if there was anything I should like.
"Nothing, thank you," I replied, languidly.
"A book?" he persisted; "no! well then a rosewood workbox—a desk? I have some money, child; look."
He drew out his purse and showed it to me, but I thanked him and refused.
"Is there nothing you would like?" he asked.
"I should like to know the subject of your next picture."
"As if I should paint but one," he replied, gaily; and he proceeded to describe to me, in a few graphic words, a magnificent collection of Holy Families, grand historical battles, tragic stories, dewy landscapes, exquisite domestic scenes, until, charmed by their variety, but rather startled by their number, I exclaimed—
"Cornelius, it will take a gallery to hold them all."
"Let us build one then," he replied, striving to repress a smile, "and whenever you feel dull, as you did this evening, we will take a walk in it. Look at her, Kate," he added, addressing his sister, "don't you think she seems better?"
"I think," answered Kate, rather astonished, "that I never saw you lay yourself out for a girl or woman, as you did this evening for that little pale face. My opinion is, that the foolish way in which she goes on about your pictures has won your heart."
"Since you have found it out, Kate, it is useless to deny it. I am waiting for Daisy. Am I not?" he added, turning to me with a smile.
"No," I replied, half indignantly.
"She won't have me," he said, feigning deep dejection; "ungrateful girl! is it for this I have so often brought you home apples, gingerbread and nuts, not harder than your heart?"
Unmoved by this pathetic appeal, I persisted in rejecting Cornelius, whom, even in jest, I could not consider otherwise than as my dear adopted father. Miss O'Reilly settled the point by saying it was quite ridiculous for little girls not yet twelve to be sitting up so late. As she rose and took me by the hand, I bade Cornelius good-night. He kissed me, not once, but two or three times, and so much more tenderly than usual, that Kate said, smiling—
"Cornelius, you are very fond of that child."
"Yes, Kate, I am. Next to you, there is nothing I like half so well in this world, and, somehow or other, I do not think I have ever felt fonder of her than this evening."
My cheek lay close to his, his heavy hair brushed my face, his eyes looked into mine with something sad in their fondness. I felt how much, how truly, how purely the good young man loved the child he had adopted, and returning his tender embrace, I was happy even to a sense of pain.
I believe in the presentiments of the heart, and I believe that on this evening, and at that moment, Cornelius and I unconsciously had each ours, and each, though different from the other, was destined to be fulfilled. The next day Cornelius knew why he had felt so fond of me: I was dangerously ill, and for days and weeks my life was despaired of.