CHAPTER XI.
That time is still to me a blank, on the vague back-ground of which stand forth two vivid and distinct images. One is that of Cornelius, sitting by me and holding my hand in his: the other, that of a tall, pale, and fair- haired lady, who stood at the foot of my bed, clad in white, calm and beautiful as a vision. I had never seen her before, and I remember still how vainly I tormented my poor feverish brain to make out who she was. I have a vague recollection that I one day framed the question, "Who are you?"
"Miriam," she replied, in a voice as sweet and as cold as a silver bell, and she laid her fingers on her lips, to enjoin silence. The name told me nothing, but my wandering mind was too much confused to follow out any train of thought. I accustomed myself to her presence, without striving to know more. Another day, I remember her better still. She was standing at the foot of the bed, half hidden by the white curtain. A little further on, Cornelius talked to a grave-looking man, in tones which, though low, awoke me from my dreamy unconsciousness.
"I can give you no hope," said the physician, for such even then I knew him to be: "it will end in a decline."
"Oh! doctor," entreated Cornelius, "she is so young, scarcely twelve."
"My dear Sir, we do not work miracles, and those excitable children—"
"But my poor little Daisy is so quiet," interrupted Cornelius; "you never knew such a quiet child; she will sit still for hours whilst I am drawing or painting. Indeed, Sir," he added, giving the doctor an appealing look, "she is the quietest little creature breathing."
"Well, Sir," replied the physician, "I will not say that she cannot outlive this, but she is too slight, too delicate for me to hold out much hope for the future."
He left. When he was gone Cornelius bent over me. "My poor little Daisy," he said, in a low, sad tone,—"my poor little Daisy, I did not think you would wither so very early."
Two hot tears fell on my face.
"Mr. O'Reilly," said a sweet voice behind him, "the child will live, you love her too much, she cannot die."
I looked languidly through my half-closed eyes. Miriam stood by Cornelius; she had placed her hand on his shoulder; he sat half turned round gazing at her with astonishment. She smiled and continued—
"My child was given up three times; but I loved her; I would not let her go; she stayed with me; your child too shall stay."
"May God bless you at least for the prediction!" he replied in a low tone, and, stooping, he laid his lips on her band; she coloured, and I saw Kate, then in the act of coming in, stand still with wonder on the threshold of the open door.
The same day a favourable crisis took place, and when the physician called again, he pronounced me out of danger. Only Kate and Cornelius were present, and I shall never forget their joy; I do not think that if I had been their own child they could have felt a purer and deeper gladness. The happy face of Cornelius, as he bent over me and gave me a kiss, was alone something to remember. I recovered rapidly; one of my first requests was to be carried up to the studio, and, every precaution being taken that I should not get cold, it was complied with on a pleasant July morning. I looked at the picture Cornelius had begun during my illness, then I asked him to place me near the open window. It overlooked our garden and that of our tenant, Miss Russell, an old maiden lady, of whom I had never caught more than a few distant glimpses. I was accustomed to see her garden as quiet and lonely as ours, which it resembled; to my surprise I now perceived a strange group. In the honeysuckle bower sat two ladies; one read aloud to an old blind woman, who after a while said—
"That'll do for to-day, my blessed young lady."
"Would you like to go in, nurse?" asked the lady very sweetly.
"I think I should. You need not mind, Miss Ducky," she said, addressing the other lady, "my dear young lady will do it."
The lady who had read now helped the old woman to rise, and led her in with great care. She soon returned alone, resumed her place, and read to herself from a smaller volume. She was attired in white, and with her head slightly bent, and her book on her lap, she looked as calm and still as a garden statue. The other lady was very young, a mere girl, short, pretty, fresh as a rose, and with glossy dark ringlets. She had been very restless during the reading, and had indulged in two or three little yawns. She now seemed joyous and happy at the release, and hovered around the bower light and merry as a bee. There was an airy grace about her little person that rendered motion as becoming to her as was repose to the other lady. She skipped and started about with restless vivacity; now she plucked a flower; now she stripped a shrub of its leaves; then suddenly turning round, she addressed her companion in the tones of a spoiled child:
"Miriam, leave off reading! you won't?—take that!"
She gathered a rose and threw it at her.
Miriam raised her beautiful face, calm as the surface of unstirred waters, and said, in a voice that rose sweetly on the air—
"Child, what is it?"
"Don't read."
Miriam closed her book.
"And come here."
Miriam rose and went up to her.
"How can you read so to stupid old nurse?" resumed the young girl; "I don't like Baxter."
"She likes it, my darling, and she is blind, and cannot read for herself."
"But if I were as jealous of you as you are of me," continued she whom the old woman had called Ducky, "I should not like it."
She laid her curled head on the shoulder of the beautiful Miriam, who stooped and gave her a long embrace. Then they walked up and down the garden, arm in arm, talking in lower tones. I turned to ask Cornelius who were the ladies, and I found that he stood behind me, looking down intently.
"Cornelius," I said, "did not the lady they call Miriam, come and see me when I was ill?"
"Yes, child," he replied, without looking at me, and returning to his easel as he spoke.
"Who is she?"
"Miss Russell, the niece of our tenant."
"Who is the other one?"
"Her sister."
"Have they been here long, Cornelius?"
"They came the week you were taken ill."
"Did Miss Russell come and see me often?"
"Every day; one night she sat up with you."
"She has not come of late, Cornelius?"
"No," he replied, still without looking at me; "she came one day unsought, and left off coming as soon as you were out of danger."
"How good she seems to her nurse!"
"She is all goodness."
"And how fond of her sister!"
"She is wrapt up in her."
"And yet she is much more beautiful, is she not, Cornelius?" I added, again looking down into the garden, where the sisters now sat in the bower. Cornelius left his easel to come and look too.
"Nonsense, child!" he replied, smiling, "the little one is much the prettier of the two. Ask Kate," he added, as the door opened, and his sister entered.
"Humph," said Miss O'Reilly, on being appealed to, "your eyes are better than mine, Cornelius, to see the difference at this distance; but I think Miss Ducky a pretty little roly-poly thing, and her sister a fine woman, though rather icy."
"Roly-poly!" indignantly echoed Cornelius, "why, Kate, she is exquisitely pretty!"
"Don't you fear the child may take cold?" said Miss O'Reilly, coming up to the window, which she closed with a mistrustful look, that seemed to say to it—"I wish you were not there."
I spent about an hour more with Cornelius, who did his best to entertain me, by talking of the gallery, then took me back to my room, where Kate kept me company. I questioned her concerning Miss Russell, but learned little. She supposed it was very kind of her to come, though to be sure I did not want her; and cool people were often peculiar; and other things which I did not understand. I asked if any one else had come.
"Mr. Smalley, who has been disappointed of the Dorsetshire curacy after all, and Mr. Trim came several times."
"I hope Mr. Trim did not kiss me," I said, uneasily, for this amiable individual still persisted in being affectionate to me.
"Nonsense, child, I promise you they were more taken up in looking at Miss Russell, than in thinking of you. Sleep, for they are to come this evening, and I know Cornelius would like to take you down for an hour."
I did my best to gratify her, and soon succeeded, and the same evening I was dressed and wrapped up, or rather swathed like a mummy, said Cornelius, as he carried me down in his arms. He had scarcely laid me on the couch in the parlour, when Deborah announced "Miss Russell."
A pretty head, with drooping ringlets, peeped in, and as suddenly vanished.
"Pray come in, Miss Russell," said Kate, rising.
"You are engaged," lisped a soft voice behind the door.
"Not at all, pray come in."
"You—you are at tea, then."
"We shall not have tea for an hour, pray come in."
"I would rather come some other time," said the little voice, still speaking from the door, but rather more faintly.
"Surely my brother does not frighten you?"
"Oh no," faltered the timid speaker, in a tone that said, "Oh dear yes, precisely."
Kate rose and walked to the door. We heard a giggle, a little suppressed denial, and finally saw Miss O'Reilly re-enter the parlour and lead in the bashful creature. Miss Ducky was in a state of bewitching confusion and under-her-breath modesty. "She came to know how the little girl was— so glad she was well again. Sit down! Oh no, she would rather be excused."
She spoke with girlish fluency of easy speech, with many a gentle toss of the glossy curls, and glancing of the bright dark eyes that looked everywhere save in the direction of Cornelius. Kate was vainly pressing her to sit down, when the fair creature was further alarmed by the entrance of Mr. Smalley and Mr. Trim. In her confusion she flew to the bow window instead of the door—"was astonished at the mistake—so absurd—quite stupid, you know," and stood there blushing most charmingly, when Kate at length persuaded her to sit down. By this time I had received the congratulations of Mr. Smalley and Mr. Trim, both of whom looked with some interest and curiosity at Miss Ducky.
There never was such a little flirt. The introduction was scarcely over when she attacked Mr. Trim with a look, Mr. Smalley with a smile, and Cornelius with look, smile, and speech, and having thus hooked them, she went on with the three to her own evident enjoyment and delight. Mr. Trim, whom the ladies had not accustomed to such favours, seemed exulting, and indulged in the most unbounded admiration. After warning Miss Ducky that she need not mind him, he edged his chair nearer to hers, and peering in her face, asked to know the number of hearts she had broken.
"I broke a cornelian heart the other day," she replied, demurely; "I was so sorry."
"Could it not be mended?" innocently asked Mr. Smalley.
"I don't know," she answered, childishly, "I did not try; I used to wear it round my neck—it is in a drawer now."
"Poor heart!" compassionately said Cornelius.
She laughed, and gaily shook her curls, but suddenly became as mute as a mouse, and, with the frightened glance of a child taken at fault, she looked at the door, on the threshold of which her sister now stood unannounced.
Miriam entered quietly, passing by Cornelius and me without giving either a look, and apologized to Kate for her intrusion; but Miss Ducky had, it seemed, been suddenly missed, to the great alarm of her relatives, whom the sound of her voice next door had alone relieved from their painful apprehensions. Miss Ducky heard all this with downcast eyes and a penitent face, and stood ready to follow her sister, who had pertinaciously refused to take a seat. Mr. Trim seemed rather anxious to detain them, and, bending forward with his hands on his knees to catch a look of Miriam's beautiful face, he said—
"Your sister, Ma'am, was telling us of the hearts—"
"I only spoke of the cornelian," interrupted Ducky, looking alarmed.
Miriam looked through Mr. Trim with her calm blue eyes, bade Miss O'Reilly good evening, smiled at Mr. Smalley, who coloured, then leading away her sister, she again passed by Cornelius and me with a chilling bend of the head.
"Pretty girl!" said Mr. Trim, shutting his eyes as the door closed upon them.
"Has she not very classical features?" observed Mr. Smalley, seeming surprised.
"Oh, you mean the fair one," sneered Mr. Trim. "It is very well for you, Smalley, a clergyman, to admire a girl who is as proud as Lucifer, just because she has a Greek nose—"
"I admire Miss Russell," interrupted Mr Smalley, reddening, "because the first time I saw her she was fulfilling that precept of our Divine Lord, which enjoins that the sick shall be visited and the afflicted comforted."
"Every man to his taste," replied Mr. Trim. "I like that pretty little thing best, and so would Cornelius, if he were not such a confirmed woman-hater. Ha! ha!"
"I hope not," said Mr. Smalley, looking with mild surprise at Cornelius, who did not repel the accusation, but seemed absorbed in my request of being taken upstairs again. I was still weak, and the talking made my head ache. I bade our two visitors good-night, and again had to resist Mr. Trim's attempt to embrace me. I believe he knew how much I disliked his ugly face, and would have found a malicious pleasure—I now acquit him of caring for the kiss—in compelling mine to endure its proximity. As I saw it bend towards me, grinning, I screamed, and took refuge in the arms of Cornelius, who said, a little impatiently—
"Do let that child alone, Trim."
Mr. Trim went back to his chair, saying, mournfully, "he never had luck with the ladies, whereas Cornelius, being a handsome, dashing young fellow, and Smalley rather wild—a thing women always liked—"
I lost the rest, for Cornelius, who was carrying me out of the room, shut the door, muttering something in which "Trim" and "insolence" were all I could hear distinctly.
Two days after this, I was well enough to be carried down to the garden in the arms of Cornelius, who sacrificed an hour of daylight to sitting by me on the bench. It was a warm and pleasant noon, and I was enjoying the delightful sense of existence which recovery from illness yields, when Miriam Russell suddenly appeared before us. She always had a noiseless step and had come down the steps from the porch so quietly that we had never heard her. I saw the blood rush to the brow of Cornelius, and felt the hand which mine clasped, tremble slightly. Miss Russell looked very calm; she asked me how I was; I replied. "Very well," and thanked her, in a low tone. Her statue-like beauty repelled the very idea of familiarity; her white chiselled features had the purity and coldness of sculptured marble; her face was faultless in outline, but it was too colourless, and her eyes, though fine and clear, were of a blue too pale. She gave me a careless look, then said to Cornelius, after refusing to be seated—
"You have kept your child."
"She is still very weak."
"Never mind, she will grow like my child yet."
Cornelius liked me too well not to be partial.
"Yes, she would be pretty if she were not so pale," he replied.
"You spoil her, do you not?" asked Miriam.
"Kate says so. Do I spoil you, Daisy?"
I said "Yes," and half hid my face on his shoulder, whence I looked at Miriam, who smiled, as if the fondness of Cornelius for me, and mine for him, gave her pleasure to see.
"She spoils me, but she won't let me have my way," said a soft lisping voice from the porch. We looked, and saw Miss Ducky's pretty curled head bending forward and looking at us. Her sister's whole face underwent a change on seeing her.
"But then she's so jealous," continued Ducky, pouting, "I hope you are not jealous of Daisy."
"Foolish child!" said Miriam, striving to smile.
"But then she's very fond of me," resumed Ducky, smiling; "when Doctor
Johnson, stupid man, said I could not live, she was nearly distracted.
Silly of her, was it not, Mr. O'Reilly?"
Her look so pertinaciously sought his that he could scarcely have avoided looking at her. She was very pretty thus in the gloom of the porch, and he smiled at her fresh young beauty. I saw Miriam glance uneasily from one to the other, then a cloud gathered on her brow. She bade us a sudden adieu, went up to her sister, and led her away, spite of her evident reluctance. Cornelius continued to look like one entranced on the spot where Miriam had lately stood; I was but a child, yet I knew he was now listening to the sweet and delusive voice of passion, unheeded during the earlier years of his youth, and enchanting him at last. I was watching his face attentively: he looked down, met my glance, and said quietly—
"Confess Miss Ducky is much prettier than her sister."
If he wanted me to contradict, he was disappointed.
"Yes, Cornelius," I replied, "she is."
"I thought you admired Miriam most," he said a little shortly.
"I did not know then she had green eyes."
This was true: the hue of Miriam's eyes, of a blue verging on green, was the fault of her face; I had been quick to detect it; Cornelius reddened and never broached the subject again.
Miriam came no more near us, and kept such good watch on her young sister, that we never had the opportunity of again comparing them together. Strange and sad to say, as autumn opened, the young girl sickened and in a few weeks died in the arms of her sister, childish and unconscious to the last. Miss O'Reilly and I watched the funeral leaving the house; as I saw it pass by, I felt as if Death, baulked of one prey and unwilling to leave our dwelling unsated, had seized on her, and I startled Kate by observing—
"Kate, don't you think poor Miss Ducky died instead of me?"
"Bless the child!" exclaimed Kate, turning pale; "never say that again."
But the fancy had taken hold of me, and, unless I am much deceived, of another too. Weeks elapsed before we saw anything of the bereaved sister. We heard that, wrapt in her grief, she remained for days locked in her room, and there brooded over her loss, rejecting consolation with scorn, and indulging in passionate mourning. Kate blamed this excessive sorrow; her brother never uttered one word of praise or blame.
Though my health was much improved, I was still delicate and subject to attacks of languor. One evening, Kate, seeing me scarcely able to sit up, wanted me to go to bed; but Cornelius had been out all day, I wished to await his return, so I went to the back-parlour, reclined on a couch, and there fell asleep.
I was partly awakened by the sound of voices talking earnestly in the next room, of which the door stood half open. I listened, still half asleep: one of the voices was that of Cornelius, passionately entreating; the other that of Miriam, coldly denying and accusing him of infidelity to the dead, whilst with ardent warmth he protested that she alone had been mistress of his thoughts. I sat up on the couch amazed and confounded. My room was dark, they could not see me, but I could see them. Miriam sat by the table, clad in deep mourning; Cornelius by her, with his face averted from me; he held her hand in his, still entreating; she said nothing, but she no longer denied. He raised her hand to his lips unreproved; whilst a bright rosy hue, that seemed too ardent for a blush, passed over her face, late so pale with grief.
I sank back on my couch, frightened at having heard and seen what had never been meant for my ear or sight; but I could not help it; I could not leave the room where I was, without breaking in upon them; twice I rose to do so, but each time my courage failed me. So I kept quiet, and stopping my ears with my fingers, did my best not to hear. I could not however help catching words now and then, and once I heard Miriam saying—
"Do you know why I, who never thought of you before this last hour, now wish to love you?—Because you are so unlike me."
What Cornelius replied I know not. Soon after this Miss Russell left. Cornelius had followed her to the door. He returned to the parlour, and throwing himself on the sofa, he there fell into a smiling reverie.
I softly left my couch, entered the parlour, and quietly sat down on a cushion at his feet. Cornelius looked as if he could not believe his eyes, then slowly sat up, and bent on me a face that darkened as he looked.