CHAPTER XVIII.
I felt like one in a dream. Cornelius had dropped my hand; I stood at the door silent, motionless, not knowing whether I was to come forward or not, when Kate laid down her work and looked up.
"God bless me!" she exclaimed with a start, and she seemed so much astonished that I saw this was as great a matter of surprise to her as to me.
"Yes," Cornelius carelessly said, throwing himself down on the sofa, "I had long promised Daisy a walk, and not knowing where to take her, I brought her here."
By this I had found my way to Kate, who kissed me with her eyes glistening. I think she was as much pleased as myself; and yet with what an odd mixture of feelings I gazed on my lost home! how strange, how familiar seemed everything! As Kate took off my bonnet she said, decisively—
"You shall stay the whole day, Daisy."
"Then you must answer for it to Mrs. Gray," observed Cornelius.
"To be sure. Are you hungry, Midge?—No? What do you want, then?—
Nothing?"
"I am tired; I should like to sit down."
"Sit down by all means, child," she replied gaily.
I drew my old stool by her chair, and laid my head on her lap. She smiled and smoothed back my hair from my hot face: her other hand lay near it: I kissed it with trembling lips. It was kind of Cornelius—if he could no longer afford to be kind himself—to bring me back at least to her whose kindness, less tender and delightful, but more constant than his, had never failed me. Kate, who had put by her work, sat looking at me with a cheerful happy face.
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, and perceiving that my eyes fast filled with tears, "you are not crying, Daisy?"
"And if I do cry," I hastily replied, "it is only because I am so happy to see you again."
She laughed and said—
"Why, child, this is Tuesday, and I saw you on Sunday."
"Well, I did not see you on Monday, did I?"
"Little flatterer!" she answered, yet she looked pleased, for love is to us all the sweetest thing on earth.
We remained thus for awhile; then Kate rose to attend to some domestic concerns. I wanted to follow her, but she told me to remain with Cornelius. I obeyed reluctantly; to be with him and not feel between us the friendly familiarity of old times, was no enjoyment, but a painful pleasure. I did not go near him, I did not speak; I sat on the chair Kate had left, and looked out of the window. He never addressed me; after awhile I heard him rise and leave the room. At once I slipped down to Kate, whom I found in the kitchen deep in pastry.
"Now child, what brings you here?" she asked, turning round, and all covered with flour.
"I want to be with you, Kate."
"I am making a pie."
"Then let me look at you."
"Why did you leave Cornelius?"
"It was he who left the parlour."
She wanted me to go up to the garden; but I begged so hard to remain with her, that she at length consented. I left her but once during the whole of that day, and then it was to knock at the door of the studio and tell Cornelius dinner was ready. When we sat down to the meal, I drew my chair close to hers; my old place was by Cornelius, but unless he told me to sit there again, which he did not, I did not feel as if I dare do so. He scarcely took any notice of me, and immediately after dinner again went up to his labour.
"Go after him," suggested Kate.
"I would rather stay here," I replied, startled at the idea.
"Stay then."
We sat together in the parlour until tea-time. Alas! how swiftly seemed to come round the hour that was to close this happy day; for, sitting below with Kate, conscious that Cornelius was upstairs working, reminded of old times by everything I saw, I did feel very happy.
As we sat at tea, Kate suddenly exclaimed, "Why, it is raining hard!"
"Yes, it is," carelessly replied Cornelius.
"Then the child must spend the night here."
"I suppose so."
I threw my arm around the neck of Kate, and kissed her as I joyfully exclaimed, "I shall sleep in my room again!"
"Which is no reason for spilling my tea, you foolish little thing."
After tea I quite expected that Cornelius would go out or Miriam come in; but he sat reading, and Miss Russell never appeared; her name was not even mentioned. I had taken my place by Kate, and, in the joy of my heart, I could not refrain from indulging in a few caresses. She endured me for some time, but, though kind, she was not exactly affectionate, and she at length said good-humouredly but decisively—
"Daisy, my good child, don't hang about me so. I like you, but I might say something sharp; so just take that kiss, and do with it."
She said this so pleasantly, and kissed me so kindly as she said it, that there was no taking it amiss, nor was there any disobeying it; so I sighed, drew back, and kept in my feelings. To Cornelius I never ventured to speak, unless to hid him good-night.
I woke the next morning with the consciousness that my brief happiness was over. The day was bright with sunshine; the blue sky had not a sign of coming cloud; there was not the faintest hope of a drop of rain to delay my departure. I came down with a somewhat heavy heart. Kate was the first to broach the subject; breakfast was over, her brother was rising from the table; he sat down again as she said, "Cornelius, who is to take the child back?"
He looked at her, at me, hesitated a little, then said, "I know all you can object, Kate, all you can say beforehand, yet do not wonder when I tell you that I have come to the resolve of keeping Daisy at home."
"Here!" exclaimed Kate.
"Yes, here. I went to fetch her yesterday for that purpose. I have written to Mr. Thornton; it is all settled. Daisy is to stay here if she wishes."
"Cornelius," gravely said Kate, "have you reflected on what you are doing?"
"Very seriously; not that it required much reflection."
"Indeed but it did," interrupted his sister.
"Excuse me, Kate, it did not. When I thought it best for Daisy to leave us, it was because I also thought that my marriage would take place this summer; it is now postponed for at least a year or two. I never contemplated banishing Daisy from home for anything like that length of time. When I went for her yesterday, I was confirmed in my resolve by learning from Mrs. Gray that her health is still very uncertain. I found her myself pale and thin. Strangers cannot be supposed to care for her as you and I do, Kate. She is still very weak and delicate; her only place is home; for," he added, giving me a look of reproach, "I have never ceased to consider this as her home."
Kate gave him no direct answer, but, looking at him fixedly, she said,
"Does Miss Russell know this?"
"No," he replied, looking pained, "she does not, Kate. I see by the question that your old suspicion still survives. On my word Miriam had nothing to do with making me send away Daisy; she even raised several objections to it; she will be truly pleased to learn that the child is come back."
Miss O'Reilly looked incredulous, but, glancing out at the window, she said, "Here is your letter, Cornelius."
He started up; the postman gave that knock which has moved to joy or sorrow so many hearts; a letter was brought in; Cornelius snatched it from Deborah, and eagerly broke the seal; it looked long; he was soon absorbed.
Kate repressed a sigh to turn to me, and say in her most cheerful accents, "What do you say to all this?"
I was standing by her chair; I laid my cheek to hers as I replied, "The week will be made up of Sundays."
"Were the Sundays so pleasant?"
"As pleasant as the Saturdays seemed long."
"Well, they need be neither short nor long now; only, child, don't you remember?"
"What, Kate?"
"If you hang about me I shall scold."
"Then let me deserve the scolding," I replied, covering her brow and hair with kisses, and half laughing, half crying for joy.
She looked at me wistfully, for once letting me do as I liked, and saying "she did not feel as if she could scold me to-day."
"Because you are too good," I answered, in a low, moved tone. "Oh, Kate, shall I ever forget how you never forgot me; how constantly you came to see me Sunday after Sunday!"
Here I stopped short, for I caught the look of Cornelius, who had laid down his letter, and was evidently listening.
"What else had I to do?" asked Kate, cheerfully.
She rose to go downstairs. I wanted to go with her, but she gaily told me she no more fancied being followed than being hung about, so I had to remain behind, but with the blessed consciousness, it is true, that there was to be no second parting. Joy made me restless. I knew not what to do with myself. I went to the window; I looked at the flowers, at the books, and finally at Cornelius, who, to read his letter more comfortably, was sitting on the sofa. I saw that when he had done he began it over again. It was a lady's hand; there was no difficulty in guessing from whom it came. When the second perusal was over he looked up; as our eyes met I came forward rather hesitatingly, and standing before him, I said—
"May I speak to you, Cornelius?"
"Certainly, but do not be too long about it?"
"It will not take long. I only want to thank you for having brought me home to Kate."
"You thank me for that?"
"Yes, Cornelius, it has made me so happy."
"I am glad to hear it, though I did not mean it."
"Did you not?" I replied, rather mortified.
"No," he continued, in an indifferent tone, "not at all. It is true there was once a little girl who used not to be shy and distant with me"—I drew a little nearer—"who would not speak to me standing, but sitting by my side"—I sat down by him—"and whom I used to call my child," continued Cornelius without looking at me; "and it is also true," he added in the same way, "that feeling rather dull, I thought one morning I would go and bring her home; but if there was any kindness in this, I cannot say I meant it all for her or for Kate."
He turned round, smiling as he spoke. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him eagerly. I felt so happy; he laughed.
"Poor Kate!" he said, gaily, "well may she object to being hung on after this fashion; but I am used to it."
"If you had not spoken so, you know I should not," I replied, half offended.
"No, you sulky little thing," he said almost indignantly, "I know you would not: what between obstinacy and pride, you would never give in. But you mistook, Daisy, if you thought you could make me fancy you preferred Kate to me."
"As if I was not sure you knew better!" I answered, with the frank ingratitude of my years.
"Thank you, Daisy," said the somewhat sorrowful voice of Kate.
I looked up. She was standing behind us; she had evidently overheard our last words. I felt myself crimsoning with shame, and hid my face on the shoulder of Cornelius.
"Don't hide your face, child," quietly observed Kate, "I do not prefer you: why should you prefer me? Besides, loving him more is not loving me less, and I was not so foolish as not to know it was thus: so look up."
"Yes, look up," said Cornelius, raising my face. "Kate is not vexed with you."
"But Kate is vexed with you, Cornelius," she remarked, very gravely: "do you mean to spoil that child, to—"
"Yes," interrupted Cornelius.
"Oh! you may make light of it," she continued very seriously; "I am not so blind as not to guess that you brought her home a little for her sake, and a good deal for your own."
"'Faith, then, you only guess the truth, Kate," said Cornelius, impatiently; "it is odd you never seem to understand what, heaven knows, I never seek to hide, nor dream to deny. I am fond of the child, very fond of her. I cared little for her when she came first to us, but she chose to take a fancy to me, and, though it would puzzle me to say how it came to pass, I found out in time that I had taken to her what must have been a very real fancy, for since she left I have never felt as if the house were the same without her. So after a week's hesitation and delay I went off and fetched her yesterday—and I don't repent it, Kate. She has provoked and tormented me—she will do so again, I have no doubt, perverse little creature! and yet I cannot help being glad at having her once more."
He laid his hand on my head and looked me kindly in the face as he said it.
"After that," resignedly replied Kate, "meddling of mine is worse than useless; but what did Mr. Thornton say?"
"Mr. Thornton has had the impertinence to say that if Margaret Burns is such a fool as to wish to stay with me, she is welcome."
Kate smiled, and said, "If I wished to go down with her I might."
"Daisy is not going down, but up," replied Cornelius, taking me by the hand and leading me to the studio; as we entered it he said—
"Daisy, you knocked at the door yesterday, and stood on the threshold: I won't have that again."
"Very well, Cornelius; shall I arrange the portfolios?"
"If you like."
I looked over them for awhile, then could not help observing—
"Cornelius, they look just as I left them."
"Perhaps they are: one cannot be always looking at those old things."
I put by the portfolio and looked around me. In a corner I perceived Medora; I knew enough of painting to see at a glance that it had scarcely been touched since I had left home. Cornelius was very apt to begin pictures, and leave them by for some other fancy: Medora had thus replaced the Stolen Child, but I looked in vain for the successor of Medora.
"Where is it, Cornelius?" I asked at length.
"Where is what, child?" he replied, turning round.
"The other picture."
"What other picture?"
"The one for which you put by Medora."
I was looking at him very earnestly: I saw him redden.
"There is no other picture," he answered; "I have been obliged to work for money; to do such things as this," he added, pointing with a sigh to the painting which he was copying.
"Have you earned much money?" I asked seriously.
"A little," he replied smiling.
"Do you think you will sell the Happy Time?"
"I have hopes of it: why do you ask, child?"
"Because by putting all your money together, you will be able to begin it."
"Begin what?"
"The picture."
"But, child, there is no picture," he answered impatiently.
I looked at him with astonishment that seemed to embarrass him. I knew from Kate that the Happy Time had been received with perfect indifference by the public and critics, and that, under such circumstances, Cornelius should neither be painting a picture nor yet contemplating one, seemed incredible. What ailed his mind, once so full of projects? What had become of our gallery? I could not understand it. For some hours I sat watching him at his copy, until at length he put it by, saying—
"Thank heaven, it is finished!"
"Are you going to begin another?" I inquired.
"Not to-day; I hope to get some work to-morrow though."
"You hope? do you like it, Cornelius?"
"You know well enough I hate it," he answered with evident irritation; "ah! Daisy, when shall I be a free man?"
He looked depressed, but for a moment only; the next he turned to me saying—
"Perhaps you would like to go down to Kate?"
"No, Cornelius, I would rather stay and look on at you painting."
"You are very obstinate. I have told you over and over that I am not going to paint. Paint! what could I paint?"
"Medora."
"I want Miss Russell, who is at Hastings with her aunt; even if she were here, it is ten to one whether she could give me a sitting, the smell of the paint gave her such dreadful headaches, that it is a mercy they did not end in neuralgia. And now, child, go downstairs or stay here just as you like, but do not disturb me any more; I have a letter to write."
He opened his desk and began writing. Once or twice I ventured to speak, but he told me so shortly that he could not attend to me, and it was so plain that painting was nothing to letter-writing, that I at length remained silent. This lasted until dinner-time. After dinner Cornelius went to post his letter—an office he never entrusted to profane hands; I remained alone with Kate; I could not help speaking to her.
"Does not Cornelius paint any more pictures?" I asked, looking up at her.
"Ah! you have found it out, have you?" she replied, a little bitterly; "why, child, he has been losing his time in the most miserable fashion. Not that he did not work, poor fellow; he worked himself to death, all to get married to her; but she changed her mind; suddenly discovered he was too young, that it must be deferred, and, leaving him to enjoy his disappointment, went off to Hastings a fortnight ago. He was quite cut up for the first week; but he is coming round now, only I fancy he is getting rather sick of slop-work, that leads to nothing, not even to marriage. As for her, poor thing, if she is gone with the belief that Cornelius is the man to sit down and make a woman the aim of his life, she will find herself wofully mistaken, I can tell her."
More than this Miss O'Reilly did not say, but everything confirmed her words. When Cornelius came in, he said it was a beautiful afternoon, and that, if I liked, he would take me for a stroll in the lanes. I felt myself reddening for joy; this was, I knew, a great favour, and showed that Cornelius must be quite in the mood for petting and indulging me. He liked me, but he was not fond of walking out with me; his walks were almost always solitary, and extended for miles into the country. I therefore replied with a most eager "Yes," and got ready so promptly, that in less than ten minutes Cornelius and I were again wandering in the lanes hand in hand. When I felt tired we sat down on a fallen tree. I enjoyed the blue sky with its light vapoury clouds; the warm, ardent sunshine; the sharply defined, though ever-waving shadow of the tall tree under whose shelter we rested; the vivid green of the opposite hedge, through whose verdure shone the cool white flowers of the bind-weed; the rich luxuriant grass that rose from the ditch all straight and still in the burning heat of the day; the breeze that now and then passed over and through all this little wilderness; the low hum of insects; the song of birds from distant parks and gardens; everything charmed—enchanted me, but nothing half so much as sitting thus again near Cornelius.
"Daisy," he exclaimed, suddenly perceiving that which had until then escaped his attention, "what on earth are you carrying?"
"Your sketch-book, Cornelius; you had forgotten it."
He looked at me as if he attributed to me some secret motive, of which I was certainly innocent. I had never known Cornelius to go out without his sketch-book, and I dreamt of nothing beyond my words and their simplest meaning.
"Did you not want it?" I asked, surprised at his fixed glance.
"No," was the short reply.
"But there is no harm in having brought it; is there, Cornelius?"
"None, save that you have burdened yourself uselessly: give it to me."
"May I not look at it?"
"You may, but you will find nothing new."
This was not strictly correct; I at once detected and pointed out to Cornelius several sketches new to me, and, though he at first denied it, the dates proved me to be in the right.
"You have a good memory," he said, smiling.
"As if it were likely I should forget any of your drawings or sketches! But why is not that last one of the two boys finished? it looks so pretty."
"It would have been a nice little thing," he replied, looking at it with regret, "and I had bribed them into sitting so quietly, but Miriam said they were tired, and insisted on my releasing them. I had lured them into the garden. She opened the door, and they scampered off."
"What a shame!" I exclaimed, with a degree of indignation that amused Cornelius; but for all that he shut up the sketch-book, which was no more opened that day. Our walk over, we came home; the evening, warm and summer-like, was pleasantly spent in the garden.
Early on the following morning Cornelius went out to look for the promised work. The first thing he did on coming home was to read the letter that lay waiting for him on the breakfast-table; when that was done he condescended to sit down and eat. Kate asked if he had succeeded in accomplishing his errand.
"No, indeed," he replied, with evident irritation. "Mr. Redmond was not even at home. I shall have the pleasure of another journey. Oh! Kate, I am sick of it!"
He sighed profoundly, then took up his letter, and went upstairs.
"Yes, yes, go and write," muttered Kate as the door closed upon him, "lose your time, waste your days, that is just what she wants. Midge, will you never leave off that habit of looking and listening? go upstairs, only do not talk to Cornelius whilst he is writing, or he will fly out: I warn you."
I obeyed. I went up to the studio, entered softly, and closed the door very gently: yet Cornelius heard me, for he looked up at once from his writing.
"My dear," he said, "there will be neither painting nor drawing to-day."
"Am I in the way, Cornelius?"
"No, but you will have to stay quiet, and when I have done writing I shall go to town again."
I accepted the conditions, and obeyed them so scrupulously that I did not once open my lips until Cornelius, turning round and looking at me as I lay on the couch, asked if I did not feel tired. I replied, I did not mind, and was his letter finished?
"I have only a few lines more to add," he answered.
The few lines must have been pages, they took so long to indite. The little studio was burning hot; Cornelius was too much absorbed to be conscious of this, but I felt faint and drowsy. I drew myself up on the couch, laid my head on the cushion, looked at him as he bent with unwearied ardour over his desk, then closed my eyes and fell asleep to the sound of his pen still zealously running along the paper.
I know not how long I slept; I was partly awakened by a sound of whispering voices.
"The dinner will be ruined," said Kate.
"What is a dinner in comparison with a drawing?"
"I don't know—and don't care; a cook has no feelings."
"Another hour."
"Do you want to make yourself and the child ill?"
"I never know what hunger is whilst I am at work; and how can Daisy feel the fasting whilst she sleeps? As soon as she wakens, I leave off."
"Leave off now and finish to-morrow."
"Oh, Kate! is it possible you do not see how very charming that attitude is? I should never have hit on anything half so graceful or so picturesque. The least movement on her part might spoil it."
"I fancy I saw her stir."
"I hope not," he replied hastily. I heard him approach; he bent over me, for I felt his breath on my face, but I kept my eyes closed, and never moved. Cornelius turned away, and whispering to his sister that there never had been a deeper slumber, he begged of her to leave him. She yielded, and I heard him securing himself against further intrusion by locking the door, before he returned to his interrupted task.
It was well for me that I had so long been accustomed to sitting, or I could not have borne the hour that followed. Even as it was, I felt as if Cornelius would never have done. At length he came up to me, took my hand, and called me. I opened my eyes, and saw him standing by the couch, and smiling down at me.
"Why," he said gaily, "you are as bad as the sleeping beauty."
I did not reply, but rose—he little guessed with how much pleasure. He showed me the sketch he had been taking of me, and asked what I thought of it. I could not answer; I felt so giddy and faint.
"You are still half asleep," he observed, impatiently, "or you would see at once I have not done anything half so good this long time."
He held it out at arm's length, looked at it admiringly, then laid it by, and went downstairs. I followed, but kept somewhat in the rear. I feared both the keen eyes and the direct questions of Kate. Her first indignant words, as we sat down to dinner, were—
"I am astonished, Cornelius, at your cruelty; the poor child is pale with fasting."
"Indeed, Kate, I had to waken her."
"Nonsense!"
"Yes, it is peculiar," he quietly replied; "I hope it is not a bad symptom."
"A symptom indeed, as if I could believe in it! Why, she has been imposing on you; look at her—guilty little thing!"
Cornelius laid down his knife and fork to give me an astonished look.
"Deceitful girl!" exclaimed Kate, quite sharply; "how dare you do such a thing—to go and impose on Cornelius!—for shame!"
She lectured me on the text with some severity.
Cornelius never said to me one word of blame or approbation.
"I hope," gravely observed his sister, when the meal was over, "you will not let that pass, Cornelius. She must not be encouraged in deceit."
"Certainly not; and I have already devised a punishment. Come here,
Daisy."
I rose and obeyed.
"Do you know," he said, as I stood before him, "that you have been guilty of a very impertinent action—imposed upon me, as Kate says?"
"Don't be too strict, Cornelius," put in Kate, "she meant well."
"I have nothing to do with that: it was an impertinence; consequently, instead of the week's holiday I meant to give her, she shall resume her studies this very evening, and, lest you should prove too lenient, Kate, I shall take care to examine her myself."
I looked at him eagerly; he was smiling. I understood what the punishment meant, and drawing nearer, I stooped to embrace him.
"There never was such a girl!" he said, pretending to avert his face; "she knows how vexed I am with her, and yet—you see it—she insists on kissing me."
"Foolish fellow, foolish fellow!" muttered Kate.
I liked study, and I loved my dear master. I went and fetched a heap of books, which I brought to him, breathlessly asking what I was to learn: he had only to speak, I was ready; I was in a mood not to be frightened at the severe face of Algebra herself. He replied, that we should first see where I had left off with him, and how I had got on since then. The examination was tedious, but Cornelius warmly declared that it did me great credit, and that few girls of my age knew so well what they did know. He appointed my tasks for the next day, then rose to go and smoke a cigar in the garden, which, seen through the back-parlour window, looked cool and grey in evening dusk.
"Did you post your letter?" suddenly asked Kate.
Cornelius looked startled and dismayed; it was plain he had forgotten all about it.
"What will she think?" he exclaimed, reddening: "it was the drawing did it. How provoking!"
He took two or three turns around the room, then observed cheerfully—
"She will understand and excuse it when I explain the case—eh, Kate?"
"Humph!" was her doubtful reply.
"Yes she will," he confidently rejoined, and went out to smoke his cigar.
I suppose the letter was duly posted on the following day. Cornelius went out early and did not return until evening. He had been disappointed in obtaining the work he hoped for; he had lost his day in looking for it, and came home in all the heat of his indignation.
"I give it up!" he exclaimed a little passionately, after relating his disappointment to Kate; "and Mr. Redmond too, the Laban father of an unsightly Leah, without even the prospect of a Rachel after the seven years' bondage. Better live on bread and water than on the money which costs so dear. There is no sweetness in that labour—I hate it—and Miriam may say what she likes, there is no life like an artist's!"
"What does she say?" asked Kate, laying down her work, and looking up at him.
"Not much, but I can see she thinks like you. I do not blame her or you.
What have I done to justify confidence? Only a foolish little thing, like
Daisy, could take me at my word, and have any faith in me."
"What other profession does she wish you to follow?" inquired Kate.
"None; but she thinks me too enthusiastic."
"A man can't be too enthusiastic about his profession," warmly responded
Kate.
"Indeed then you never said a truer thing."
"If you think it is your vocation to paint pictures, paint pictures with all your might."
"Won't I, that's all?" he replied, throwing back his head, and looking as if, in vulgar parlance, he longed to be at it.
"Ay, but the means?" emphatically said Kate.
"Have I not got money?"
"Which was to set up Hymen: well, no matter, it is not much, and cannot last for ever. What will you do when it is out?"
"Borrow from you, Kitty," he replied, laying his hand on her shoulder with a smile; "won't you lend to me?"
"Not a shilling," she answered, looking him full in the face, "unless you give me your word of honour not to go back to Laban and Leah."
"'Faith, she is not such a beauty that I cannot keep the vow of inconstancy to her," he said, rather saucily, "you have my word, Kate. Well, what do you look so grave about?"
"I am thinking, Cornelius, that I am meddling as I never meant to meddle; that I am perhaps aiding to delay your marriage."
Her look was bent attentively on his face.
"Not a bit," he promptly replied; "I consider every picture I paint as a step taken to the altar. Besides," he philosophically added, "I was only twenty-three the other day. There is no time lost."
"They are all alike," indignantly said Kate: "two weeks ago you were half mad because your marriage was delayed, now you talk of there being no time lost."
"Since I am to wait," coolly replied Cornelius, "I confess the more or less does not make so great a difference. I was rather indignant at first, but since then I have thanked Miriam."
"You have?" said Kate.
"Indeed I have. It would have spoiled my prospects, and though she did not say so, that I am sure was her reason for disappointing me. She shall not again complain of my unreasonable impatience. I am quite resolved not to think of Hymen until, love apart, a woman may take some pride in me."
"They are all alike, all alike," again said Kate; "love for a bit, ambition for life."
Cornelius laughed.
"Miriam would despise me," he observed, "if I could sit down in idleness.
Besides, love is a feeling, not a task: it may pervade a lifetime; I defy
it to fill an entire day without something of weariness creeping in.
There is nothing like work in this world,—nothing, Kate."
"When do you mean to begin?"
"To-morrow, of course."
"What becomes of your letter?"
"I shall write it this evening. And now, Daisy," he added, turning to me, "let us see how you have studied."
I brought my books, and the lessons filled—how pleasantly for me!—the greater part of the evening, which Cornelius closed, as he said, by writing his letter. I was scarcely dressed on the following morning, when his voice summoned me from above. I ran up hastily; he was standing on the landing, at the door of the studio, evidently waiting for me, and evidently too in one of his impatient fits.
"Loiterer!" was his greeting, "after such a sleep as you had yesterday, could you not get up earlier?—two hours of broad daylight actually gone!"
"Did I know you wanted me, Cornelius?"
"Did I know it myself? Now come in—look here—give me your opinion, your candid opinion."
When Cornelius asked for an opinion it was all very well, but when he asked for a candid opinion he would never tolerate any save that which he himself favoured. He was now in one of his most positive moods, so I prepared for submission—an easy task, for I always thought him in the right, and whatever my original opinion might have been, I invariably came back to his in the end, as to the only true one. He led me to his easel, on which I saw the long neglected Stolen Child.
"I had forgotten all about it," said Cornelius, "but finding this morning that I could not get on with Medora in the absence of Miriam, I looked amongst the old things, whence I fished out this. Now, admitting that it will not do for a picture, I think it will at least make an excellent study—eh?"
"Yes, Cornelius, a very good study indeed."
"Why not a picture?" he asked, frowning.
"It is not good enough," I replied, confidently.
"You silly little thing, you must have forgotten all about pictures and painting, to say so," rather hotly answered Cornelius. "Why a baby could tell you I never began anything that promised better. Oh, Daisy! what am I to think of your judgment? At all events," he added, softening down, "if you are not yet a first-rate critic, you are a first-rate sitter. So get ready. You need not mind about your Gipsy attire; all I want is the face and attitude."
I looked at the picture, drew back a few steps, and placed myself in the old position.
"The very thing," cried Cornelius, delighted. "Oh, Daisy, you are invaluable to me."
He began at once, and worked hard until breakfast, during which he could speak of nothing but his Stolen Child.
"A much better subject than Medora," he said, decisively; "there has been too much of Byron's heroines."
"Do you mean to throw it of one side?" asked Kate.
"Oh no, I hope to have both pictures ready for next year's Academy; pressed for time, I shall work all the harder and the better, Kate."
"Which will you finish first?"
"The Stolen Child."
"Well," said Kate, very quietly, "I have a fancy that it will be Medora."
"How can it? Miriam is away for two months, you know."
"Yes, but I have a fancy the sea-air will not agree with her," continued
Kate, in the same quiet way.
Cornelius looked at his sister with a somewhat perplexed air.
"I don't know anything about that," he said, at length; "but I can go on with the Stolen Child, and I hope to go on quickly too, Daisy sits so well, you know."
"I know she is as bad as you are; look at her swallowing down her tea as fast as she can, to be in time."
"She is a good little thing," he replied, patting my neck, "though I cannot say she yet thoroughly knows what constitutes a good picture. Don't hurry, Daisy; there is plenty of time."
"But I am quite ready," I replied eagerly.
"So am I; let us see who shall be upstairs first."
"Cornelius, how can you be such a boy?" began Kate; I lost the rest, I had started up, and was hastening upstairs all out of breath. Cornelius, who could have outstripped me with ease, followed with pretended eagerness, and laughed at my triumph.
"I was first," I cried from the landing, and flushed and breathless I looked round at him, as he stood on the staircase a few steps below me: he gave me a pleased and surprised look.
"Why, that child would be quite pretty if she had a colour," he observed to himself; "poor little thing!" he added as he came up and stood by me, "I wish I could keep that bloom on your little pale face: but it is already going—the more's the pity!"
"Indeed," I replied, "it is no pity at all, for the pale face is much the best for the picture."
This disinterested sentiment did not in the least surprise Cornelius, who was too much devoted to his painting to think anything too good for it, or any sacrifice too great. He confessed the pale face would make the picture more pathetic, and was not astonished at my preferring it on that account.
We remained in the studio nearly the whole day. Kate, who did not seem much pleased at this return to our old habits, significantly inquired in the evening how much I had learned.
"Nothing." replied Cornelius; "but to make up for it, I will help her; we shall study together, so she will learn her lessons and repeat them at the same time."
"That will be tedious, Cornelius."
"She gives me her days; I may well give her my evenings."
"And your letter?"
"I shall sit up."
"Poor fellow!" compassionately said Kate, "what between painting, teaching, and love, your hands are full."