Daisy Burns (Volume 1)

by Julia Kavanagh

CHAPTER XX.

Matters had gone on thus for about a month, when Cornelius sold his Happy Time. Kate made him promise not to be extravagant; the only act of folly of which he rendered himself guilty was not a very expensive one.

One morning, when Miriam came to the studio, to sit as usual, Cornelius produced a pair of morocco cases; each contained a silver filagree bracelet: he asked her to choose one, and accept it. She was sitting in the attire and attitude of Medora; he stood by her, his present in his hand.

"Must I really choose?" she said. "What will Miss O'Reilly say?"

"Oh! the other is not for Kate, but for Daisy," he quietly answered.

I saw a scarcely perceptible change on her face, but she abstained from comment, gave an indifferent look to the two bracelets, and chose one, saying briefly—

"That one."

Cornelius placed the rejected bracelet on the table before me, with a careless—

"There, my dear, that is for you."

Then, without heeding my thanks, he devoted all his attention to the delightful task of fastening on the beautiful wrist of his mistress the bracelet she had accepted. He was a long time about it. The clasp, he said, was not good: she allowed him to do and undo it as often as he pleased. When he had at length succeeded, she looked down at her arm and said, indolently, "How very pretty it is!"

"The hand, or the bracelet?" he asked, smiling.

"The bracelet, of course."

"Do you really think so?" he exclaimed, looking much pleased; "I was afraid you did not like it: it is of little value, you know."

"It is very pretty," she said again.

"Do you like jewelry?" he inquired, eagerly.

"In a general way, no."

He looked disappointed.

"Why don't you like diamonds, pearls, and rubies?" he observed, with smiling reproach, "that I might have the pleasure of thinking—cannot give them to her now, but I shall earn them for her some day."

"Yes, it is a pity," she replied, with gentle irony, "but I have a quarrel with you: why have you forgotten your sister?"

"Forgotten Kate! she never wears jewels, Miriam."

She did not reply. He remained by her awhile longer, then set to work.

It was very kind of Cornelius to have made me this present, and yet it only irritated the secret jealousy it was meant to soothe. He had given the two bracelets so differently. They were of equal value, perhaps of equal beauty; but she had had the choice of the two; the rejected one had been for me. He had scarcely placed mine before me, and fastened hers on himself with lingering tenderness. He had carelessly heard or heeded my murmured thanks; she had not thanked him, yet he had looked charmed because she negligently approved his gift. In short, in the very thing which he had intended to please me, Cornelius had unconsciously betrayed the strong and natural preference that was my sole, my only true torment. His gift had lost its grace. I put on the bracelet, looked at it on my arm, then put it away again in its case, and read whilst she sat and he painted.

Towards noon she left us for an hour. Cornelius followed her out on the landing; he had left the door ajar, and, involuntarily. I overheard the close of their whispered conference. It referred to me. Cornelius was asking if I did not look very pale. I had been rather poorly of late, and he was kindly anxious about me.

"To me she looks the same as usual," quietly answered Miriam: "she always is sallow, and being so plain makes her look ill."

"Why, that is true," replied Cornelius, seemingly comforted by this reasoning.

What more they said I heard not; my blood flowed like fire. I was plain, I knew it well enough, but was he, of all others, to be told of it daily, until at length I heard it, an acknowledged fact falling from his lips? Was it something so unusual to be plain? Was I the first plain girl there had ever been? Should I leave none of the race after me? I felt the more exasperated that the tone of Miriam's voice told me she had not meant to be overheard by me. She had not spoken to taunt me: she had simply stated a fact that could not, it seemed, be disputed. Such reflections are pleasant at no age, but in youth, with its want of independence, of self- reliance, with its sensitive and fastidious self-love, they are insupportable.

Cornelius, unconscious of the storm that was brooding within me, had re- entered the studio and resumed his work. He seemed in a mood as pleased and happy as mine was bitter and discontented. He worked for some time in total silence, then suddenly called me to his side. I left the table, went up to him and stood by him with my book in my hand, waiting for what he had to say. He laid his hand on my shoulder, and, with his eyes intently fixed on Medora, "How is it getting on?" he asked.

"It will soon be finished, Cornelius," I replied, and I wanted to go back to my place, but he detained me.

"You need not be in such a hurry. Look at that face—is it not beautiful?"

He could not have put a more unfortunate question. He looked at the picture, but I knew he thought of the woman. I did not answer. He turned round, surprised at my silence.

"Don't you think it beautiful?" he asked incredulously.

"No, Cornelius, I do not," I answered, going back to my place as I spoke.

I only spoke as I thought; I had long ceased to think Miss Russell handsome. Cornelius became scarlet, and said, rather indignantly, "It would be more frank to say you dislike her, Daisy."

"I never said I liked her," I answered, stung at this reproach of insincerity, when my great fault was being too sincere.

I said this, though I fully expected it would make him very angry, but he only looked down at me with a smile of pity.

"So you are still jealous," he observed quietly; "poor child! if you knew how foolish, how ridiculous such jealousy seems to those who see it!"

I would rather Cornelius had struck me than that he had said this; I could not bear it, and burying my face in my hands, I burst into tears. He composedly resumed his work, and said in his calmest tones—

"If I were you, Daisy, I would not cry in that pettish way, but I would give up a foolish feeling, and try and mend. Think of it, my poor child; it is an awful thing to hate."

My tears ceased; I looked up, and for once I turned round and retaliated the accusation.

"Cornelius," I said, "I do not hate Miss Russell half as much as she hates me."

"She hate you!" he exclaimed, with indignant pity, "poor child!"

"And if she does not hate me," I cried, giving free vent to the gathered resentment of weeks and months,—"if she does not hate me, Cornelius, why was she so glad when she thought me disfigured with the small-pox, that she should come up to look at me? Why did she give me a dress in which I looked so ill, that you know Kate has never allowed me to wear it? Why did she make you send me to school? Why did she come back from Hastings and make you leave by the Stolen Child? Why did she want you to discontinue teaching me? Why is there never a day but she reminds you that I am sickly, plain, and sallow?"

I rose as I enumerated my wrongs; Cornelius looked at me like one utterly confounded.

"You say I am jealous of her," I continued, gazing at him through gathering tears; "I am, Cornelius, but I am not half so jealous as she is, and yet I love you twice as well as she does. For your sake I would not vex her, and she does all she can to make mc wretched. I could bear your liking her much and me a little; but if she could she would not let you like me at all. If you say a kind word to me or kiss me, she looks as if it made her sick; she hates me, Cornelius, she hates me with her whole heart." Tears choked my utterance. Cornelius sighed profoundly.

"Poor child," he said, with a look of great pity, "how can you labour under such strange delusions?"

I looked at him; he did not seem angry, very far from it. Alas! it was but too plain; every word I had uttered had passed for the ravings of an insane jealousy. Cornelius sat down and called me to his side.

"Come here," he said kindly, "and let us reason together."

"If you knew." he continued taking both my hands in his, "how thoroughly blind you are, you would regret speaking thus. How can you imagine that Miriam, who is so good, so kind, should—hate you? Promise me that you will dismiss the idea."

"I cannot—I know better—there is not a day but she torments me."

"Poor child! you are your own tormentor. She torment you! look at that beautiful face, and ask yourself, is it possible?"

"Beautiful!" I echoed, "I don't think she is beautiful, Cornelius."

"Yes, I know," he composedly replied, "but that is because you don't like her."

"No more I do," I exclaimed passionately, "nor anything of or about her: no—not even your picture, Cornelius!"

He dropped my hands; rose and looked down at me, flushed and angry.

"You need not tell me that," he said indignantly, "the look of aversion and hate you have just cast at that picture, shows sufficiently that though the power to do the original some evil and injury may be wanting, the will is not."

He turned away from me, then came back.

"But remember this," he said severely, and laying his hand on my shoulder as he spoke, "that though you have presumed to reveal to me a feeling of which you should blush to acknowledge the existence, I will not allow that feeling to betray itself in any manner, however slight. Do you hear?"

"Yes, Cornelius," I replied, stung at the unmerited accusation and uncalled-for prohibition; "but if I am so wicked, can you prevent me from showing it?"

I did not mean that I would show it; but he took my words in their worst sense, for his eyes lit as he answered—

"I shall see if I cannot prevent it."

I was too proud and too much hurt to enter on a justification. I left the room; at the door I met Miriam, who gave me a covert look as she entered the studio. I went to my room and remained there until dinner-time. Cornelius took no notice of me; Miriam, who often dined with us, was, on the other hand, very kind and attentive. I saw she had got it all out from him. Kate behaved like one who knew and suspected nothing; admired the bracelets, and seeing that I wanted to linger with her in the parlour after the two had left it, she gaily told me to be off, for that she wanted none of my company, as she was going out. I obeyed so far as leaving the parlour went, but I did not enter the studio. I took refuge in my own room, there to lament my sin and imprudence. I knew well enough how wrong were the feelings I had expressed to Cornelius, and better still how a few passionate words had undone a month's patience and silent endurance. I stayed in my room until dusk; as daylight waned, I heard Miriam leave and go down. I waited for awhile, then softly stole up to the studio. I entered it with a beating heart, thinking to make my peace with Cornelius. The room was vacant. I sat down by the table, hoping he might return, but he did not. I lingered there, that if he called me down to tea, he might thus give me an opportunity of speaking to him. He did call me, but from the first floor.

"What are you doing in the studio?" he asked, rather sharply when I went down.

"I went up to speak to you, Cornelius."

"And you therefore looked for me in a place where I never am at this hour! Say you went up there to indulge in a fit of sulkiness, and do not equivocate."

I could not answer, I was too much hurt by his unkind tone and manner. Of course I ventured no attempt at reconciliation.

It was Miriam who made the tea.

The meal was silent and soon over. The lovers went out in the garden. I remained alone. Ere long Deborah looked in.

"I am going out, Miss," she said, "is there anything wanted?"

I replied that she had better ask her master.

The back-parlour door and window stood open. I heard her question and his answer, "Nothing;" then she left, and I saw her go down the Grove.

It was getting quite dark, yet Cornelius and Miriam lingered out together. I fancied they were taking a walk in the lanes; but on going to the back-parlour window, I saw them both standing by the sun-dial. The moon shone full upon them, on her especially; and even I, seeing her thus, was bitterly obliged to confess the beauty I had vainly denied in the morning. She still wore the white robe of Medora, and, standing by the sun-dial with her magnificent bare arm resting upon it, she looked like a beautiful statue of repose and silence.

Cornelius stood by her, holding her other hand clasped in his, but silent too. "You have lost it again," he said at length.

"Look for it," was her careless reply.

He stooped, picked up something from the grass; she held out her arm to him with indolent grace. I suppose it was the bracelet he fastened on. In the act, he raised unchecked, that fair arm to his lips.

I had not come there to watch them; besides, my heart was swelling fast within me. I turned away and again went to the front parlour. I sat by the windows. Ere long I heard some one in the passage; then the front door was opened; I saw Miriam pass slowly through the front garden, gather a rose, open the gate, and turn to her own door. Now at length I could speak to Cornelius. I ran out eagerly to the garden; he was not there. I called him; he did not answer. I went up-stairs and knocked at his room door; not there either was he; I sought the studio and peeped in with the same result. It was plain too he was gone out, and that I was alone in the house. I was not afraid, but felt the disappointment, and I sat down at the head of the staircase in a dreary, desolate mood. I had not been there more than a few minutes, when I heard a step coming up which I recognized as that of Cornelius.

"Is that you, Daisy?" he asked, stopping short and speaking sharply.

"Yes, Cornelius."

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought you were here, Cornelius."

"You knew I was out."

"No, Cornelius, I did not."

"It is very odd; Miriam heard you answering me when I asked you from the garden if Deborah was come back."

"Miss Russell must have been mistaken, Cornelius. I did not hear you, and
I did not answer. I came here to look for you; indeed I did."

"Very well," he replied, carelessly, "let me pass; I want to go up."

I rose, but as I did so, I said again, "It was to look for you I came up here, Cornelius."

I hoped he would ask me what I wanted with him, but he only replied, very coldly, "I never said the contrary," and he passed by me to enter the studio, where he began seeking for something.

"What have you done with the matchbox?" he at length asked impatiently.

"I never touched it. Cornelius: but if you want anything, you know I can find it for you without a light."

He did not answer, but continued searching up and down. I pressed my services.

"Let me look for it, Cornelius, I do not want a light, you know."

"Thank you," he drily replied, "I have what I want now; but I must request you no longer to meddle with my books. I have just found on the floor the volume I left on the table. It puzzles me to understand what you can want in the studio at this hour."

Thus speaking, he shut the door, locked it, and, putting the key in his pocket, he went downstairs without addressing another word to me. I felt so disconcerted, that every wish for explanation vanished; but even had it remained, the opportunity was not mine. When I followed him downstairs, I found him in the parlour with Kate, who was wondering "where Deborah could be?"

"How is it you said Deborah was in?" asked Cornelius, turning to me.

"I never said so, Cornelius."

"Miss Russell heard you."

"She cannot have heard me," I replied, indignantly; "I don't know why you will not believe me as well as her."

Cornelius gave me a severe look.

"You were not accused," he said, "and need not have justified yourself in that tone."

Kate gave us a quick glance, and said abruptly—

"I am astonished at Deborah; you might have wanted to go out."

"I did go out," replied Cornelius, "thinking she was in; but I only stayed out a few minutes."

"Did Daisy remain alone?"

"I suppose so, for as I went out by the back door, Miriam left by the front; but the neighbourhood is safe, and Daisy is surely not so silly as to be afraid."

"She looks very pale," observed Kate: "what have you been doing to her?"

"What has she been doing to me?" he coldly answered.

Kate sighed, and laying her hand on my shoulder, she looked down at me compassionately.

"Go to bed, child," she said kindly.

I did not ask better. She kissed me, and again said I was very pale; her brother never raised his eyes from his book. I thought him unkind and myself ill-used. I was proud, even with him; I left the room without bidding him good-night, and went to bed without seeking a reconciliation.

I awoke the next morning in a miserable, unhappy mood. Kate noticed my downcast looks and sullen replies at breakfast, and said, rather sharply—

"I should like to know what is the matter with you, child."

I did not answer, but looked sulkily down at my cup; when I chanced to raise my eyes, they met the gaze of Cornelius fastened intently on my face. I felt my colour come and go. With a sense of pain I averted my look from his. Immediately after breakfast, and without asking me to accompany him, he went up to his studio; he had not been there long, and I was still listening to the lecture of Kate, who reproved me for being so ill-tempered, when we heard the voice of her brother, calling out from above in a tone that sounded strange—

"Daisy!"

I obeyed the summons. Cornelius stood on the landing waiting for me. He made me enter the studio, then followed me in and closed the door. I looked at him and stood still; his brow was pale and contracted; his brown eyes, so pleasant and good-humoured, burned with a lurid light; his lips were white and thin, and quivered slightly. Never had I seen him so. He took me by the hand—he led me to his easel.

"Look!" he said, in a low tone.

But I could not take my eyes from his face.

"Look!" he said again.

I obeyed mechanically, and started back with dismay. Where the fair, intent face of Medora had once looked towards the blue horizon, now appeared an unsightly blotch. I looked incredulously at first; at length I said—

"How did it happen, Cornelius?"

"You mean, who did it?" he replied.

"Did any one do it, then?" I asked, looking up in his face.

He folded his arms across his breast, and looked down at me.

"You ask if any one did it!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, Cornelius, for who could do it, when you know there was no one in the house but ourselves?"

"Very true, no one but ourselves," he answered, with a smile of which I did not understand the full meaning. "It could not be Kate, for she was out?"

"And so was Deborah," I quickly suggested.

"Ay, and Miss Russell left at the same time with me."

"And I am quite sure no one entered the studio whilst you were out,
Cornelius, for I was sitting at the head of the staircase."

"And I am quite as sure no one entered it at night, for I had the key in my pocket."

"Then you see that no one did it," I replied, looking up at him.

"I see," he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, and bending his look on mine,—"I see no such thing, Daisy. I see that only two persons can have done the deed—you or I—I'll leave you to guess which it was."

"And did you really do it, Cornelius?" I exclaimed, quite bewildered.

The eyes of Cornelius kindled, his lip trembled, but turning away from me as if in scorn of wrath—

"Leave the room," he said almost calmly.

I looked at him—the truth flashed across me—Cornelius accused me of having done it. I felt stunned, far more with wonder than with indignation.

"Did you hear me?" he asked, with the same dead calmness in his tone.
"Leave the room!" and his extended hand pointed to the door.

But I did not move.

"Cornelius," I said, "do you mean that I did it?"

"Leave the room," was his only answer, and he turned from me.

"Cornelius," I repeated, following him, "do you mean that I did it?"

"Leave the room," he said, without looking at me.

"Cornelius, did you say I did it?" I asked a third time, and I placed myself before him, so as to make him stop short. I was not angry—I was scarcely moved—I spoke quietly, but I felt that were he to kill me the next minute, I should and would compel a reply, and I did compel one.

"Yes," he answered, with a sort of astonished wrath at my hardihood; "yes, I do say you did it."

I drew back a step or two from him, so that my upraised look met his.

"Cornelius," I said, very earnestly, "I did not do it."

"Ah! you did not," he exclaimed.

"Oh no," I replied, and I shook my head and smiled at so strange a mistake.

"Ah!" echoed Cornelius in the same tone, "you did not—who did, then?"

"I do not know, Cornelius, how should I?"

"How should you? Was it not proved awhile back only two persons could have done it, you or I, and since it so chances that I am not the person, does it not follow that you are?"

I looked at him incredulously: it seemed to me that I had but to deny to be acquitted. I fancied he had not understood me.

"Cornelius," I objected, "did you not hear me say it was not I?"

"I heard you—what about it?"

"Why that it cannot be me."

"Who else?"

"I do not know."

"Was not the picture safe when I left it here?"

"Yes, Cornelius, for I was here after you left, and I saw it."

"You confess it?"

"Why not, Cornelius?"

"You confess that you were up here after I went down with Miriam, and that you remained here until tea-time, when I called you down myself."

"Yes, Cornelius, I was up here."

"Did you not remain alone in the house when every one else was out of the way?"

"Yes, Cornelius, I did."

"When I came back did I not find you at the door of this room?"

"Yes, Cornelius; sitting at the head of the staircase."

"Did you not endeavour to prevent me from getting a light?"

"I said, Cornelius, I could find what you were looking for, without one."

"And you said so twice—twice."

"I believe I did, twice, as you say."

"I did, scarce knowing why, an unusual thing—I locked the door, I took the key. Do you grant that whatever was done must have been done before then?"

"Yes, Cornelius."

I spoke and felt like one in a dream. Each answer fell mechanically from my lips; and yet I knew that with every word of assent, the net of evidence I could not so much as attempt to disprove, drew closer around me.

"Well," said Cornelius, in the voice of a judge sitting over a criminal, "what have you to say against facts proved by your own confession?"

"Nothing, save that I did not do it."

I spoke faintly; for my head swam and I felt so giddy that I was obliged to take hold of the back of a chair not to fall.

Cornelius saw this; he turned away abruptly—he walked up and down the room—he hesitated; at length he stopped before me, took my unresisting hand in his, made me sit down on the couch, and sat down by me.

"Come," he said in a much milder tone, "I see what it is, I have terrified you—you are afraid to confess—that is it—is it not?"

"No, Cornelius."

"What is it then? dread of punishment?"

I shook my head.

"Shame?" he said in a low tone. "No? what then?"

"It is that I did not do it, Cornelius."

He dropped my hand.

"Take care!" he said in a low voice, menacing spite of its seeming gentleness; "take care! I have been patient, but I can be provoked. I may forgive an act of passion, of jealousy, of envy even, but I cannot forgive a lie."

I loved him, but my blood rose at this.

"Am I a liar?" I asked, looking full in his face; "have I ever been one?"

"Never," he replied, with some emotion, "and I will not consider this an act of deception, but as the result of fear, obstinacy, or mistaken pride. I will even add that I consider you incapable of deceit, for yesterday you betrayed your feelings concerning this picture and the original with singular imprudence, and both last night and this morning you have carried in your face the consciousness of your guilt. And now listen to me. You have defaced the work I prized, the image of her whom I loved; you have irritated, tormented, injured me, and yet I forgive you. Nay more; neither Kate nor Miriam shall know what has happened. I will spare one whom, spite of so many faults, I cannot help loving, this humiliation, and all on one condition—an easy one—confess."

"I cannot," I exclaimed passionately, "how can I?"

He interrupted me.

"Take care!" he said again, "do not persist. I speak calmly, but I am still very angry, Daisy. Do not presume—do not deny."

Oh yes! he was still very angry. His contracted brow—his restless look, that burned with ill-repressed fire—his lip, which he gnawed impatiently, told me that his wrath was only sleeping beneath seeming calmness. He would not let me deny, I could not confess; a strange sort of despair and recklessness seized me. I drew nearer to him. I flung my arms around his neck and laid my head on his bosom, feeling that if his wrath were to fall on me, it should at least strike me there. He did not put me away—very far from it—he drew me closer to him.

"Oh yes!" he said, looking down at me, "I am very fond of you, Daisy. Yes, I love you very much—you need not come here to tell me so—I know it, and never know it better than when you vex me: if you were to die to- morrow, I should grieve for days, weeks, and months, but for all that I am very angry, and you will do well not to provoke me."

Why did I find so strange a charm in his very wrath, that I could not resist the impulse which made me press my lips to his cheek?

"Yes," he observed, quietly, "you may kiss me too; but do not trust to that—not even if I kiss you—I am very angry."

"But you love me, Cornelius, you know you do; be as angry as you will, you cannot make me fear."

"Yes, I love you—you perverse child!" he replied, with a strange look; "but for all that, know what you have to expect. Confess, and I forgive you freely. Deny, and you will find me as pitiless in my resentment, as I am now free in my forgiveness. I will keep you in my home, it is true, but I will banish you from my arms and from my heart. I can, Daisy! Yes, as surely as your arms are now around my neck and your cheek now lies to mine, as surely as I now give you this kiss, will I abide by what I say."

He kissed me as he spoke, and very kindly too; yet his pale, determined face gave me not the faintest hope that I could move him. I looked at him, and he smiled, as with the consciousness of an unalterable resolve. This, then, was my fate—never more to be loved, cherished, or caressed by Cornelius. It rose before me in all its desolateness and gloom. One moment I felt tempted to yield, but conscience rose indignant, and pride spurned at the thought. I looked at Cornelius through gathering tears. I called him cruel, severe, and implacable in my heart, and yet I do not think I had ever loved him half so well; perhaps because the conviction on which he condemned me was so sincere, and, spite of his belief in my guilt, his love still so fervent.

"Well!" he said impatiently; for I was lingering, reluctant to leave that embrace which it seemed was to be my last. I drew my arms closer around his neck,—I kissed his brow, his cheek, his hand.

"God bless you for all your kindness!" I said, weeping bitterly; "God bless you, Cornelius!"

"What do you mean, child?" he asked.

"And God bless Kate, too," I continued, "though I have never loved her so well as you."

"Daisy!"

"I have but one thing to ask of you, Cornelius—kiss me once again."

"Not once but ten times when you confess, Daisy."

"Yes, but kiss me now."

"What for?" he inquired mistrustfully.

"Because I ask you."

He yielded to my request; he kissed me several times, mingling the caresses with broken speech.

"I am sure you are going to confess," he said, "quite sure: you know how hard it would be for me to leave off being fond of you—I am sure you will."

I looked at him blinded by tears; then I rose, untwined my arms from around his neck, and left him—I had accepted my destiny. Cornelius rose too, pale with anger.

"Do you mean to brave me?" he asked indignantly.

I did not answer.

"Daisy," he said again, "I hear a step—I give you another chance— confess before Kate or Miriam enters—a word will suffice."

But my lips remained closed and mute.

"Just as you like," he exclaimed, turning away angrily.

The door opened and Miriam entered, pale and calm, in her white robes.

"I am come early, you see," she said in her low voice, so sweet and clear. "Well, what is the matter?" she added, looking at us both with sedate surprise.

"Look and see, Miriam! look and see!" replied Cornelius, with bitterness and emotion in his voice.

Miriam slowly came forward. She looked at the picture, then at me.

"Well," she said, "it is a pity certainly, a great pity, but it is only a picture after all."

"Only a picture!" echoed Cornelius.

"Yes," she answered, "only a picture. I will sit to you again and you will do better."

"Oh, Miriam, Miriam!" he exclaimed, a little passionately, "it is not merely the loss of the picture that troubles me."

"What then?" she inquired, looking up at him.

"You ask?" he said, returning her glance; "ay, Miriam, you do not know, no one knows what that child has been to me! I have watched at night by her sick bed, and felt, that if she died, something would be gone nothing could replace for me. Child as she was and is still, I have made her my companion and my friend; she, more than any other living creature, has known the thoughts, wishes, and aspirations that are within me. I have taught her, and found pleasure in the teaching. I have cared for her, cherished her for years, and only loved her the more that I was free not to love her. She has been dear to me as my own flesh and blood, or rather all the dearer because she was not mine; for whilst she was as sacred to me as if the closest ties of kindred bound us, I found a pleasure and a charm in the thought that she was a stranger. Even now, much as she has injured me, guilty as she is, I feel what a bitter struggle it will be for me to tear her from my heart."

"Forgive her," gently said Miriam.

"Forgive her! she rejects forgiveness. Proud and obstinate in her guilt, she denies it; and I, who, when I called her up here this morning, incensed against her as I was, could yet, I thought, have staked my honour on her truth—I knew she was jealous, resentful and passionate, but not even in thought would I have accused her of a lie."

"Then you did not take her in the act?" thoughtfully asked Miriam.

"No, this was evidently done last night."

"How do you know it was she did it?"

"There was no one else to do it."

"What proof is that? She is not bound to prove her innocence. It is you who are bound to prove her guilt. There is a doubt—give her the benefit of it."

"A doubt!" he exclaimed almost indignantly,—"a doubt! why, if I could feel a doubt, Miriam, I would not in word, deed, look, or thought, so much as hint an accusation against her. A doubt! would to God I could doubt! But it is impossible: everything condemns her." He briefly recapitulated the proofs he had already brought forward against me.

"After this," he added, "what am I to think?"

"That you have some secret enemy," calmly replied Miriam.

"Is he a magician?" asked Cornelius; "could he drop from the skies to work my ruin? But absurd as is the supposition that one so unknown could have such a foe, it is contradicted by a simple fact—the chair which I myself placed against the window is there still. Oh no, Miriam, my enemy came not from without; my enemy is one whom I brought home one evening in my arms, wrapped in my cloak; who has eaten my bread and often drunk from my cup; who has many a time fallen asleep on my heart; whom I have loved, cherished, and caressed for three years."

This was more than my bursting heart could bear. I had stood apart, listening with bowed head and clasped hands, apathetic and resigned. I now came forward; I placed myself before him; I looked up at him; my tears fell like rain and blinded me, but through both sobs and tears broke forth the passionate cry, "Cornelius, Cornelius, I did not do it." And I sank on my knees before him; but to protest my innocence, not to implore pardon.

"You hear her," he said to Miriam, and he looked down at me—moved indeed, but, alas! his face told it plainly—unconvinced.

For awhile we remained thus. I could not take my eyes from his; words had failed, but I felt as if spirit should speak to spirit, heart to heart, and breaking the bonds of flesh, should bear the silent truth from my soul to his, and stamp it there in all its burning reality.

He stooped and raised me without a word. A chair was near him: he sat down, he took me in his arms; he pressed me to his heart, and never had his embrace been more warm and tender; he looked down at me, and never had his look been more endearing; he spoke—not in words of condemnation or menace, but with all the ardour of his feelings and the fervour of his heart. I wept for joy; I thought myself acquitted, alas! he soon undeceived me, I was only forgiven.

"Yes," he said, "I break my resolve, and here you are again, still loved and still caressed; for though you have not reminded me of it, Daisy, I remember I once declared there was nothing I would not forgive you, for the sake of the faith you one day here expressed in me. And I do forgive you; as I am a Christian, as I am a gentleman, on my honour, on my truth, I forgive you. Confess or do not confess, it matters not. I appeal not to fear of punishment, to gratitude for the past, to dread of the future, to conscience, or to love; I forgive you, and leave you free for silence or for speech."

I understood him but too well. Cornelius would no longer extort a confession; his own soul was great and magnanimous; he understood high feelings, and by this unconditional forgiveness he now appealed to me through the highest and most noble feeling of a human heart—generosity. Hitherto, he had only thought me perverse and obstinate; with a silent pang of despair I felt I was now condemned to appear mean and low before him. For he looked at me with such generous confidence; with such trust and faith in his aspect; with something in his eyes that seemed to say with the triumph of a noble heart, "You have wronged me, you have deceived me, but I defy you to resist this!" He waited, it was plain, for a confession that came not. At length he understood that it would not come. He put me away without the least trace of anger, and said, in a voice of which the reproachful gentleness pierced my heart—

"You cannot prevent me from forgiving you, Daisy."

With this he turned from me, and removing Medora from the easel, he began looking out for another canvas of the same size. Miriam had looked on, seated on the couch with motionless composure, her calm, statue-like head supported by her hand. She turned round to say—

"What is that for, Cornelius?"

"To begin again, if you do not object. I have already thought of some changes in the attitude."

She looked at him keenly, and not without wonder.

"You soon get over it," she said.

"Why not?" he asked quietly; "do not look astonished, Miriam; I can no more linger over regret than over anger. For me to feel that a thing is utterly lost, is to cease to lament for it. The work of days and months is utterly ruined; be it so, I have but to begin anew."

Miriam rose and went up to him as he stood before his easel, somewhat pale, but as collected as if nothing had happened.

"Forgive her," she whispered, "for my sake," and she took his hand in her own.

"I have forgiven her, Miriam," he replied, giving her a candid and surprised glance: "did you not hear me say so?"

"From your heart?"

"From my heart," he answered frankly.

"But with an implied condition of confession, acknowledgment, or something of the sort?"

"No, I left her free to speak or be silent. She would not confess—not for that shall I retract what I granted unconditionally; but pray do not let us speak of it."

Miriam however persisted.

"It is true," she said, "that Daisy did not confess, but then she did not deny."

The look of Cornelius lit: it was plain he caught at this eagerly.

"Very true," he replied; "very true, Miriam, she did not deny."

He looked at me as he said it. I stood where he had left me, by his vacant chair. I looked at him too, and at Miriam, as she stood by him with one hand clasped in his, and the other resting on his shoulder, and I never uttered one word. In his longing desire to reinstate me in his esteem and efface the stain on my tarnished honour, Cornelius, seeing me still silent, could not help saying—

"It is so, Daisy, is it not?—you do not deny it."

I had been quiet until then; quiet and forbearing. I had not protested my innocence in loud or vehement speech, but in the very simplest words of denial. Accused, judged, sentenced unheard, I had not resented this; I had blessed my accuser and kissed the hand of my judge. I had not wearied him with tears, entreaties, or protestations. I had no proof to give him save my word, and if that was doubted, I felt I had but to be silent. Four times indeed I had stood before him and told him—what more could I tell him?—that I had not done it. He had not believed me, and I had borne with it, borne with that forgiveness which to me could be but a bitter insult; but even from him I could bear no more; even to him no longer would I protest my innocence. I had laid my pride at his feet, in all the lowliness and humility of love; it now rose indignant within me, and bade me scorn further justification.

"No, Cornelius," I replied, without so much as looking at him, "I do not deny it."

I stood near the door; I opened it, and left the room.