She took the flowers he was handing her, with a smile of thanks, and sat down on the wooden bench by the house. He was soon by her side—soon wholly wrapped in her. The sun shone bright and warm in the blue sky; the breeze was very pleasant; the old house had many a brown, rich tint; the ivy on the porch was green and glossy; the garden had begun to wear the first fresh blossoms and light verdure of spring; a bird had perched on the highest bough of the tallest poplar, and thence broke forth into many a snatch of gay song. It was a morn for happy lovers to sit thus side by side, looking out on heaven and earth, but still lingering within the shelter of a warm home.
I looked at them, and I keenly felt the words of Cornelius. Those snowdrops were mine. I had set them myself, and daily watched them growing up and unfolding their shy beauty; but I had never attached to them an idea of selfish enjoyment. To place them some morning in the studio of Cornelius, enjoy his surprise, his pleasure, and his thanks, was all I had dreamed of; but if it pleased him better to bestow them on her in whom he now most delighted, what mattered it to me? I felt bitterly that she had taken from me his affection, his thoughts, his looks, his kindness, his very caresses, and that she might as well have the flowers with the rest. I gathered them, and silently placed them on her lap. Miriam looked at me and coloured slightly. Cornelius seemed charmed, and passed his arm around my neck with a sudden return of kindness.
"Ah!" said Miriam to him, "those flowers are given to you, and not to me, and it is you must give the thanks."
By the "thanks" she evidently meant a kiss, but Cornelius had perhaps a fancy for caressing me when he chose, for he did not take the hint. Miriam placed the snowdrops amongst the other flowers, and inhaled their mingled fragrance with a dreamy look and smile. Cornelius looked at her and exclaimed—
"Ah! you are Moore's Namouna now,—the eastern enchantress who lives on the perfume of flowers."
"How can you be so cruel?" she replied, glancing up, and her green eyes sparkling in the sun with perfidious light.
"Cruel?"
"Yes, that poor child is still waiting for her kiss."
Those were her very words. They made my blood boil then, and as I write, I still feel within me something of that old resentment over which years have passed in vain. Who, what was she, that she should speak thus? I had been kissed and caressed by Cornelius, I had lain in his arms and slept on his bosom, before he had ever seen her fair and fatal face,—whilst he was still unconscious of her very existence. He might love her more than he loved me, but he had loved me first: even how, changed as he was, I knew I was still dear to him. She had taken much from me; did she mean to take all? Was he to caress me but at her bidding and pleasure? Were his lips to touch my cheek but when she permitted it? Was she to mete out to me even that paltry drop which she had left in my cup, once so full?
I felt this, not in these words, but far more intensely, for it passed through me during the brief seconds which Cornelius took to smile at her words, and then turn to me to comply with her behest. I abruptly averted my face from his: if he would embrace me but on such conditions, never more might he do so!