My cheek lay close to his, his heavy hair brushed my face, his eyes looked into mine with something sad in their fondness. I felt how much, how truly, how purely the good young man loved the child he had adopted, and returning his tender embrace, I was happy even to a sense of pain.
I believe in the presentiments of the heart, and I believe that on this evening, and at that moment, Cornelius and I unconsciously had each ours, and each, though different from the other, was destined to be fulfilled.
The next day Cornelius knew why he had felt so fond of me: I was dangerously ill, and for days and weeks my life was despaired of.
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."