"Oh! Cornelius," I entreated, "pray let me; I do so want to see the picture finished."
Cornelius sighed; he looked down at me rather wistfully, and said, involuntarily perhaps--
"Yes, _you_ like both the workman and his work."
I had felt, after the death of her young sister, that Miriam never would like me; from the very day she came back to the Grove, I felt she disliked me. Her return, without making Cornelius less kind, brought its own torment. She now daily came up to the studio, and from the moment her calm and beautiful face appeared in the half-open door, I felt as if a baleful shadow suddenly filled the room. She did not banish me from the only spot she had left me, but she followed me to it and mercilessly embittered all my happiness. Never once did she leave without having stung me by slights and covert sneers which Cornelius was too frank and good to perceive; which I dared not resent openly, but over which I silently brooded, until jealousy became a rooted aversion.
She had been back about ten days when I again fell ill. Cornelius thought at first I had taken cold in sitting to him, and was miserable about it; but the doctor on being called in declared I had the small-pox, and though Cornelius averred he had gone through this dangerous disease, Miss O'Reilly was morally convinced of the contrary, and banished him from my room.
Nothing could exceed her own devotedness to me during this short though severe illness, and my slow recovery. She seldom left me, and never for more than a few minutes. One evening however, as I woke from a light sleep, I missed Kate from her usual place, and to my dismay I saw, by the light of a low lamp burning on the table, her brother, who stood at the foot of my bed, looking at me rather sadly.
"Oh! Cornelius, go, pray go," I exclaimed, in great alarm.
"There is no danger for me, child," he replied gently; "how are you?"
"Almost well, Cornelius, but pray go; pray do."
Without answering he hastily drew back and stepped within the shadow of the bed-curtain as the door opened, and admitted, not Kate, but Miriam.
She did not see Cornelius, for the room was almost dark; she probably thought I slept; she at least approached my bed very softly, moving across the carpeted floor as dark and noiseless as a shadow. When she reached the head of my bed she stood still a moment, then taking the lamp lowered it so that its dim light fell on my face. Our eyes met; I looked at her with a wonder she did not seem to heed; I had never seen her calm look so eager. With a smile she laid down the lamp.
"Oh, Miriam, Miriam!" exclaimed the reproachful voice of Cornelius, who came forward as he spoke, "you have broken your word to me."
She started slightly.
"What brought you here?" she asked.
"I wanted to see my poor child."
He took her hand to lead her to the door; but she did not move, and said in a peculiar tone--
"Have you seen her?"
"Not well."
"Look at her then."
She handed the lamp to him; he took it reluctantly, just allowed its ray to fall upon me, then laid it down with a sigh.
"Poor little thing!" he observed, sadly.
"But it might have been much worse," said Miriam, gently.
"Much worse," he echoed.
I could not imagine what they were talking of.
"I am almost well again, Cornelius," I said.
"I am glad of it," he replied, cheerfully; then turning to Miriam, he again entreated her to go.
"With you," was her brief reply.
He complied: as they went out together, I heard him chiding her for her imprudent kindness. She did not answer, but smiled silently as the door closed upon them.
On learning the visit Cornelius had paid me, Kate was very angry. To our mutual relief he did not suffer from it, and even repeated it in a few days, in order to take me down to the parlour, where I had begged hard to take tea with him and Kate. As he lifted me up in the heavy shawl which wrapped me, Cornelius sighed.
"My poor little Daisy," he said, "how light, how very light you are getting!"
"Oh! but," I replied, a little nettled, "I am to improve so much, you know--at least Miss Russell said so--you remember?"
He gave me a rueful look, and, without replying, took me downstairs. Miss Russell sat by the table looking over a volume of prints; she just raised her eyes to say quietly--
"I am glad you are well again, Daisy," but took no other notice of me.
Cornelius laid me down on the couch, and sitting on the edge, asked me how I felt.
"Very well, Cornelius," I replied, and half rising, I passed my arms around his neck and kissed him. He returned the caress, and at the same time gently tried to make me lie down again. I detected the uneasy look he cast at the mirror over the mantle-piece which we both faced; I wanted to look too; he held me down tenderly, but firmly.
"Not yet, my pet," he said with some emotion, "you must promise not to look at yourself until I tell you."
The truth flashed on me: I was disfigured; I know not how it had never occurred to me before. I burst into tears, and hid my face in the pillow of the sofa. Cornelius vainly tried to comfort me: I would not even look up at him; to be told by him, and before her, of my disgrace, was too bitter, too galling.
"Shall we love you less?" asked Cornelius.
"Besides, what is beauty?" inquired Kate.
Miriam said nothing.
I did not regret beauty, which had never been mine to lose, but I lamented the woful change from plainness to downright ugliness. "I know I am like Mr. Trim," I despairingly exclaimed,--"without eyebrows or eyelashes."
"Indeed," replied Cornelius, "your eyelashes are as long, and, like your eyebrows, as beautifully dark as ever. Let that comfort you."
I thought it poor comfort--there are so many things in a face besides eyebrows and eyelashes; but drawing the shawl over mine, I checked my tears, and asked Cornelius to take me back to my room. He complied silently, and, as he laid me down on my bed, said gently--
"Have I your word that you will not look at yourself?"
"Yes, Cornelius," I replied, scarcely able to speak. "Oh! Kate," I added, as the door closed on him, "am I so very ugly?"
"Never mind, child," she answered cheerfully, "bear it bravely."
I bore it bravely enough in appearance, but in my heart I repined bitterly. Kate and Cornelius were both deceived, and praised me for my seeming fortitude. I did not leave my room for some time, and had no difficulty in keeping my promise; I never felt tempted to break it; I sickened at the thought of meeting in a glass my own scarred and disfigured face. My only comfort was, that as Miriam came not near me, I was spared the look I should have found it most hard to bear in my humiliation. But I could not delay this moment for ever. One evening, when I knew Miss Russell to be below, Kate, in spite of my entreaties and my tears, insisted on making me go down.
I entered the room like a criminal, and without once looking up or around me. I was going straight to the stool by Kate's chair, when Cornelius, who sat on the sofa with Miriam, said, making room for me--
"Daisy, come here."
I felt my unhappy face burn with mortification and shame, as I obeyed and sat down by him. He kissed and caressed me very kindly, but though Miriam never turned towards me her face so pale and calm, nor inflicted the look I dreaded, the thought of her secret triumph rendered me dull and joyless.