"Then take your books upstairs."
I objected to this; but Miss O'Reilly was peremptory.
"I am sure Cornelius wanted to get me out of the way," I said at length, to explain a refusal that naturally surprised her.
"Oh, he did!" indignantly exclaimed Kate.
"Indeed he did, Kate."
"I don't care a pin about that," was her decisive rejoinder, "but I am determined that he shall not lose his days as he loses his evenings: go up directly."
I obeyed with deep reluctance; even when I reached the door of the studio, I paused ere I opened it, then stood still and looked.
They had not heard me; how could they?
Miriam, no longer intent on going, had resumed her place; Cornelius sat at her feet, one elbow resting on the edge of the couch, his eyes intently fixed on her face. She bent over him; her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted; one of her hands was buried in her own fair hair which fell loosened on her neck, the other slowly unravelled the dark locks of Cornelius.
"It is not at me, but at Medora, you are looking," she said impatiently.
"Are you jealous of her?"
"Jealous! when I begin it shall be with Daisy."
"Jealous of Daisy! as if you could be!"
And he smiled. I entered; Miriam looked up, saw me, and smiled too; Cornelius turned round and, reddening like a girl--she had not blushed-- he rose hastily. I came forward, closed the door, and, as if I had seen, had heard nothing, I sat down and opened my books; but the words of Cornelius, "Jealous of Daisy!" seemed printed on every page; the smile, with which he had uttered and she had heard them, was ever before me. He cared so little for me that I could not be, it seems, an object of jealousy. Miriam staid for about two hours more, then left; scarcely had the door closed on her, when I rose to go: but as I passed by Cornelius, he laid his hand on my shoulder, and arrested me with a reproachful--
"Are you, too, deserting me?"
I stood before him with my books in my hand; I looked up into his face; there were no tears either in my eyes or on my cheek, but he must have seen something there, for, looking surprised--
"Why, child," he asked, "what is the matter?"
He did not even know it!
"Does your head ache?" he continued, with the most irritating unconsciousness.
"No, Cornelius," I replied in a low tone.
"Are you feverish, then?" and he felt my pulse.
This time I did not answer.
"Lie down for awhile," he said kindly. He made me sit down on the couch; placed a pillow under my head; told me to sleep, and returned to his easel.
Alas! it was not the sleep of the body that I wanted, but the calm peace which is to the mind what slumber is to the senses. His kindness irritated more than it soothed me. I watched him painting; I saw that the eyes of Medora were going to change their hue, and I remembered the time when Cornelius would not have given a stroke of the pencil, more or less, to please mortal creature. I tossed about restlessly; he heard me, and thinking me unwell, he came to me.
"Poor little thing!" he said compassionately, and stooping, he left a kiss on my forehead; but this pledge of old affection had lost its charm; I felt betrayed, and involuntarily turned away. Cornelius smiled with astonishment.
"Why, what have I done?" he asked, gaily.
His unfeigned ignorance humbled me to the heart. Without answering, I started up, and ran away to my room, where I could at least cry in liberty.
If Cornelius guessed by this what was the matter with me, he certainly did not show it. He treated me exactly as usual; he did not appear to notice that I now never returned his morning or evening caress, nor even that, as soon as he was obliged to put by Medora for the more profitable, though less interesting occupation of copying bad drawings, I scarcely went to the studio. This was perhaps good-humoured forbearance, but I took it as a proof of carelessness and indifference, which strengthened me in my jealous resentment, more felt, however, than expressed. This had lasted about a week, when Cornelius, one evening, came down to tea, looking so pale and ill that his sister asked at once what ailed him. He sat by the table, his brow resting on the palm of his hand; he replied that his head ached.
"Do you go out this evening?" inquired Kate after awhile.
"No," he answered, without moving.
Kate looked surprised, but made no comment. I sat by her, as usual, but, being lower down, I could see his face better than she did; it was rigid, and ashy pale; he neither moved nor spoke. I rose, went to the table, and tried to catch his eye; but his glance fell on me, and saw me not. I asked if the lamp annoyed him; he made a sign of denial. I stood before him, and looked at him silently.
"Sit down, child," impatiently said Kate.
I obeyed by pushing my stool near Cornelius, and sitting down at his feet; then seeing that this did not appear to displease him. I softly laid my head on his knee.
"You obstinate little thing," observed Kate, "why do you annoy Cornelius?"
"She does not annoy me," he said, and his hand mechanically sought my head, and rested there, in memory of an old habit, of late, like many another, laid aside and forgotten.
After awhile Kate sent me up to her room for a book; whilst looking for it, I heard the door of Cornelius open and close again; his headache had compelled him to retire several hours earlier than usual. It was worse on the following day, for he did not come down; once I fancied I heard him stirring, and I said so to Kate.
"Not he, child; he will remain in bed all day, so you need not start and listen every second."
But her back was no sooner turned than I slipped upstairs. I had not been mistaken; Cornelius was up, and in his studio, but not at work; he stood before his easel, gazing on Medora, and looking so pale and ill that I felt quite dismayed.
"What do you want?" he asked, coldly but not unkindly.
"Nothing, Cornelius; am I in the way?"
"You may stay."
I sat down by the table; he began to pace the narrow room up and down; once he stopped short to say--
"There is no fire; the room must be cold; you had better go down."
"I am not cold; pray let me stay."
He did not insist; resumed his promenade, then threw himself down on the couch, with an impatient sigh and a moody face. I rose, stepped across the room, and sat down by him. Encouraged by his silence, I passed my arm around his neck. I had meant to say something, to tell him I was grieved for his pain or trouble, whichever it might be, but when it came to the point, all I could do was to kiss his cheek. Cornelius made a motion to put me away impatiently; but when his eyes, looking into mine, saw them filled with tears, he checked the movement.
"Poor little thing!" he said, with a sad smile; "you put by your childish anger the moment you think me in pain."
"Oh! Cornelius," I exclaimed, with much emotion, "though you should like another ever so much, and me ever so little, I shall never be so naughty again. Ah! if you knew how miserable I felt last night when I saw you looking so ill!"
"And came and laid your head on my knee like a faithful spaniel--yes, child, I know _you_ like me."
He said it with some bitterness. I replied warmly--
"Indeed I do, Cornelius, and always shall, even though you should not care for me at all."