"Not to-day," I replied imploringly.
"She is so industrious," he said admiringly.
"Like all children who cannot rely on the quickness of their perceptions."
"Oh! Daisy is very quick," he answered rather hastily; "she has answers that often surprise me."
"I should like to be surprised. Do you mind answering a few questions of mine, Daisy?"
I did mind. I mistrusted her; I did not want to acknowledge her as an authority, still less to be exposed by her to Cornelius.
"Thank you," I replied, "Cornelius is to examine me this evening."
"I like to judge for myself," she answered smilingly.
I did not reply.
"Daisy, did you hear?" said Cornelius.
"Yes, Cornelius."
"Then why not answer? Do you object to being examined now?"
"Not by you."
"But, my dear, it is Miss Russell who wishes to question you."
I remained mute; he gave me a severe look. No more was said on the subject. With waning daylight Miriam left us. I expected a lecture or a scolding, but Cornelius never opened his lips to me. I had a presentiment that this silence boded me no good, and indeed it did not. After tea, I brought out my books for examination; Cornelius looked at me coldly.
"I am astonished at your confidence," he said. He rose, took his hat, and walked out.
For a week I had looked up to this evening, worked hard for it, and thought with pride of the progress of which I could not but be conscious, and which Cornelius could not but perceive. As the door closed on him, I burst into tears.
"What is all that about?" asked Kate, astonished.
I threw my arms around her neck and told her, weeping all the time. She reproved and yet comforted me.
"It was wrong," she said, "wrong and foolish to be rude to Miss Russell; but do not fret, child, though Cornelius may be vexed, he is fond of you in his heart."
"Not as much as he once was, Kate."
She did not contradict the bitter truth.
"It will never be the same thing again," I continued.
"As if I did not know it!" she exclaimed, involuntarily perhaps.
I looked up into her face. She too had seen and felt that Cornelius was not to us what he once had been. She smiled sorrowfully as our looks met, pressed me to her heart and kissed me. Woman-grown though she was, and child though I might be, there was between us the bond of the same secret pain and sorrow.
CHAPTER XV.
Thus began the short and bitter contest between Miriam and me. I apologized to her, humbly enough, on the following day; but in domestic life, reconciliations seem only to lead to fresh quarrels; to make it up is nothing; whilst the spirit remains unchanged, strife cannot cease. I continued to be jealous of Miriam; she continued to resent every poor attempt I made to secure the love and attention of him whose every thought and feeling she wished to engross. I loved him too ardently, and I was too rash and proud, to bear this passively. My persistency cost me dear: I was daily wounded in the most tender and sensitive point--the affection and the regard of Cornelius. I had faults, no doubt, but Cornelius never seemed to have perceived them as he now perceived them: how could he? before, they slumbered in peace, lulled by the love I felt for him and that which he felt for me, whereas now they were--not pointed out to him, she had too much tact for that--but awakened and drawn forth under his gaze, daily, nay hourly. I felt this; I resolved to be good if it were only to provoke my enemy, but I never could keep to the determination. She knew so well how to make me defiant as I had never been, or silent and sullen as Cornelius never had known me; above all, how to rouse me to a pitch of obstinacy which not even he could subdue.
He saw the change with wonder and regret. He felt, rather late, that the jealousy of a child was not a matter to be slighted; he tried to reason me out of it; he was kind, severe, and indulgent by turns--uselessly. The mischief was, I could not help loving him more than ever, and, loving him thus, it was impossible I should not be jealous. Once this excessive affection had pleased him, and he had encouraged it injudiciously; it now wearied him--and no wonder; it had become the source of a daily annoyance, paltry yet most irritating.
I remember well one morning. Oh! how those childish incidents have burned themselves into my brain! She had as usual been provoking me by allusions to my pale and sickly aspect, and then by questions so insidiously framed to make me break forth into impertinence or ill-temper, that I would answer her no more. This availed me little.
"Pray let her alone, Miriam," said Cornelius, greatly disgusted, "she is a sulky little thing, unworthy of your notice."
"The poor child would not be so if she were not so unhealthy," kindly observed Miriam.
This was one of the speeches with which she used to sting me; she knew, and I knew too, how much Cornelius admired health, with its fresh aspect and its joyous feelings, in both of which I failed so lamentably.
"You are too good to be always framing excuses for her," replied Cornelius, with a severe look at me.
"Excuses!" I thought; "yes, it was easy to frame such excuses." But I never replied; I never looked up from my books. I sat at the table by the window, as if I had heard nothing; for this took place in the studio, where Miriam still daily sat for Medora. Towards noon she rose to go.
"Give a look at our little garden first," said Cornelius; then turning to me, he added--"Put on your bonnet and cape--the sun is warm, and the air will do you good."
It was one of the mildest days of early spring. Our garden boasted but few flowers. Cornelius gathered the freshest and fairest for his mistress; but some snowdrops which she admired especially, he did not gather.
"These I cannot give you," he said, "they are Daisy's; the others are Kate's, and consequently mine."
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!
Cornelius looked surprised, then indignant. As I walked away from them, I heard the sweet voice of Miriam saying, sadly--