"Yes," interrupted Cornelius.
"Oh! you may make light of it," she continued very seriously; "I am not so blind as not to guess that you brought her home a little for her sake, and a good deal for your own."
"'Faith, then, you only guess the truth, Kate," said Cornelius, impatiently; "it is odd you never seem to understand what, heaven knows, I never seek to hide, nor dream to deny. I am fond of the child, very fond of her. I cared little for her when she came first to us, but she chose to take a fancy to me, and, though it would puzzle me to say how it came to pass, I found out in time that I had taken to her what must have been a very real fancy, for since she left I have never felt as if the house were the same without her. So after a week's hesitation and delay I went off and fetched her yesterday--and I don't repent it, Kate. She has provoked and tormented me--she will do so again, I have no doubt, perverse little creature! and yet I cannot help being glad at having her once more."
He laid his hand on my head and looked me kindly in the face as he said it.
"After that," resignedly replied Kate, "meddling of mine is worse than useless; but what did Mr. Thornton say?"
"Mr. Thornton has had the impertinence to say that if Margaret Burns is such a fool as to wish to stay with me, she is welcome."
Kate smiled, and said, "If I wished to go down with her I might."
"Daisy is not going down, but up," replied Cornelius, taking me by the hand and leading me to the studio; as we entered it he said--
"Daisy, you knocked at the door yesterday, and stood on the threshold: I won't have that again."
"Very well, Cornelius; shall I arrange the portfolios?"
"If you like."
I looked over them for awhile, then could not help observing--
"Cornelius, they look just as I left them."
"Perhaps they are: one cannot be always looking at those old things."
I put by the portfolio and looked around me. In a corner I perceived Medora; I knew enough of painting to see at a glance that it had scarcely been touched since I had left home. Cornelius was very apt to begin pictures, and leave them by for some other fancy: Medora had thus replaced the Stolen Child, but I looked in vain for the successor of Medora.
"Where is it, Cornelius?" I asked at length.
"Where is what, child?" he replied, turning round.
"The other picture."
"What other picture?"
"The one for which you put by Medora."
I was looking at him very earnestly: I saw him redden.
"There is no other picture," he answered; "I have been obliged to work for money; to do such things as this," he added, pointing with a sigh to the painting which he was copying.
"Have you earned much money?" I asked seriously.
"A little," he replied smiling.
"Do you think you will sell the Happy Time?"
"I have hopes of it: why do you ask, child?"
"Because by putting all your money together, you will be able to begin it."
"Begin what?"
"The picture."
"But, child, there is no picture," he answered impatiently.
I looked at him with astonishment that seemed to embarrass him. I knew from Kate that the Happy Time had been received with perfect indifference by the public and critics, and that, under such circumstances, Cornelius should neither be painting a picture nor yet contemplating one, seemed incredible. What ailed his mind, once so full of projects? What had become of our gallery? I could not understand it. For some hours I sat watching him at his copy, until at length he put it by, saying--
"Thank heaven, it is finished!"
"Are you going to begin another?" I inquired.
"Not to-day; I hope to get some work to-morrow though."
"You hope? do you like it, Cornelius?"
"You know well enough I hate it," he answered with evident irritation; "ah! Daisy, when shall I be a free man?"
He looked depressed, but for a moment only; the next he turned to me saying--
"Perhaps you would like to go down to Kate?"
"No, Cornelius, I would rather stay and look on at you painting."
"You are very obstinate. I have told you over and over that I am not going to paint. Paint! what could I paint?"
"Medora."
"I want Miss Russell, who is at Hastings with her aunt; even if she were here, it is ten to one whether she could give me a sitting, the smell of the paint gave her such dreadful headaches, that it is a mercy they did not end in neuralgia. And now, child, go downstairs or stay here just as you like, but do not disturb me any more; I have a letter to write."
He opened his desk and began writing. Once or twice I ventured to speak, but he told me so shortly that he could not attend to me, and it was so plain that painting was nothing to letter-writing, that I at length remained silent. This lasted until dinner-time. After dinner Cornelius went to post his letter--an office he never entrusted to profane hands; I remained alone with Kate; I could not help speaking to her.
"Does not Cornelius paint any more pictures?" I asked, looking up at her.
"Ah! you have found it out, have you?" she replied, a little bitterly; "why, child, he has been losing his time in the most miserable fashion.
Not that he did not work, poor fellow; he worked himself to death, all to get married to her; but she changed her mind; suddenly discovered he was too young, that it must be deferred, and, leaving him to enjoy his disappointment, went off to Hastings a fortnight ago. He was quite cut up for the first week; but he is coming round now, only I fancy he is getting rather sick of slop-work, that leads to nothing, not even to marriage. As for her, poor thing, if she is gone with the belief that Cornelius is the man to sit down and make a woman the aim of his life, she will find herself wofully mistaken, I can tell her."
More than this Miss O'Reilly did not say, but everything confirmed her words. When Cornelius came in, he said it was a beautiful afternoon, and that, if I liked, he would take me for a stroll in the lanes. I felt myself reddening for joy; this was, I knew, a great favour, and showed that Cornelius must be quite in the mood for petting and indulging me. He liked me, but he was not fond of walking out with me; his walks were almost always solitary, and extended for miles into the country. I therefore replied with a most eager "Yes," and got ready so promptly, that in less than ten minutes Cornelius and I were again wandering in the lanes hand in hand. When I felt tired we sat down on a fallen tree. I enjoyed the blue sky with its light vapoury clouds; the warm, ardent sunshine; the sharply defined, though ever-waving shadow of the tall tree under whose shelter we rested; the vivid green of the opposite hedge, through whose verdure shone the cool white flowers of the bind-weed; the rich luxuriant grass that rose from the ditch all straight and still in the burning heat of the day; the breeze that now and then passed over and through all this little wilderness; the low hum of insects; the song of birds from distant parks and gardens; everything charmed--enchanted me, but nothing half so much as sitting thus again near Cornelius.
"Daisy," he exclaimed, suddenly perceiving that which had until then escaped his attention, "what on earth are you carrying?"
"Your sketch-book, Cornelius; you had forgotten it."
He looked at me as if he attributed to me some secret motive, of which I was certainly innocent. I had never known Cornelius to go out without his sketch-book, and I dreamt of nothing beyond my words and their simplest meaning.
"Did you not want it?" I asked, surprised at his fixed glance.