Nor was I. My few attempts at drawing had convinced me that Nature had not intended me to shine in Art.
"What do I want to paint pictures for?" I asked. "You do; that is enough."
"But to be my pupil?"
"Yes, that would be pleasant."
"To work in the same studio; have an easel--"
"Near yours. Yes, Cornelius, I should like that."
"Yes," said a very sweet, but very cold voice, "the artist is loved better than his art."
We both looked up to the back-parlour window above us, whence the voice proceeded. Miriam was standing there in the half-shadow of the room; her fair head was bare; her cashmere scarf fell back from her graceful shoulders; one hand held the light lace bonnet which she had taken off, the other, ungloved and as transparently fair as alabaster, rested on the dark iron bar of the balcony. She looked down at us, smiling from above, calm, like a beautiful image in her frame. Cornelius looked up, gave a short joyous laugh, and lightly bounding over the three stone steps, he vanished under the ivied porch, and was by her side in a minute.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, and the very sound of his voice betrayed his delight, "I did not expect you for weeks yet."
"My aunt is still at Hastings; but I was obliged to leave, the air made me so unwell."
"And you never told me."
"Why alarm you?"
I waited to hear no more I had seen Cornelius leading her away from the window into the back part of the room, and Miriam with a half-smile yielding. I had no wish to be a check upon them, so I rose and slipped upstairs to the studio.
I sat down on the couch, trembling with emotion. She was come back, and with her, alas! as the evil train of some dark sorceress, came back all my old feelings. The very sound of her voice had roused them every one. I heard them and listened with terror, for, taught by bitter experience, I knew that, evil in themselves, they could work me nothing but evil. I remembered with a sickening heart all the bitterness which had been raised between Cornelius and me,--his angry looks, his chiding, our separation. I remembered also his goodness in bringing me back, his generosity in asking me for no promise of amendment, but in trusting to my good feeling and good sense, and throwing myself on God, as on Him who alone could assist me in this extremity of human weakness, I felt rather than uttered a passionate prayer for aid,--a cry for strength to resist temptation.
I had not long been in the studio, when the door opened and the lovers entered. I believe Cornelius was a little apprehensive as to how I might behave to Miriam, for rather hurriedly leading her to the easel, "See how hard I have been working," he said: "in the absence of Medora, I took to the Gipsy Family."
"You mean to the Stolen Child: where is she?"
"Here I am, Miss Russell." I replied in a low tone.
I was now standing by her, and as I spoke I slipped my hand into hers.
She started as if some noxious insect had touched her; but as Cornelius had seen this action of mine, she smiled and said--
"Do you really give me your hand? The next thing will be a kiss, I suppose."
I thought she was asking me to kiss her. I conquered my repugnance, and raised my face; she hesitated, then stooped, but her lips never touched my cheek.
"Daisy and I are quite friends now, you see," she observed, turning to Cornelius.
"Yes, I see," he replied, looking charmed.
"I always told you these childish feelings would pass away," she continued, laying her hand on my head.
He smiled in her face, a happy, admiring smile.
"Resume your work," she said, sitting down; "Miss O'Reilly has asked me to spend the day."
"But not here, Miriam; think of the smell of the paint."
"I do not feel it yet, so pray go on with that Stolen Child. What wonderful sweetness and pathos you have put in her face!"
"Do you think so? I mean, do you really think so?" cried Cornelius quite delighted; "well, Daisy has a very sweet face, I mean in expression, and to tell you the truth," he added in the simplicity of his heart, "I have done my best to improve it; I am glad you noticed that."
"Then resume your work; you know I like to look on."
He said, "Not yet," and as he sat down by her with the evident intention of lingering away a few hours, I left them. I was neither detained nor recalled.
I behaved with sufficient fortitude. Unbidden, I gave up to Miriam my place at table, and in the evening, of my own accord, I went to Kate for my lessons, whilst Cornelius and his betrothed walked up and down in the garden. I saw him once more engrossed with her, and, whatever I felt, I betrayed no sign of pettish jealousy. When she left us, I was the first to bid her good-night. Cornelius, without knowing how much these trifles cost me, looked pleased and approving. He also looked--but with this I had nothing to do--very happy.
Miriam had left us, and previous to going to bed we sat all three in the parlour by the open window, through which fell on the floor a soft streak of pale moonlight; I had silently resumed my place by Cornelius, who had laid his hand caressingly on my head, when Kate suddenly observed--
"You see the sea-air did not agree with Miss Russell."
"True, and yet she looks so well; more beautiful than ever."
"I suppose you will be able to get on with Medora."
"Not if the paint continues to affect Miriam."
"Perhaps it will not," quietly answered Kate; "it did not give her those dreadful nervous headaches before Daisy went to Miss Clapperton's; she does not seem to have suffered today; ay, ay, Medora will soon be on the easel."
"I don't want her to be," rather hastily replied Cornelius, "I want to go on with my Stolen Child. I was looking at Medora the other day, and, spite of all the labour it cost me, I found something unnatural about it."
"Well, I cannot agree with you there," replied Kate; "I think the way in which Medora's look seems to pierce the horizon for the faintest sign of her lover's ship, is painfully natural."
Cornelius did not answer. There was a change in his face--of what nature no one perhaps could have told; but he suddenly turned to me and said--
"Why did you not bring your books to me this evening? Mind, I will not have more infidelities of that nature."
He laughed, but the jest was forced; the laugh was not real. He looked like one who vainly seeks to brave the sting of some secret pain, and as I sat by him he bent on me a dreary, vacant look, that saw me not; but in a few minutes, almost a few seconds, he was himself again.
"No," he observed in his usual tone, "the other picture is much the best, and with it I must now go on."
In that opinion and decision Miriam fully concurred. Every day she came up to the studio for awhile, and she never left without having admired the Stolen Child, and, though very gently, depreciated Medora. One day in the week that followed her return, as she stood behind Cornelius looking at him painting, she was more than usually eloquent.
"There is so much thought, sadness, and poetry about that figure," she said,--"it expresses so well civilized intelligence captive amongst those half-savage Gipsies, that I never look at it without a new feeling of admiration."
I detected the ill-repressed smile of proud pleasure which lit up the whole countenance of Cornelius, but he carelessly replied--
"I am glad you think so."
Miriam continued.
"The difference between this and Medora is even to me quite astonishing."