Daisy Burns Volume I Part 24

"He was; and though there is no girl can compare with painting; though the love about which so much has been sung is cold and tame compared to the pa.s.sion which fills a true painter's heart, I am not going to drown myself because the glorious gift has been denied me, and I cannot be that man."

He laughed rather drearily as he said it.

"Yes, but you will do nothing else," replied Kate.

"I can put my heart to nothing else. Daisy, why do you not bring the books as usual?"

I obeyed, but I could not give my attention to the lessons.

"Child," impatiently said Cornelius, "what can you be thinking of?"

I was thinking that he was not to be an artist; that he had given up painting, fame, and fortune; and, as he put the question, I burst into tears.

"I understand," quietly said Cornelius: "you do not know your lessons."

He closed the book, went to the piano, and sang as usual.

It was plain Cornelius rejected sympathy. He showed no pity to himself, and would accept none from others. If he suffered, the jealous pride of youth would not let him confess it, yet we could see that he was not happy. He set about looking for another situation, with the dogged sort of satisfaction a man may find in choosing the rope with which he is to hang himself. His pleasant face contracted a bitter expression; his good- humoured smile became ironical and sarcastic; he had fits of the most dreary merriment; of pity he was so resentfully suspicious that we scarcely dared to look at him. Three weeks had thus elapsed, when, as I sat with Kate and Cornelius in the garden, I ventured, thinking him in a better mood than usual, to say, in my most insinuating accents--

"Cornelius, what will be the subject of your next picture?"

He turned round and gave me a look so stern that I drew back half frightened.

"How dare you be so presuming?" said Kate, indignantly.

I did not reply, but after a while I left them. I re-entered the house, and stole up to the studio, there to brood in peace over what it was now an offence to remember. The easel stood against the wall; the papers and portfolios were covered with dust; a sketch of a group of trees--the last thing on which I had seen Cornelius engaged--lay on the table unfinished, but soiled with lying about. I opened one of the portfolios: it contained the drawings he most valued. I took them out, and, kneeling on the floor, spread them around me. Absorbed in looking at them, I never heard Cornelius enter, until his voice said close to me--

"What are you doing here?"

"I was looking at these," I replied in some confusion.

"Then you were taking a great liberty."

I silently began to restore the drawings to the portfolio; he said shortly--

"They will do on the floor." And he walked across them to the window.

"Cornelius," I observed, timidly, "you are standing on the head of the poor Italian boy, and you are going to tread on the flower-girl."

"They are only fit to burn," was his misanthropic reply.

"Let me take them away," I urged.

He seemed disposed to answer angrily, but he restrained himself and stepped aside. I removed the drawings, carefully replaced them in the portfolio, gently slipped in a few more, then stole up a glance at Cornelius: he was looking down at me with a displeased face.

"Lay down that portfolio," he said.

"Pray don't burn them!" I exclaimed, tearfully.

"Leave the room," he said, impatiently.

I obeyed, but as I reached the door I saw Cornelius go to the fire-place and take down the match-box. It might be to light a cigar, or make a bonfire of the drawings.

"Don't, pray don't," I entreated.

"Don't what?" he asked, lighting the match.

"Don't burn your beautiful drawings, Cornelius, pray don't."

"Daisy! did I or did I not tell you to leave the room?"

I stood near the door: I opened and closed it again, but unable to resist the temptation of ascertaining to what fate the drawings were reserved, I was stooping to look through the keyhole, when the door suddenly opened, and Cornelius appeared on the threshold.

"Go down at once," he said, angrily.

I obeyed, and, crying with vexation and grief. I entered the parlour where Kate sat sewing.

"Oh, Kate!" I exclaimed through my tears, "Cornelius is burning his drawings!"

"Is he?" was her calm reply.

"He turned me out, pray go and prevent him."

"Is there a great quant.i.ty of them?" she asked.

"Three large portfolios and a little one."

"That must make quite a heap."

"You might save a few by going now, Kate."

"He will be some time about it," she musingly observed; "better delay the tea a little."

"Kate, they will be all burned if you don't go."

"I hope he will be careful," said Miss O'Reilly, a little uneasy; "I hope he will not set the chimney on fire."

It was plain she would not take a step to save the drawings. I sat down in the darkest corner of the room and grieved silently over this miserable end to so many bright day-dreams. It was a long time before Cornelius came down; he apologized for having delayed the tea.

"Never mind!" said Kate, sighing. "Daisy, where are you? That child does nothing but mope and fret of late."

"I am here, Kate," I replied, rising.

"Hand Cornelius his cup."

"What is the matter with her?" he asked.

"She is a foolish child," replied Miss O'Reilly.