This might be either audacity or delicacy, as one chose to take it. Bressant, feeling himself put rather on the defensive, answered hastily and without premeditation:

"I like you more!"

"Oh! I'm so glad to hear you say so!" exclaimed she warmly, and as she spoke he felt her hand a little more perceptibly on his arm. "It takes such a load off my heart! seeing you and Sophie love one another so much, I couldn't help loving you, too, in my way; and it made me so unhappy to think I was disagreeable to you."

Bressant was quite unprepared for all this. Whatever had been his speculations as to the future footing upon which he and Cornelia should stand, it had been nothing like that she was now furnishing. It did not seem at all in the vein which she had opened on the day of her return. He was puzzled: had he been more used to ladies' society, he would have mistrusted her sincerity.

"You could never be disagreeable to me!" was his answer: and he looked down at her oval cheek, with his first attempt at fraternal admiration. It turned out badly. She looked unexpectedly up: his glance fell through her tawny eyes, and sank down, burning deliciously, into her heart. She turned pale with the pain and the pleasure: but it was such pain and pleasure that she sought, and wanted more of.

"Well, then! it's all clear between us again—is it?" resumed she, drawing a long breath, which sounded more like the irrepressible out-come of a tumultuous heart, than a sigh of relieved suspense upon the point in question. "No more misunderstandings, or any thing? and you won't get out of the way ally more, as if I were poison—will you?"

"I never did!" protested he, laughing awkwardly. In the last few minutes he had developed a sentiment hitherto unknown to him—pique! He had been imagining Cornelia in love with him, and angry at his preference for Sophie; whereas, it would now seem that the only reason she cared for him at all, was because he was Sophie's lover: a most correct spirit in her, no doubt; but, instead of being gratified, as was his duty, he felt provoked.

"Oh! yes, you behaved shockingly!" rejoined Cornelia, laughing with him. "Mind! I don't care how devoted you are to Sophie—the more the better; but, when you do notice me, I want you to do it kindly—won't you?"

"I'll be sure to, now that I know you care any thing about it."

"And what made you think I didn't care about it, if you please, sir?"

"Why," stammered he, quite at a loss what to say, and so coming out with the truth, "I thought you were offended at my being engaged to Sophie!"

"But what should there be in that to offend me?" demanded Cornelia, with the mouth and eyes of Innocence.

"I don't know:—well—I knew you first!" he blurted forth, beginning to wish he had been satisfied to hold his tongue.

Cornelia took her breath once or twice, and then bit it off on her under lip, as if about to say something, and afterward hesitating about it.

"I don't quite understand you," she managed to get out at last; "do you—forgive me if I'm wrong—but perhaps you're thinking of that time—when—just before I went away?"

Saying this, she drooped her eyes in a confusion, which, because more than half of it was genuine, made her look very fascinating. Nothing is more seductive than a little truth. As Bressant looked at her, and thought of what lie had done at that last interview, soft thrills crept sweetly through his blood, and he felt a most extraordinary tenderness for her.

"I've often thought of it," answered he, in a tone which did not belie his words.

"Well—so have I, to tell the truth!" rejoined Cornelia, looking up for a moment with glowing candor. "But we won't either of us think of it any more, will we? It seems very long ago, now; and it'll never be again, and we ought to forget it ever was at all. But, oh! most of all, you must forget it if it will ever be a reason for your disliking me, or wishing not to see me! I know how disagreeable it must be to you to think of it now."

Did Cornelia know what she was about? had she netted beforehand all the meshes of this web she was throwing over him? the admirable mixture of frankness and subtlety, nature and art—must it not have been planned and calculated beforehand, to bewilder and mislead?—It may well be doubted. No preconceived and elaborated programme can come up to the inspiration of the moment, which is genius. Such felicitous wording of subject-matter so objectionable: such an unassailable presentation of so indefensible a principle—could hardly have been the fruit of premeditation. Cornelia was allowing things to take their course.

"It isn't disagreeable! it's—" Bressant broke off, unable or unprepared to say what it was. "Why must we forget it?" he added, with a half-assured look of significance. "You said we were brother and sister, you know!"

She laughed in his face, at the same time drawing her hand from his arm, and stepping away from him. How tantalizingly lovely she looked!

"It won't do to carry the privileges of relationship too far, my dear sir! at least, not until after you're married. There! go back to your Sophie—I didn't mean to keep you so long—really! No, no!" as he made an offer to approach her; "go! and be quick, I advise you. Good-by!"

Bressant, as he walked on to the Parsonage, was possessed by an undefined conviction that he was learning a great deal not set down in the books. The page of the passions, once thrown open, seems to comprise every thing. The world has but one voice for the man of one idea.

Evidently, this man did not comprehend the nature of his position between these two women. Reason told him it was impossible he could love both at once; but there her information stopped. His senses assured him that, with Cornelia, he experienced a vivid rush of emotion, such as Sophie, strongly as he loved her, never awakened in him; but his senses could give him no explanation of the fact. His instinct whispered that he would not have dared, in his most ardent moments, to feel toward Sophie as he invariably felt toward her sister; but no instinct warned him of the danger which this implied. A sturdy principle, if it had not thrown light upon the question, would, at least, have pointed out to him the true course to adopt; but, unfortunately, principles, and the impulses which they are formed to control, are neither of simultaneous nor proportionate growth. Bressant, while partaking so liberally of emotional food, had quite neglected to provide himself with the necessary and useful correctives to such indulgences. Thus it happened that when he arrived, a little past his usual hour, at the Parsonage-door, his mental digestion was in a very disturbed condition.

In palliation of Cornelia's conduct, there is little or nothing to be adduced. Strong forces had been laboring within her during the last few months. Love, disappointment, a passionate nature, a sense of wrong—not least, her New-York experience—had developed, warped, and transformed her. Bressant's homage had been the first, of any value to her, which she had ever received. It had come unasked and unexpected, and had been all the more attractive, because there was something not quite regular about it. Being lost, she had felt a fierce necessity for repossessing it, under whatever form, under whatever name. To-day, it was but the turn of the conversation that had suggested the expedient of calling herself his sister.

The very beauty and purity of the fraternal relation cloaks the miserable rottenness of the imitation. So innocent does it seem, it might almost deceive the parties to the deception themselves. "I may love him, for I'm his sister!" said Cornelia; but could she in reality have become his sister, she would, beyond all else, have shrunk from it. "Nothing I do is in itself an impropriety," she could say: but her secret sense and motive were enough to make the most innocent act criminal. She closed her ears to the inner voice, and her eyes, looking at her conduct only through the crimson glass of her desire, pronounced it good.

She walked swiftly, immersed in thought, along the October road, beneath the splendid canopy, and over the gorgeous strewn carpet, of the dying trees. She was going to call on Abbie, it having occurred to her that perhaps the kind of information she wanted concerning Bressant might be forthcoming there. Presently, the rapid rise in the road at the end of the level stretch checked the current of her ideas, and threw them into confusion. Out of the confusion rose unexpectedly one.

Cornelia stopped in her walk, with one foot advanced, her head thrown up, her finger on her chin. She looked like a glorious young sibyl, reading a divine prophecy upon the clouds. After a moment, she waved her autumn banner over her head, with a gesture of triumph, and, turning on her heel, began to walk back toward home.

The grandest discoveries are so simple! Cornelia laughed to think how blind she had been—how stupid! What a sense of power and independence was hers now! To turn homeward had been instinctive. So strong was the sense of an end gained—a point settled—that, whatever may have been the actual errand on which she had started, she felt that her work, for that day, at least, was done.

She had been planning, and speculating, and worrying, to discover a safe and sure method of separating Bressant and her sister. Peering into the past for materials, and searching on one side or another for sources of information, she had overlooked all that was best and nearest at hand. What need for her to scrape together a reluctant tale of what had been? for was not the future her own? Why rely for assistance upon this or that suspicious and unsatisfactory witness? What more trustworthy one could she find than herself? Suppose Bressant never to have done any thing that could make him unworthy of Sophie, was that a bar against his doing something in the future?

Yes; she had power over him, and would use it. She herself would be the means and the cause for attaining the end at which she aimed. She would be the accomplice of his indiscretion, and thus obtain over him a double advantage. No matter how intrinsically trifling the indiscretion might be, it would be just such a one as would be sure to weigh heavily in the balance of Sophie's pure judgment. So plain would this be to Bressant himself, that Cornelia would be able to rule him (as she argued) merely with the threat of accusation. And, since his desertion of Sophie would appear to her causeless, the indignation she would feel thereat would save her from repining. Cornelia would have him all to herself!

Well! and what would she do with him when she had him? She did not stop to consider. Nor, going on thus from step to step, did she have a sense of the hideousness of the wrong she contemplated.



CHAPTER XXV.

ANOTHER INTERMISSION.

It was something of a surprise to Bressant, after his interview with Cornelia, that she still continued to avoid him. But, after what she had said to him, to set his mind at rest regarding the spirit and manner of their intercourse, she felt an intuition that it would be as well he should believe that she herself was not over-anxious to be on any terms with him whatever.

Still, he often saw her, and always carried away a charming impression of what he saw. Once, she had mounted a chair in the library, and was in the act of reaching down a book from a high shelf, when he entered unexpectedly. She turned, caught his eye, and dimpled into a mischievous smile. All day he could not drive the picture out of his head—the bounteous, graceful form, the heavy, dark, lustreless hair, the fascinating face, and the smile. He had but just left Sophie, yet the fine chords she had struck in him were drowned in Cornelia's sensuous melody.

Again, one day, coming into the house, he chanced to enter the parlor, and there sat Cornelia, in an easy-chair, her feet stretched out upon a stool, fast asleep. He came close up to her, and stood looking. What artist could ever have hoped to reproduce the warmth, glow, and richness of color and outline? He watched her, feeling it to be a stolen pleasure, yet a nameless something, surging up within him, compelled him to remain. In another moment—who can calculate a man's strength and weakness?—he might have stooped to kiss her, with no brother's kiss! But, in that moment, she awoke, and perhaps surprised his half-formed purpose in his eyes.

She was too clear-headed to regret having awaked, for she saw that he regretted it. And, because he did not venture, she being awake, to take the kiss, she knew he was no brother, and knew not what it was to be one. So she put on a look of annoyance, and told him petulantly to go about his business. Off he went, and passed his hour with Sophie, who was as lovely, as fresh, and as purely transparent as ever. But some turbid element had been stirred in Bressant's depths, which spoiled his enjoyment for that day, making him moody and silent.

Such little incidents—there were many of them—were far too simple and natural to be the work of deliberation and forethought. But Cornelia was disposed to use them, when they did occur, to her best possible advantage, and therefore they acquired potency to affect Bressant. She wished that to be, which he had not stamina enough to oppose: thus a subtle bond was established between them, lending a significance to the most ordinary actions, such as could never have been recognized between indifferent persons.

This was all progress for Cornelia, and she well knew it, and yet she was not at ease nor satisfied. She began to find out that it was no such light matter to usurp the place of such a woman as Sophie, though the latter was laboring under the great disadvantage of being ignorant of the plot against her. In most cases, indeed, the attempt would have been wellnigh hopeless, but Cornelia had two exceptionally powerful allies—her own supreme beauty, and Bressant's untrained and ill-regulated animal nature, which he had not yet learned to understand and provide against. And there was another thing in her favor, too, although she knew it not—the demoralizing effect upon the young man's character—of his failure to fulfil his agreement with the professor. The evils that are in us link themselves together to drag us down, their essential quality being identical, whatever their particular application.

Nevertheless, time went on, and November had stalked shivering away before the frosty breath of December, and still Cornelia had accomplished nothing definite; nay, she scarcely felt sufficiently sure of her footing to attempt any thing. And what was it that she was to attempt? On looking this question in the face, at close quarters—it wanted less than four weeks now of that wedding-day which Cornelia had promised herself should see no wedding!—when she found herself pressed so peremptorily as this for an answer, it might be imagined that she turned pale at what was before her. And, indeed, the prospect, viewed in its best light, was discouraging and desperate enough. For at what price to herself must success be bought, and at what sacrifice be enjoyed? She must either lose, or deserve to lose, all that a woman ought to hold most sacred and most dear—home, the esteem and love of friends, the protection of truth, and, above all, and worst of all, her own self-respect. All these in exchange for a baffled, angry, selfish man, at whose mercy she would be, with only one word to speak in self-defense and justification; and it was much to be feared that he would, considering the circumstances, reject and scoff at even that. The one word was—she loved him! and, if there be any redeeming virtue in it, let her, in Heaven's name, have the benefit thereof. She can rely on nothing else.

But Cornelia would not be disheartened. If she saw the rocks ahead, against whose fatal shoulders she was being swept—if she heard, dinning in her ears, the rush and roar of the headlong, irresistible rapids—if her eyes could penetrate the void which opened darkly beyond—she only nerved herself the more resolutely, her glance was all the firmer, her determination the more unfaltering.

The peril in which she stood but kindled in her heart a fiery depth of passion, such as overtopped and tamed the very terrors of her position. Because she must lose the world to gain her end, that end was exalted, in her thought, above a hundred worlds. The faculties of her soul, which, in her time of innocence and indifference, had been dormant—half alive—now sprang at once into an exalted, fierce vitality. The hour of evil found Cornelia a creature of far higher powers and more vigorous development than she could ever, under any other conditions, have attained. She showed most gloriously and greatly, when illuminated by that lurid light whose flame was fed by all that was most gentle, womanly, and sweet within her. She looked nearest to a goddess, when she needed but one step to be transformed into a demon.

In following out her psychological progress, we have necessarily outstripped, to some extent, the sober pace of the narrative. It was about the first of December that rumors began to be circulated in the village of an approaching ball at Abbie's. It was to be the grandest—the most complete in all its appointments—of any that ever had been given there. It was looked upon, in advance, as the great event of the year. Real, formal invitations were to be sent out, printed on a fold of note-paper, with the blank left for the name, and "R.S.V.P."—whatever that might mean—in the lower left-hand corner. There were to be six pieces in the band; dancing was to be from eight to four, instead of from seven to twelve, as heretofore; and the toilets, it was further whispered, were to be exceptionally brilliant and elaborate. Certain it was that dress-making might have been seen in progress through the windows of any farm-house within ten miles; and at the Parsonage no less than elsewhere.

Sophie had an exquisite taste in costume, though her ideas, if allowed full liberty, were apt to produce something too fanciful and eccentric to be fashionably legitimate. But, let a dress once be made up, and happy she whose fortune it was to stand before Sophie and be touched off. Some slight readjustment or addition she would make which no one else could have thought of, but which would transform merely good or pretty into unique and charming. Sophie had the masterly simplicity of genius, but was generally more successful with others than with herself.

As for Cornelia, she knew how she ought to look; but how to effect what she desired was sometimes beyond her ability. She had little faculty for detail, relying on her sister to supplement this deficiency. She was more of a conformist than was Sophie in regard to toilet matters; and—an important virtue not invariable with young ladies—she always could tell when she had on any thing becoming.

One December day, when a broad, pearl-gray sky was powdering the motionless air with misty snow, the sisters sat together at their sewing in what had been known, since his accident, as Bressant's room. There was no stove; but a rustling, tapering fire was living its ardent, yellow, wavering life upon the brick hearth, and four or five logs of birch and elm were reddening and crackling into embers beneath its intangible intensity. It made a grateful contrast to the soft, cold bank of snow that lay, light and round, upon the outside sill and the slighter ridges that sloped and clung along the narrow foothold of the window-pane frames. Presently Cornelia got up from the low stool on which she had been sitting, and, having slipped on the waist of her new dress, invited Sophie's criticism with a courtesy.

"Dear me, Neelie!" exclaimed she, in gentle consternation, "are you going to wear your corsage so low as that?"

"Yes, why not?" returned Cornelia, with a kind of defiance in her tone; "it's the fashion, you know. Oh, I've seen them lower than that in New York!"

"But there'll be nothing like it here, dear, I'm sure. Think how frightened poor Bill Reynolds will be when he sees you."

Sophie looked up, expecting to see her sister smile; but she, having in view the opinion of quite another person than Mr. Reynolds, remained unusually grave.

"Don't mind me, dear," Sophie added, fearing she might have given offense. "You know I'd rather see you look well than myself, especially as I may not be here to see you another year."

She drew a long breath of happy regret, thinking of what was to follow the next day but one after the ball.

Cornelia, looking into the fire, her pure, round chin resting on her bent forefinger, started, as the same thought entered her mind. Was it so near, though—that marriage? or would an eternity elapse ere Bressant and Sophie called one another husband and wife?

"Are you glad the day comes so soon, Sophie?"

"Yes," answered she, with quiet simplicity. "A few weeks ago it frightened me—it seemed so near; but not now. I love him much more than I did—that's one reason. And he loves me more, I think."

"Loves you more! why? what makes you think so?" demanded Cornelia, a frown quivering across her forehead.

"His manner tells me so: he's more subdued and gentle; almost sad, indeed, sometimes. He's lived so much in his mind since we were engaged: I can see it in his face, and hear it in his voice, even. He's not like other men; I never want him to be; he has all that makes other men worth any thing, and still is himself. He has the greatest and the warmest heart that ever was; but when he first came here he had no idea how to use it, nor even what it was for."

"And he's found out now, has he?"

"Yes—especially in the last few weeks. Before, he used sometimes to be violent, almost—to lose command of himself; but he never does now."

"But doesn't he ever tell you that he loves you more than ever?"

"We understand each other," replied Sophie, with a slight touch of reserve, for she thought she was being questioned further than was entirely justifiable. "Nothing he could say would make me feel his love more than I do."

Cornelia smiled to herself with secret derision; she imagined she could give a more plausible reason for her sister's reticence. She took off her "waist" and resumed her place upon the stool.

"What should you do, Sophie, supposing something occurred to prevent your marriage?"

"Die an old maid," returned she: not treating the question seriously, but as a piece of Cornelia's wanton idleness.

Cornelia began to laugh, but interrupted herself, half-way, with a sob. She was seized by a fantasy that if Sophie died an old maid her sister would have been the cause of it—would be a murderess! The sudden jarring of this idea—tragical enough, even without the ghastly spice of reality that there was about it—against the ludicrous element with which tradition flavors the name of old maid—caught the young woman at unawares, and threw her rudely out of her nervous control. It was a result which could scarcely have happened, had she been less morbidly and unnaturally excited and strained to begin with; as it was, it may have been an outbreak which had long been brewing, and to which Sophie's answer had but given the needful stimulus.

The sob was succeeded by a convulsion of painful laughter, that would go on the more Cornelia tried to stop it. At last, in gasping for breath, the laughter gave way to an outburst of tears and sobs, which seemed, in comparison, to be a relief. But at the first intermission, the discordant laughter came again: she hid her face in her hands, and made wild efforts to control herself: she slipped from her stool, and flung herself at full length upon the floor. Now, the paroxysms of laughing and crying came together, her body was shaken, strained, and convulsed in every part: she was breathless, flushed, and faint. But it seemed as if nothing short of unconsciousness could bring cessation: the sobs still tore their way out of her bosom, and the laughter came with a terrible wrench that was more agonizing to hear than a groan.

Sophie had never seen Cornelia in hysterics before, and was tortured with alarm and apprehension. She knew not what to do, for every attempt she made to relieve her, seemed only to make her worse.

"Let me call papa—he must be somewhere in the house—he will know what to do!" she said, at last, trembling and white.

"No! no!" cried Cornelia: and the shock of fear lest her father should see her, overcame the grasp of the hysterical paroxysm. She half raised herself on one arm, showing her face, red and disfigured, the veins on the forehead standing out, full and throbbing. "Come back! come back!" for Sophie had her hand on the door.

She returned, in compliance with her sister's demand, and knelt down beside her on the floor. Cornelia let herself fall back, her head resting on Sophie's knee, in a state of complete exhaustion. There she lay, panting heavily; and a clammy pallor gradually took the place of the deeply-stained flush. But the fit was over: by-and-by she sat up, sullenly shunning Sophie's touch, and appearing to shrink even at the sound of her voice. Finally, she rose inertly to her feet, attempting to moisten her dry lips, walked once or twice aimlessly to and fro across the room, and ended by sitting down again upon her stool, and taking up her sewing.

"Are you all well again, dear?" asked Sophie, timidly.

"Better than ever," replied Cornelia, with a short laugh, which had no trace of hysteria about it.

There was, however, a slight but decided change in her manner, which did not pass away: a sort of hardness and impenetrability: and so incorporated into her nature did these traits seem, that one would have supposed they had always been there. Some unpleasant visitors take a surprisingly short time to make themselves at home.

But Sophie, seeing that her sister soon recovered her usual appearance, did not allow herself to be disturbed by any uncalled-for anxieties. Love, at its best, has a tendency to absorb and preoccupy those whom it inspires: if not selfish, it is of necessity self-sufficient and exclusive. Sophie was too completely permeated with her happiness, to admit of being long overshadowed by the ills of those less blessed than herself. Not that she had lost the power to sympathize with misfortune, but the sympathy was apt to be smiling rather than tearful. She was alight with the chaste, translucent, wondering joy of a maiden before her marriage: the delicate, pearl-tinted brightness that pales the stars, before the reddening morning brings on the broader daylight.

She was not of those who, in fair weather, are on the lookout for rain: she believed that God had plenty of sunshine, and was generous of it; and that the possibilities of bliss were unlimited. She was not afraid to be perfectly happy. A little sunny spot, in a valley, which no shadow has crossed all day long, was like her: there seemed to be nothing in her soul that needed shadow to set it right.

Cheerfulness was soon reestablished, therefore, so far as she was concerned; and the remembrance of Cornelia's distracting seizure presently yielded to the throng of light-footed thoughts that were ever knocking for admittance at her heart's door. Once afterward, however, the event was recalled to her memory, by the revelation of its cause. Little that happens in our lives would seem trifling to us, could we but trace it, forward or backward, to the end.



CHAPTER XXVI.

BRESSANT TAKES A VACATION.

Friday, December 30th, was the day appointed for Abbie's ball, and the morning of the 28th had already dawned. Bressant stood, with his arms folded, at the window of his room, watching the downfall of a thickening snow-storm which had set in the previous midnight. There had evidently been no delay or intermission in the cold, white, silent business; to look out-of-doors was enough to make the flesh seem thin upon the bones.

In spite of the snow, however, the little room was feverishly hot, owing to the gigantic exertions of the small iron cylinder-stove. The round aperture over the little door was glowing red, like an enraged eye; and the quivering radiation of the heat from the polished black surface was plainly perceptible to the sight. The room had lost something of the neat and fastidious appearance which it had worn a few months before. The colored drawing of a patent derrick, fastened to the wall by a tack at each corner of the paper, had broken loose at one end, and was curling over on itself like a withered leaf. The string by which the ingenious almanac had been suspended over the mantel-piece was broken, letting the almanac neatly down into the crevice between the wall and a couple of fat dictionaries, which lay, one on top of the other, upon the ledge. It was quite hidden from view, with the exception of one corner, which was a little tilted upward, showing the hole through which the faithless string had passed.

The terrestrial and astronomical globes bore the appearance of not having revolved for a long time. A part of the pictured surface of the latter had scaled off, disclosing a blank whiteness beneath. Even the heavens, it seemed, were a sham; nothing more than a varnished painting upon a plaster-of-Paris foundation. The flower-pots still stood in the windows, but hot air and an irregular water-supply had made sad inroads upon the beauty of the plants. The lower leaves were turned brown; some of them had fallen off, and lay—poor, little unburied corpses—upon the narrow circle of earth which, having failed to keep life green within their cells, now denied to them the right of sepulture. A few of the topmost sprouts still struggled to keep up a parody of verdure, and one or two faded flowers had not yet forsaken their calices—a silly piece of devotion on their part! Icy little blasts, squeezing in through the crevices of the window-sash, whistled about the forlorn stalks, cutting and venomous. The poor flowers would never see another summer; better give up at once!

Even the books which met the eye on every side, wore a deserted air. Not that they were dusty, for the chambermaid did her duty, if Bressant failed in his; but there was something in the heavy, methodical manner of their sleeping upon one another, such as they could never have settled into had they been recently disturbed or opened. The outside of a book is often as eloquent, in its way, as any part of the contents.

Bressant's arms were folded, and the perpendicular line up from between the eyebrows was quite in harmony with the rest of his appearance. He was weary, harassed, and divided against himself. Insincerity made him uncomfortable; it compelled continual exertion, and of a paltry and degrading kind; and it gave neither a sense of security, nor a prospect of future advantage. Five days from now he was to be married; the duties of a parish minister were to be undertaken, and he felt himself neither mentally nor morally fitted or inclined for the office. Five days from now the professor would expect from him that gift at which he had hinted during their drive; and he had done nothing, either in act or purpose, to fulfil his promise concerning it.

He was cut off from all sympathy. How could he confide to Sophie the very wrong he meditated against herself—the very deception he was practising upon her father? And what other person in the world was there to whom he might venture to betake himself? Cornelia?—not yet! he dared not yet yield himself to the influence he felt she was exercising over him; the surrender implied too much; matters had not gone far enough. But did there not lurk, in the bottom of his heart, a presentiment that it was to her alone he would hereafter be able to look for countenance and comfort? And would he avail himself of the refuge? When those whom their friends—whether justly or not—have abandoned, chance to stumble upon some oasis of unconditional affection, they are not squeamish about its source or orthodoxy; if the sentiment be sincere and hearty, that is enough. In the present case, moreover, Cornelia, as a last resort, was by no means so uninviting an object as she might have been.

But since the question lay between his fortune and Falsehood on one side, and a wife and Truth on the other, how was it possible for him to pause in his decision? Undoubtedly, had the young man once fairly admitted to himself that his choice lay between these two bare alternatives, he would have been spared much of the misery arising from casuistry and duplicity. But people are loath to acknowledge any course to be, beyond all appeal, right or wrong; they amuse themselves with fancying some modification—some new condition—some escape; any thing to get away from the grim face of the inevitable. Bressant, for instance, might surely succeed in consummating his marriage with Sophie, no matter what else he left undone; and that being once irrevocably on his side of the balance, all that was vital to his happiness was secure; by a quick stroke he might capture the fortune likewise, and could then afford to laugh at the world.

This scheme, however, otherwise practical enough, involved a fallacy in its most important point. A marriage so contracted, with a woman of Sophie's character, could by no possibility turn out a happy or even endurable union. She would not be likely long to survive it; if she did, it would be to suffer a life more painful than any death; for no one depended more than Sophie upon integrity and nobility in those she loved; and the break in her family relations would be another source of agony to her, and of consequent remorse and misery to her husband. No: to bind her life to his, unless he could also compel her respect and admiration, would be a good deal worse than useless.

He must, then—and there was yet time—resign his fortune, and accept Sophie and a clear conscience, poverty and a country parish. But persons who have wealth absolutely in their power, to take or to leave, sec clearly how much poetical extravagance, hypocrisy, and cant exist in the arguments of those who advocate the beauties and advantages of being poor. Deliberately and voluntarily to forego the opportunities, the influence, the ease, the refinement, which money alone can command—let not the sacrifice be underrated! Few, perhaps, have had the choice fairly offered them: of those, how many have chosen poverty? In Bressant's case, the fact that the money was not legally his, was, abstractly, enough to settle the matter; but in real life, where every one is expected to do battle for his claims, it would only be an argument for holding on the harder. If he could but manage to be happily married and wealthy both! He would not confess it impossible; at all events, he would delay the confession till the very latest hour, and then trust to the impulse of the moment for his final decision and action. He had given up, it seemed, that promising idea of trusting to the generosity of the rightful owner; yet, considering their mutual relation, and one or two minor circumstances, he might certainly do so without misgiving, embarrassment, or dishonor.

"It's that infernal letter!" muttered the young man between his teeth, staring gloomily out at the cheerless snow-storm. "I wish it had never been written. No! that I could feel sure there was no truth in it."

Turning from the window, he stepped over to the table, and dropped himself into his chair. He took from his pocket a well-worn envelope, hardly capable of holding on to the inclosed letter, which peeped forth at the corners, and through various rents in the front and back. He did not open it, for he had long known by heart every word and italic in it; but, placing it in front of him, he leaned upon his elbows, with his forehead resting between his hands, and gazed fixedly down upon it. It is an assistance to the vividness of thought to have some object in sight connected with the matter under consideration.

"Ought I to have answered it?" ran his soliloquy: for though he had frequently taken counsel with himself concerning this letter before, he recurred again and again to the subject, pleasing himself with the hope that still, in some way, a fortunate ray of light might be struck out; "but, if I had, what should I have gained by it? It's as well not to have risked putting any thing on paper; and if she really has the proofs she talks about, I shall hear from her again, and soon, for she knows which is my wedding-day; and it must all be decided, one way or another, before then. But she couldn't have made the assertion if she hadn't known some good grounds for it; and yet I can't understand it—I cannot." He pressed his temples strongly between his hands, and chewed his brown mustache. "As to my having 'no legal claim to a cent,' I knew that before. What puzzles me is, 'There is no consideration—not a shadow of relationship, or affection, or generosity—nothing to give you the least prospect of receiving any thing.' How can that be? And yet what she says at the end—it sounds more like a threat she knows she can fulfil than an attempt to humbug." Bressant took his right hand from his forehead, and tapped with his finger on the envelope as he repeated the words: "If this is enough—convinces you without your requiring proof—it would be much pleasanter for you, and a great relief to me. Oh! beyond words! But if not—if you will go on entangling yourself with this foolish girl, Sophie, and this boarding-house keeper, and all—I shall be obliged—I shall hate to do it, but there will be no alternative—to give you the explanation of what I tell you now."

"Well! let her!" cried the young man, rising roughly from his chair, and shouldering backward and forward across his room with short, incensed steps. "If her proofs can prevent my marriage, let her bring them. She'd better be quick about it! Four days from now! They'd better never have come at all. It's her interest as much as mine—more than mine. She's a half-crazy old creature. She can do nothing for herself. If she has any thing to say, let her say it. I'm no baby, to shape my life after an old woman's story. Who is she? What is she to me?

"Let something happen, I say," continued he, stretching out his great arms, with the fists clinched. "I'm tired of this—the life of a dog with his tail between his legs. Is it I who go about, afraid to look man or woman in the face? Am I the same who came here six months ago? Did I come here to learn this? Who was it taught it to me, then? I say, I've been deceived; it's no work of mine. Professor Valeyon—he's made me a subject for experiment; he's tried his theories on me; dissected me, and filled in the parts that were wanting. It's a dangerous business, Professor Valeyon. You've lost one daughter; the other may go too."

Bressant's voice, which had been growing hoarser and more rapid as he went on, abruptly sank, at this last sentence, into a whisper; yet, had any one been there to listen, the whisper would have sounded louder and more terrible than the most violent vociferation of angry passion. It breathed a sudden concentration of evil intelligence, that startled like the hiss of a serpent.

He stopped his short, passionate walk, and leaned against his table, with his arms once more folded. The idea that he had been tampered with had gained possession of him, and nothing tends more to demoralize a man, and make him unmanageably angry. His was an uncandid position, without doubt: he was attempting to lay upon others the responsibility which—the greater part of it, at least—should have been borne by himself; but still, the vein of reasoning he pursued was connected, and comprehensible, and was rendered awkward by an ugly little thread of something like truth and justice, which showed here and there along its course.

"They've taught me to love; did they think they could stop there? that I shouldn't learn to lie, as well? and to hate, and be revengeful? and to be afraid? Was I so bad when I came here, that all this has made me no worse? I was happy, at any rate; my brain was clear; my mind had no fear, and no weariness—it was like an athlete; my blood was cool. Look at me now! Am not I ruined by this patching and mending? I can do no work. When I think, it's no longer of how I might become great, and wise, and powerful—of nothing inspiring—nothing noble; but all about these petty, heated, miserable affairs, that have twisted themselves around me, and are choking me up. I don't ask myself, any more, whether my name will be as highly honored and as long remembered as the Christian Apostles', and Mohammed's, and Luther's. My only question is, whether I'm to turn out more of a fool, or of a liar! And I love Sophie Valeyon! I'm to be her husband."

The young man came to a sudden stop, and slowly lifted his head. Through the sullen, unhappy, and resentful cloud that darkened his eyes, there glimmered doubtfully a light such as can be reflected only from what is most divine in man. It was a strange moment for it to appear, for at no time had Bressant's moral level been so low as now; but, happily, the phenomenon is by no means without precedent in human nature. God is never ashamed to declare the share He holds in a sinner's heart, however black the heart may be.

"No, no!" said he; and, as he said it, the first tears that he had ever known glistened for a moment in his eyes; "such as I am, I must never marry her."

The point on which this sudden and momentous resolve turned was so subtle and delicately evanescent as scarcely to be susceptible of clearer portrayal. To be consistent, the weight of his revengeful sentiments should have been directed upon Sophie, for she it was who had played the most effective part in changing his nature, and swerving him from his cold but sublime ambitions. By teaching Bressant love, she had, by implication, done him deadly injury, yet was the love itself so pure and genuine as to prompt him to resign its object; he being rendered unworthy of her by that same moral dereliction which she herself had occasioned.

But the very quality which enables us to do a noble deed dulls our appreciation of our own praiseworthiness. Bressant took no encouragement or pleasure from what he had done; probably, also, his realization of the extensive and fearful consequences of the action, to others as well as to himself, was as yet but rudimentary; so soon as the momentary glow was passed, he fell back into a yet darker mood than before, and felt yet more adrift and reckless. To make a sacrifice is well, but does not hinder the need of what is given up from crippling us.

Again the young man turned to the window, and, raising the sash, he secured it by the little button used for the purpose, and leaned out into the snow-storm. The flakes fell and melted upon his face, and caught in his bushy beard, and rested lightly upon his twisted hair. They flew into his eyes, and made little drifts upon the collar of his coat and in the folds of his sleeves. He gazed up toward the dull, gray cloud whence they came, and presently, out of the confusion, and carelessness, and morbid impatience of his heart, he put forth a prayer that some awfully stirring event might come to pass; let a sword pass through his life! let him be smitten down and trampled upon! let his mind be continually occupied with the extreme of active, living suffering! let there be no cessation till the end! He could accept it and exult in it; but to live on as he was living now was to walk open-eyed into insanity. Rather than that, he would commit some capital crime, and subject himself to the penalty. Let God take at least so much pity upon him, and grant him physical agony!

It is not often that our prayers are answered, nor, when they are, does the answer come in the form our expectations shaped. Occasionally, however—and then, perhaps, with a promptness and completeness that force us to a realization of how extravagant and senseless our desires are—does fulfillment come upon us.

As Bressant's strange petition went up through the storm, a sleigh came along from the direction of the railway-station. It was nothing but a cart on runners, and painted a dingy, grayish blue; it was loaded with a dozen tin milk-cans much defaced by hard usage, each one stopped with an enormous cork. The driver was clad in an overcoat which once had been dark brown or black, but had worn to a greenish yellow, except where the collar turned up around the throat, and showed the original color. His head and most of his face were enveloped in a knit woolen comforter, and mittens of the same make and material protected his hands. His legs were wrapped up in a gray horse-blanket. He was whitened here and there with snow, and snow was packed between the necks of the milk-cans. He drove directly toward the boarding-house, and he and Bressant caught sight of one another at the same moment.

"Hallo!" called the stranger; "you're Bressant, I guess, ain't you? I've got something for you." Here he drew up beneath the window. "You see, I was down to the depot getting some milk aboard the up-train, and Davis, the telegraph-man, came up and asked me, 'Bill Reynolds, are you going up to Abbie's? 'cause,' says he, 'here's a telegraph has come for the student up there—him that's going to marry Sophie Valeyon—and our boy he's down with the influenza,' says he. 'I'm you're man!' says I, 'let's have it!' and here 'tis," added Mr. Reynolds, producing a yellow envelope from the bottom of his overcoat pocket.

Bressant had heard little or nothing of the explanation volunteered by the bearer of the message, but he at once recognized the yellow telegraph-envelope, and comprehended the rest. But, ere he could leave the window to go down and receive it, he saw the fat servant-girl, who had witnessed the scene from the parlor, run down to the front-gate, sinking above her ankles at every step, take the envelope from Bill's mittened paw, exchange a word and a grin with him, and then return, carefully stepping into the holes she had made going out.

Bill gave a nod of good-will to Bressant's window—for Bressant was no longer there—whipped up his nag, and jingled off with his milk-cans. In another minute the fat servant-girl, after stamping the remains of the snow off her shoes upon the door-mat, opened the door, and introduced the dispatch and her own smiling physiognomy. Bressant snatched the former, and shut the door in the latter, before the hand-wiping and haranguing had time to begin.

Before opening the envelope, he stood up at his full height, and filled his lungs with a long, profound breath; then emitted it suddenly in a sort of deep, short growl, and took his seat at the table. He tore open the end of the envelope, pulled out the inclosure, which was an ordinary printed telegraph-blank, filled in with three lines of writing, as follows: "Been very ill come on at once at once must hear all no alternative" in the scrawly and unpunctuated chirography peculiar to written telegrams. The name signed was "M. Vauderp." Bressant read the message, and afterward carefully perused the printing, even down to the name of the printer's firm, which was given in very small type at the bottom of the paper. Then he glanced over the writing once more, and returned the paper to the envelope.

"At once, at once!" muttered he; "that's the only way of writing italics in telegraphy, I suppose. Well, I'll go at once; it's ten now; there's a train at half-past."

He unlocked a drawer in his table, and took from it a purse, which he put in his pocket. He buttoned a pea-jacket across his broad chest, pressed a round fur-cap on to his handsome head, took a pair of thick gloves from the mantel-piece, and walked away without giving one backward glance.

The snow blew and drifted through the open window into the empty room; the few remaining flowers were hustled from their stalks; the red eye of the stove grew dimmer and dimmer, and finally faded into darkness, and the colored drawing of the patent derrick broke loose at another corner, and flapped and fluttered against the wall in crazy exultation.



CHAPTER XXVII.

FACT AND FANCY.



The snow-storm continued all that afternoon. The customary hour for Bressant's visit to the Parsonage went by, and he did not appear. The professor smoked two extra pipes, and spent half an hour looking out across the valley trying to discern the open spot upon the top of the hill. Finally, the early twilight set in, and he returned to his chair, but felt no impulse to light a lamp and take up a book. He sat tilted back, pulling Shakespeare's nose with meditative fingers. A gloom gradually settled over the room, withdrawing one after another of the familiar objects around him from the old gentleman's sight; it even seemed to creep into his heart, and create a vague uneasiness there. He tried to shake it off, telling himself that he was the happiest and most fortunate old fellow alive; that every thing was coming out just as he had hoped and prayed it might; that one daughter, with the man of her choice, would be just far enough removed from his fireside to give piquancy to the frequent visits he should receive from her; while the other would still, for a time, continue to pour out sunshine in the house, and redouble her love for him by way of compensating for what he should miss in Sophie's absence. And then the professor built an airier and a fairer castle still: beneath it lay the heavy clouds of suffering, barren effort, and hope deferred; its sunlit walls were hewn of solid faith; the banner which floated over the battlements was woven with white threads of truth; over the arched entrance-gate was written "Constancy." Yet, fair and lofty as the castle was, the building-materials were taken from no less homely edifices than the village boarding-house and his own Parsonage!

By-and-by, however, the vision faded, or else the clouds upon which it was built rose up and hid it. The professor, returning to himself, found that he was now surrounded with thick darkness, and, strive as he would, he could paint no fancies upon it which did not partake more or less of the character of the background. Sophie seemed to have lost the steady cheer of her aspect; she was pale and fragile, and every moment took away yet more of earthly substance, till scarcely any thing but the faint lustre of her face and form remained. Then, all at once, the features which had heretofore been only sad, changed into an expression of horror and torture and despair; and, while the professor, himself aghast, strained his old eyes to make out more clearly the half-indistinguishable image, it vanished quite away. But, at the last moment, it had spoken—at least, the lips bad moved as if in speech, though no sound had reached the professor's ears; yet he fancied he had caught a glimmering of the purport. He pressed his hands over his forehead to shut out the thought, and wondered no longer at the expression upon Sophie's face.

Then Cornelia moved across the hollow blackness of the room. She was sunshiny no longer, but morose and stern; her eyebrows were drawn together; a secret defiance was in her tigerish eyes; her lips were set, yet seemed, ever and anon, as she turned her face aside, to tremble with a passionate yearning. As he gazed, she disappeared, but the professor had a feeling that she was still concealed somewhere in the darkness. And, at last, she came again—she, or something that looked like her. The old gentleman shivered and recoiled, as though a snow-drift had somehow blown into his warm, old heart. Was it his daughter who looked with those unmeaning eyes, encircled with dark rings, in which life and passion burned out had left the dull ashes of remorse and hopelessness? Where were the luminous cheeks and the queenly step of his proud and beautiful Cornelia?—What words were those? or was it only fancy?—Ah!—The professor started with a sharp exclamation: but he was alone in his dark study, and the phantom of Cornelia was gone.

He composed himself in his chair again, and, presently, a third figure grew into form and color before him. At first, as a stately young girl, with the arched feet and hot blood of the south, and her eyes dark and soft as a Spaniard's; but her beauty lasted but for a moment. A withering change came over face and figure: she was cold and hard; her youthful ardor, warmth, and freshness, had been shrivelled up or worn away. The rich black hair grew rusty, and the dark, delicate complexion became dull and lustreless. Nevertheless, the professor continued to look with hopeful expectation, confident that a further alteration would ensue, which, though, it would not restore the grace of youth, would give a peace and happiness yet more beautiful. And, indeed, it seemed, for a moment, as though his expectation would be gratified. The figure raised its head, and held forth its hands, and the professor's bright anticipation was reflected in its eyes. But, alas! the brightness faded almost before it could be affirmed to exist. The hands dropped to the sides, the head was averted, and the whole form shrank back, and sank to the ground. For the third time—the professor's imagination was certainly playing him strange tricks this evening—the ghost of spoken words appeared to fall upon his ears, and sink like molten lead into his heart. He groaned, and there was an oppression on his chest, so that he struggled for breath; but, in another moment, the crouching figure was gone, and the oppression with it; but drops of sweat stood upon the old man's broad forehead.

Still another vision awaits him, however, and he draws himself up sternly to encounter it, and a heavy frown lowers on his thick gray eyebrows. But the lofty form which confronts him, massive and stalwart, alike in mind and body, meets his gaze unflinchingly, and frowns back in angry defiance. The old professor pauses in his intended denunciation, being taken aback somewhat, at the unexpected counter-accusation which strikes out at him from the young man's eyes. Yet do his self-confidence and indignation become reconfirmed, for there, behind, the three former phantoms appear together, and seem to launch against the last a deadly shaft of bitter reproach and judgment. The professor watches it cleave a passage through the stalwart figure's heart, and he bows his head, and thinks—it is but justice! In the same instant, a cry of intensest pain and horror escapes him: the deadly arrow, additionally poisoned by the blood it has just shed, has passed quite through the spectre of his former pupil, and is buried up to the feather in Professor Valeyon's own vitals! This shock effectually wakened the old gentleman—for, after all, he had only been having an uneasy nap in his straight-backed chair!—and he started to his feet, and fumbled nervously for the match-box. Just then, Sophie appeared at the door with a lamp in her hand—the real Sophie, this time—no intangible shadow.

"Why, papa dear! What are you doing in here in the dark? Have you been asleep?"

"Come here, my dear!" said the professor, in a shaken voice, holding out his hand. He took her on his knee, and hugged her to him eagerly, passing his hand down her arm, and pressing her slender fingers. "Are you well and happy, Sophie?"

"Yes, papa," she answered, laying her head as usual on his shoulder.

"He—your—young man didn't come to-day?" continued the professor, with an attempt to be jocose. "He's getting very squeamish to be kept back by a snow-storm!" Sophie replied only by nestling closer to her father's shoulder.

"Where's Neelie?" inquired the professor, again breaking the silence.

"She's seeing about supper, I believe."

"Have you heard any thing about Abbie lately?" proceeded the other. He must have been either strangely anxious to keep up a conversation, or unusually inquisitive, this evening.

"Not very lately; I saw her about a week ago. She didn't look in very good spirits, it seemed to me."

"Not in good spirits, eh? not in good spirits? and that was a week ago! was she ill?"

"I don't think there was any thing the matter—with her health, I mean; she only looked very sad—as if something had almost broken her heart. But then she always is grave, you know."

"She has been of late years, that's certain," muttered the old man, gruffly; "and does she begin to be broken-hearted now!" he added, to himself. More thoughts, and angry ones, he might have had, but the memory of his untoward dream still hovered about him, and he suppressed them.

"What are you thinking of, papa?" demanded Sophie, with an inquietude of manner which attracted the professor's attention. He laid his finger on her pulse, and touched her forehead.

"You've taken cold, my dear," he said, with the most tender anxiety of tone. "What have you been doing? How have you exposed yourself?"

"I was out on the porch about an hour ago," replied she, languidly. "I wanted to—to see if he was coming, you know. The snow came on me a little, I believe, and I had on my slippers. But I didn't feel any thing—any cold. I was out only a moment."

Professor Valeyon turned his strong-featured face away from the lamp, so that the shadow covered his expression. He could feel the heat of Sophie's cheek through his coat, as she lay heavily on his shoulder; heavily, but not half so heavily there as upon his heart. But, with the physician's instinct, his voice was on that account all the more cheerful.

"Well, well, my little girl; it won't do to run any risks nowadays, remember! I shall make you drink a big cup of hot water, with a little tea and sugar in it, and go to bed early, with three or four extra blankets. Meanwhile, come! let's go and see whether Cornelia has got supper ready yet." So saying, the old gentleman gained his feet, offering his arm with a bow, took up the lamp with his other hand, and off they went, leaving Shakespeare's plaster bust placidly to face the darkness alone, as he had often done before.

The next morning the storm was over, and the sun came dazzling over the spotless fields, but Sophie kept her bed, with bright, restless eyes, and hot checks. The professor dreaded a return of the typhoid pneumonia, and paced his study incessantly, in a voiceless fever of anxiety; physically exhausting himself the better to affect quiet and unconcern when in her room. He mentioned his fears to no one—not even to Cornelia; besides, if care were taken, she might recover yet, without fatal, or even serious danger. To herself, therefore, and to all who inquired, he spoke of her attack as merely a cold, which must be nursed for prudence' sake. Meanwhile, no signs of Bressant. Sophie said not a word, but Cornelia showed uneasiness, and kept making suggestive remarks to her father, and hazarding unsatisfactory explanations of his absence. She never ventured to say any thing to her sister on the subject, however. There was a gulf between the two that widened like a river, hour by hour.

Toward evening a letter came from the boarding-house, directed to Professor Valeyon. It was in Abbie's handwriting, and must contain some news of Bressant. The old gentleman shut himself up in his room, the better to deal with the intelligence, and the paper rustled nervously in his fingers as he read; but the news amounted to little, after all.

"For fear dear Sophie and you should feel anxious about Mr. Bressant, I will tell you all I know of his absence," said the letter. "A telegram came for him yesterday morning about ten. Joanna, the servant, who took it up to him, says Mr. Reynolds told her it was from New York. So I suppose some friend there—you will probably be able to say who—has been taken very dangerously ill, or perhaps is dead. The summons must have been very urgent, for he left his room not ten minutes afterward, and took the half-past ten o'clock train down.

"I feel sure he will be back by to-morrow evening. Don't let your daughters fail to be here to meet him."

After reading this, and without pausing to indulge in casuistry, Professor Valeyon betook himself straight to Sophie's chamber.

"You've heard something!" said she, in a low, assured tone the moment he entered. "A letter? give it me—I would rather read it myself."

The professor gave it into her hand, with a smile; but Sophie's eyes were too deep and dark for any smile to glimmer through. As she opened it he turned his back upon her, and saw out of the window the sinking sun redden the snow-covered hill-top above the road.

"Yes, I'm sure he will be back to-morrow," said Sophie's quiet voice after a minute or two. She made no comment on his having allowed any thing to take him away at such a time—on the eve of his marriage—without first sending word to her; but gave Abbie's letter back into her father's keeping, and lay with closed eyes. He sat down in the chair by the bedside, and presently noticed that she lay more peacefully, and breathed inaudibly and easily, and that the feverish flush was leaving her cheeks. A slight moisture, too, made itself perceptible on her forehead.

"Her life is in this fellow's hand!" thought the professor, and he trembled to his very heart, but dared not ask himself wherefore.

"Do you really think it would hurt me to sew, dear papa?" said she, at length, looking up from her pillow.

"Better let sewing and every thing else alone for the present, my dear; it'll be enough work to get all well again by next Sunday."

Sophie sighed. "I did so want to finish my wedding-dress all myself," said she. "It needs only a few hours' work now, and Cornelia is so busy on her own account, it's hard to ask her. Oh, yes! dear papa, I know how glad she'd be to help me," she added quickly, seeing the old gentleman's eyebrows meet, and his forehead redden.

"I should hope she would! Must be very busy if she hasn't time to do so much as that!" growled he. "I'll send her up to you, my dear."

"Papa!" said Sophie, calling him back from the door; and it was not until she had possession of his hand and was holding it against her cheek that she went on. "Don't let the wedding be put off, if I shouldn't be able to sit up on Sunday. I'll be carried down into the guest-chamber, where he was ill for so long. Don't—papa, I know you won't think hardly of me; but I feel a kind of superstition about that particular day and hour: that if all is not done then, it never will be. Am not I foolish? But do let it be so, and never mind wisdom!"

There was a vein of strenuous earnestness only partly concealed beneath her words and manner, which the gruff old gentleman, who was as sensitive as a photographic plate, where his affections were concerned, did not fail to note. He kissed her on both cheeks—a fully sufficient answer to her request, and shuffled out of the room in his old slippers; which, thanks to Sophie's filial attentions, still held together with dying faith fulness.

The rest of the day the two sisters passed together—Cornelia working upon her sister's wedding-dress, and Sophie guiding her by directions and suggestions. Not since they first began to grow apart, had there been between them so great an appearance of sisterly love and cordiality. Yet, if Cornelia allowed herself to think at all, it must have seemed, in the light of her purpose regarding Bressant, as if she was preparing a shroud rather than a wedding-garment. Or, perhaps, as she observed the change which even so brief and light an illness had made in Sophie's delicate face, there may have lurked, in the secret places of her mind, a darker and guiltier thought than that. But let not our condemnation be too unconditional, lest the precedent come home, some day, to ourselves. It may astonish us, hereafter, to discover how many of our most respectable acquaintances are murderers—only in thought!

But Sophie's condition seemed steadily to improve, and, by the morning of the 30th, the professor apprehended no danger but from imprudence. That she should attend Abbie's party was, of course, out of the question; but there was no longer any obstacle in the way of Cornelia's availing herself of the entertainment, if she were so inclined.

Deadly and immitigable as woman's purpose is often represented to be, it may, especially before she becomes thoroughly hardened to crime, be swayed by shades of feeling or sentiment which would appear, to a man, ridiculously trifling, and which, indeed, she could not herself explain or calculate upon; and there is the more likelihood of this, in proportion to the depth to which her emotions and affections are involved in the affair. As to Cornelia, there are no means of determining whether she ever wavered in her designs against her sister's happiness, and her friend's constancy, or not; she, at any rate, decided to go to the ball, and even condescended to accept Mr. Reynolds's tender of his escort thither. There are a host of respectable motives always on hand for such occasions, and Cornelia might be going either from a curiosity to find out whether Bressant would return, and in order, if so, to bring her sister the latest news; or, to obtain relief from the monotony of home-life; or, to oblige Abbie, who counted upon her appearance; or, to display her ball-dress, cut after the latest New-York pattern; or, all these small matters may have been the wheels whereon rolled the invisible car, but for which they would not have existed.

As she was attiring herself, Sophie, who was seated in her deep invalid-chair, looking at her, was seized by an uncontrollable longing to put on her wedding-dress, and satisfy her mind as to its being a good fit. There it lay, upon the sofa, and nothing could be easier than just to slip into it. Cornelia, absorbed in her own crowded thoughts, never dreamed of opposing the idea, and lent all necessary assistance to carry it out. It was not until Mr. Reynolds had sent up word that the sleigh waited at the door, and, gathering up her cloak and tippet, she had kissed Sophie, left her, and was hurrying down-stairs with rustling skirts, that she realized that she had given her parting salute to one dressed as a bride!



CHAPTER XXVIII.

A DISAPPOINTMENT.



There could not have been a better night for sleighing. The temperature had risen considerably since the storm, and the snow, which had fallen to the depth of a foot, was already packed down hard upon the road, so that the runners seldom sank beneath the surface. Moreover, there was a full moon, just pushing its deep orange circumference above the horizon. It had chanced to come up just where a black skeleton forest stood out against the sky, encouraging the fancy that it had somehow got entangled in the branches, and had grown red in the face from struggling to get out. But, ere the young people reached the scene of the entertainment, the struggle was over; the perfect circle was calmly and radiantly uplifting itself above the world, far beyond the reach of the outstretched arms of the gnarled and black-limbed forest; yet did the dark earth benefit by its defeat, in the chaste illumination which descended upon its wintry countenance.

Mr. Reynolds was perfectly happy; it is pleasant to reflect how small an amount of bliss can overflow some souls. Cornelia was brief but kind in her answers to his turbid and confused pourings forth; not that she paid heed to any thing the poor fellow said—she was only occasionally aware of his presence. Her mind was revelling in dreams of heated and exalted imagination; she was filled with inspiration, as with the rich, palpitating blast of a mighty organ; but the tumultuous chorus of her thoughts produced upon her an effect of magnetism which found its expression in a gentle graciousness of words and manner.

She had made up her mind that the first person she should meet would be Bressant; and, so full did she feel of victorious power, it seemed as if, with scarcely a conscious effort, she could overbear and bring him to her feet. Yes, and dictate the terms upon which she would consent to receive his homage. What a pity that the key-notes of so few natures correspond, at the critical moment, with our own; and that Providence sees fit to forward, by even negative help, so small a proportion of our superbly-conceived plans!

It was half-past eight when they drew up at the boarding-house door. No sooner had Cornelia set foot within the threshold, and caught sight of Abbie's face, than it was borne in upon her that Bressant was not there; and the former, after questioning her about Sophie's non-appearance, confirmed her fear. He had not come, nor was it now probable that he would arrive before morning. It would have been useless to expect him by the late train, due at half-past ten, since, to avail himself of that, it would be necessary to make a difficult connection by walking two or three miles from one railway to another.

After climbing to such a height, it was terrible to fall. Cornelia had not allowed herself to anticipate the disaster, precisely because it was so crashing. In a moment the great, rainbow-tinted bubble of her hope and imagination had burst, leaving only a bitter and unpleasant sense of the paltry and unclean materials—the soap-suds and clay-pipe—wherewith it had been created.

Furthermore, the polite fictions which she had lubricated her conscience withal, regarding her desires and intentions, were shown up at precisely their true value, and a very discreditable spectacle they made. Nothing is more exasperating after a failure than to be stared out of countenance by the unworthy means we have employed. During her progress up-stairs to the dressing-room, and brief stay there, Cornelia had ample leisure to review her thoughts and deeds during the latter months of her life. What a waste of time, opportunity, and emotion! It was a tragedy of ridicule and a farce of profound pathos.

Her perception of these things was assisted by the depression which reacted upon her previous excitement: it had an embarrassing way of presenting, in the clearest colors, whatever in her conduct had been most unwise and indefensible. She could have borne it easily had there been as much as one stirring struggle for victory, even had the struggle resulted in defeat. Her state of mind might have borne analogy to his who, having deeply caroused overnight in celebration of some glorious triumph, learned, upon coming to his racked and tortured senses the next day, that it was a triumph for the other side.

Had the sense of despair been less overwhelming, had Cornelia been merely disappointed, rage would have taken the place of depression, and her thoughts would have run in far different channels. But there was no hope: this was her last chance of all: hereafter a rampart would be erected against her, which she neither was able nor dared to scale. There was no element in her position that could make it endurable, and yet there was no escape. She had not enough spirit of enterprise left to return home at once, but yielded herself with torpid insensibility to whoever chose to make a suggestion. She wonderingly speculated as to how she had ever been able to originate an idea herself.

The evening dragged its slow length along, and dragged Cornelia with it. To be where she was, was insupportable; but to go back to the Parsonage was worse still; and the thought of the solitary drive thither with the overflowing Mr. Reynolds filled her with a nauseating pain of anticipation.

It could not have been far from midnight when she awoke to a sense of being alone and not far from the side-door into the yard. Her partner—whoever he was—had gone to get her some ice-cream or a cup of coffee. Cornelia did not wait for his return, but walked quickly and unobserved to the door, which stood a few inches ajar, opened it, passed through, and stood in the unconfined air. The keen intensity of the tonic made her nostrils ache, and her uncovered bosom heave. She unbuttoned one of her gloves, and, taking some snow in her hand, pressed it to her warm temples, and then let it drop shivering into her breast.

"It must feel like that to die, I suppose," thought she. "If I were Sophie, now, that snow would be the death of me in two days: as it is, I shall only have a cold in the head to-morrow. There seems to be no reason in these things."

A dark figure turned the farther corner of the house, and came ploughing through the snow immediately under the eaves, dragging one hand along the clapboards as it came. The crunching of the snow caught Cornelia's ears, and she turned and recognized the figure in half a breath. The great height, the massive breadth, the easy, springing tread—it was Bressant from head to foot. He was buttoned up in a short pea-jacket, and there was a round fur cap on his head. As Cornelia turned upon him, he stopped a moment, standing quite motionless, with the fingers of one hand resting on the side of the house. Then he came close up to her and grasped her wrist with his gloved hand.

"Where is Sophie?" demanded he in his rapid, muffled voice.

"She's ill: she caught cold: she's at home," answered Cornelia, who, at the first recognition, had felt a kind of twang through all her nerves, and was now trying to control the effects of the shock. There was something queer in Bressant's manner—in the way he looked at her.

"But you came," rejoined he, stooping down and peering into her beautiful, troubled face. He broke into a laugh, which terrified Cornelia greatly, because he laughed so seldom. "One might know you'd come. You thought I'd be here: you came to see me, and here I am. Will Sophie get well?"

"Oh, yes! she was much better. When I left she had on her—wedding-dress."

Bressant drew in his breath hissingly between his teeth, and his fingers tightened a moment round Cornelia's wrist. The pain forced a sob from her and turned her lips pale. He paid no attention to her, presently dropped her wrist, and put his hands behind him, grinding the snow beneath his heel, and looking down.

"Whom is she going to marry?" was his next question, asked without raising his head.

"You!" exclaimed Cornelia, in astonishment and fear. The answer sprang to her lips without forethought or reflection, so much had the strange question startled her.

But he again stooped down and peered into her eyes, watching the effect of his words on her as he spoke them.

"No, no! I am not he who promised to marry her. She wouldn't have me, if I asked her: she don't know me. I'm going to marry some one else. She'll love me, no matter who I am. Shall I tell you her name?"

Cornelia could only shiver—shiver—with dry mouth and dilated eyes. Bressant put his hand on her shoulder, and drew her forward a step or two, so that the white moonlight fell upon her.

"Cornelia Valeyon is her name," said he, and then, as she remained rigid, he bent forward, with a whispered laugh, and kissed her on the face.

"There! now we belong to each other—a good match, aren't we? Quick! now; run into the house, and get your things on. You must walk home with me, and we'll arrange every thing. Go! I shall wait for you here."

She reentered the house, cold and dizzy, just as her partner arrived with the coffee. She explained—what scarcely needed to be told—that she felt faint: she must go up-stairs. In three minutes she had put her satin-slippered feet into a pair of water-proof overshoes, pinned up her trailing skirts, thrown on her long wadded mantle, with sleeves and hood, and had got down-stairs again before "assistance" could arrive. All the time, there was a burning and tingling where his lips had been, but she would not put up her hand to touch the spot, and relieve the sensation. It was, in a manner, sacred to her; albeit the sanctity was largely mingled with bewilderment, remorse, and fear. When she came out, Bressant was standing where she had left him, tossing a couple of snow-balls from one hand to another. He dropped them as she approached, and brushed the snow from his gloves. She took the arm he offered her—timidly, and yet feeling that it was all in the world she had to cling to. It was true—by that kiss she belonged to him, for it had made her a traitor to all else on whom she had hitherto had a claim. Yet upon how different a footing did they stand with one another from that which she had prefigured to herself! This was he whom she was to have brought vanquished to her feet! With one motion of his strong, masculine hand he had swept away all her fine-spun cobwebs of opportunity and method, and had laid his clutch upon the very marrow of her soul. But though she had lost the command, she was party, if not principal, to the guilt. It was he who had taken fire from her.

"You remember last summer," said he, "that night when an arch was in the sky? We didn't understand one another then, and I didn't understand myself. But, during the last day or two, I've been thinking it all over. I've had too good an opinion of myself all along."

"What is it that you've been thinking?" asked Cornelia, feeling repelled, and yet driven, by a piteous necessity, to know all the contents, good or bad, of this heart which was her only possession.

"Of all that had been said or done this last half-year. There's nothing you care for more than me, is there?" he demanded, concentrating the greatest emphasis into the question.

"If you care for me—if I can be every thing to you"—Cornelia's voice was broken and tossed upon the uncontrolled waves of fighting emotions, and she could give little care to the form and manner of her speech.

"I love you—of course I love you!—what else is there for me to do? But I've been all this time trying to find out what love was. I thought I loved Sophie, you know."

Bressant's strange words and altered manner dismayed Cornelia. What was the matter with him? She could not get it out of her head that some awful event must have happened, but she knew not how to frame inquiries. Bressant continued—a determined levity in his tone was yet occasionally broken down by a stroke of feeling terribly real:

"I was a great fool—you should have told me; you knew more about it than I did. It was my self-conceit—I thought nothing was too good for me. When I saw you I thought you were the flower of the world, so I wanted you. Well—you are—the flower of the world!"

"He does love me!" said Cornelia to herself, and she knew a momentary pang of bliss which no consideration of honor or rectitude had power to dull or diminish.

"But, afterward," he went on, his voice lowering for an instant, "I saw an angel—something above all the flowers of this world—and I was fool enough to imagine she would suit me better still. You never thought so, did you, Cornelia?" he added, with a half laugh; "well—you should have told me!"

How he dragged her up and down, and struck her where she was most defenseless! Did he do it on purpose, or unconsciously?

"I mistook worship for love—that was the trouble, I fancy. Luckily, I found out in time it won't do to love what is highest—it can only make one mad. Love what you can understand—that's the way! See how wise I've become."

Bressant's laugh affected Cornelia like a deadly drug. Her speech was fettered, and she moved without her own will or guidance.

"I found out—just in time—that I needed more body and less soul—less goodness and—more Cornelia!" he concluded, epigrammatically.

So this was her position. It could hardly be more humiliating. Yet how could she rebel? for was not the yoke of her own manufacture? Indeed, had she been put to it, she might have found it a difficult matter to distinguish between the actual relation now subsisting between Bressant and herself, and that which she had been, for months past, striving to effect. He had met her half-way, that was all.

But surely it was only during this absence that this idea of abandoning Sophie, and turning to herself, had occurred to him. Half as a question, half as an exclamation, the words found their way through Cornelia's twitching lips—

"What has happened to you since you went away?"

"Oh! since we love each other, there's no use talking about that at present. If I had any idea of marrying Sophie, now, I should have to go and tell her every thing. It's so convenient to be certain that nothing can change your love for me, Cornelia! No, no! I wouldn't be so suspicious of you as to tell you now."

"When am I to know, then?" she asked, fearful of she knew not what.

"After we're married, there shall be a clearing up of it all. You'll be much amused! By-the-way, I found out one queer thing—what my real name is!"

"Your real name!"

"Yes—who I am; you know I said I wasn't the same who was engaged to marry Sophie. Well, I'm not; he was a myth—there was no such person. I always thought 'Bressant' was an incognito, didn't you? But it turns out to be the only name I have! I hope you like it; do you think 'Mrs. Bressant' sounds well?"

"What does all this mean? What are you going to do with me? Are you making a sport of me?" cried Cornelia, clasping both hands over Bressant's arm, in a passion of helplessness. Much as she loved life, she would, at that moment, have died rather than feel that she was ridiculed and deserted by him.

They had come to the brow of the hill on which the village stood, overlooking the valley, which moon and snow together lit up into a sort of phantom daylight. The moon hung aloft, directly above their heads, and the narrow circumference of their shadows, lying close at their feet, were mingled indistinguishably together. Cornelia, in the energy of her appeal, had stopped walking, and the two stood, for a moment, looking at one another. Seen from a few yards' distance, they would have made a supremely beautiful and romantic picture.

The stately poise of Bressant's gigantic figure—the slight inclination of his head and shoulders toward Cornelia—presented an ideal model for a tender and protecting lover. She, in form and bearing, the incarnation of earthly grace and symmetry, her lovely upturned face revealed in deep, soft shadows and sweet, melting lights, her rounded fingers interlaced across his arm, her bosom lifting and letting fall irregularly the cloak that lay across it—what completer embodiment could there be of happy, self-surrendering, trusting, young womanhood? And what were the fitly-spoken words—the apples of gold in this picture of silver?

"Cornelia," said Bressant, throwing aside the levity, as well as the underlying passion, of his tone, and speaking with a slightly impatient coldness, "don't you begin to be a fool as soon as I leave it off. You may call what joins us together love, if you like, but it's not worth getting excited about. You take me because you were jealous of Sophie, and because you've compromised yourself. I take you because you're beautiful to look at, and—because nobody else would have me! We shall have plenty of money, which will help us along. But what is there in our relations to make us either enthusiastic or miserable?—Come along!"

This was the consummation of Cornelia's passionate hopes and torturing fears, of her dishonorable intriguing and reckless self-desecration. She became very calm all of a sudden, and, without making any rejoinder, she "came along" as he bade her, and they descended the hill.



CHAPTER XXIX.

FOUND.



Sophie, having carried her point regarding her wedding-dress, had nothing better to do after Cornelia had left her than to give herself up to reverie. She had a private purpose to sit up until her sister's return, that she might hear all about Bressant, and why he had stayed away so long and sent no word. That he had returned, expecting to meet her at the ball, she entertained not the slightest doubt; nor was there at this time any suspicion or misgiving in her mind about his fidelity and love.

Mankind's ignorance of the future is, beyond dispute, a blessing; yet we could wish, for Sophie, that so much presentiment of what was to come might be hers as to lead her to concentrate all possible happy thoughts into the few hours that remained wherein she might yet be happy. She had full scope and freedom to think what she would—no less than if a hundred years of earthly bliss had awaited her. Her life had been full of all manner of spiritual beauties and perfumes—a divine poem, though written upon clay. Let only the harmony of sweet music float about her now, and the shadow of what was to come be not cast over her.

She sat in her deep, soft easy-chair, with its high back, and square, roomy seat. An open-grate stove furnished light to the room, for Sophie had blown out her candle. As the flame rose or sank, the various objects round about stood visible, or vanished duskily away. Endymion, over the mantel-piece, still slept as peacefully as ever, and the smile, though forever upon his lips, seemed always to have but that moment alighted there. How tenderly the lustrous touch of the moon brightened on his white shoulder!

The golden letters of the Lord's Prayer gleamed ever and anon from the shadow above the bed, and sent the shining beauty of a sentence across to Sophie's eyes; and the face of the cherub, with his chin upon his hand, was turned upward in immortal adoration. Sophie's glance rested thoughtfully upon one and then the other. They were incorporated into her life. Would they have power to protect her from evil and suffering? Well, the words of the Prayer settle that question most wisely.

How silent the house was and how light it was out-doors! Sophie rose from her chair by the fire and walked slowly to the window. A board creaked beneath her quiet foot and a red coal fell with a gentle thud into the ash-receiver. Then, as Sophie leaned against the window, she heard the little ormolu clock, in the room below, faintly tinkle out the half-hour after eleven. Before long—in an hour, perhaps—Cornelia would be back, rosy with the cold, fresh, laughing, and full of news. Dear Neelie! How Sophie wished that she might find a love as deep and a happiness as perfect as had come to her. It hardly seemed fair that she should monopolize so much of the world's joy. True, God knows best; but Sophie, with her forehead against the cold window-pane, prayed that Cornelia might speedily become as blessed as herself. Then she turned to go back to her chair, casting a parting glance at the white road, with the glistening track of sleigh-runners visible as far as the bend. No moving thing was in sight. In stepping from the window her foot caught in the skirt of her wedding-dress, and she narrowly escaped falling. The loose board creaked again, dismally; but Sophie laughed at her clumsiness, and, recovering her balance, reached her chair and sat down in it. How warm and pleasant it was! The walls of the room seemed to draw up cozily around the stove, and nod to one another good-naturedly. They loved Sophie and would do all they could to make her comfortable and secure. She sat quite still, and perhaps fell into a light, half-waking slumber.

A while afterward, she suddenly started in her chair, her head raised, as if listening. The fire burnt as warmly as ever, but Sophie was trembling incontrollably, and her heart was beating most unmercifully. She walked quickly and blindly, with outstretched hands, to the window. This time the ominous board forbore to creak. Its omen was fulfilled.

Without hesitating, she threw up the window, and, unmindful of the tingling inrush of cold air, she leaned out, and looked down through the arched window of the porch. The bare vines that struggled across it afforded no interception to the view of the two figures standing within. Sophie gazed at them as a bird does at a snake; she could not take her eyes away; she could not move nor utter a sound. It was like the oppression and paralysis of a fearful dream. Was she dreaming?

It was a terribly vivid dream, at any rate. She seemed to see one of the figures—a woman—clasp the man's hand passionately in hers and speak. The voice was known to her; it was as familiar as her own; but the words it uttered made her sure she was asleep. Thank God! it wasn't real. She would wake up in a moment, and shudder to think how ugly a dream it had been. Oh, if she could only awaken before this conversation went any further! It was breaking her heart: it was killing her. She had heard of people who died in their sleep—was it from such dreams as this?

She seemed to have heard two voices—voices that she loved and knew as well as her own heart—talking a horrible, unholy jargon about some purpose—some plan—something that it was a sin even to listen to or imagine; but, as in a dream, she had no choice but to listen. She tried to shake off the delusion—to see, to prove that what she saw and heard was false. But still it lasted, and lasted. Still those wicked sentences kept creeping into her ears and deadening her heart. O God! would it never cease—would there never be an end?

At length the end seemed about to come. But, ah! the end was worst of all. Shame—shame to her that such sinful imaginings should visit her brain. She saw the figure of the man turn away as if to go; but the woman caught him by the arm, and lifted her beautiful, guilty face up toward his as if beseeching him for a parting kiss. She saw him stoop his dark, bearded head, with a half-impatient gesture, and kiss the beautiful woman's mouth, then motion her toward the house. "Make haste and put on your travelling dress," he seemed to say; "I'll walk up the road a little way and wait for you."

Sophie found power to slip down from the window after that, but she knew she was dreaming still. She heard a stealthy footstep on the stairs and along the entry; it seemed to pause, and hesitate a moment at her door; but then it went on and entered Cornelia's room. If she only could go to her lover, Sophie thought. If she only could speak to him and feel his arms around her. And why should she not? he had but just gone up the road. She would slip out and run after him. It was deadly cold: she was in her white wedding-dress. Yes; but then it was a dream—nothing but a dream—no harm could come of it.

She lifted herself softly from the floor, and moved toward the door. She passed the looking-glass on the dressing-table as she went, and cast a darkling glance into it. A haggard ghost seemed to stare back at her, with crazy eyes. A braid of brown, silky hair had become loosened, and was creeping down upon the spectre's shoulders.

Sophie stole along as noiselessly as a cat. She descended the staircase, glided down the passage, opened the outer door, and was on the frozen porch. The chill of the air passed through her as if she had been indeed but a spirit. The dream must surely be a dream of death. She ran down the icy path to the gate, and, looking along the road, saw that a tall figure had nearly reached the spur of the hill, around which the road turned. By hurrying she would yet be able to over-take him. She passed through the gate without causing a creak or a rattle, gathered up her light skirt, and started to run as speedily as she might.

The cold snow penetrated through her thin slippers and made her feet ache and sting. The breeze forced a cruel entrance through the bosom of her dress, as if to freeze the heart that was beating so. As she ran on, she began to pant so heavily it seemed as if every breath must be her last. The familiar road, the well-known outline of the hills, the stone-walls, the stretch of woods to the left, where she had walked so often last fall, all looked now ghastly and unreal—a world whose only sun was the moon—a fitting world for such a dream as this.

Still she staggered onward, slipping in the polished ruts of the sleigh-runners, plunging into the deep snow. Her body was cold as the winter itself, but her head was burning as if a fire were within it. She reached the bend, and her eyes strained wildly up the road. There! far ahead, marked black against the ghastly snow—there! still moving away—farther away. Would she ever reach him?

It was hopeless, and yet she kept on. Rather than let him go without having assured her it was all a wicked dream—without having hugged her in his arms, and given her her good-night kiss—without having called her his own, only Sophie, and promised he would always love her and no other—rather than give up all this, she would die in the pursuit, and it were well that she should die. So on she ran: her brain reeled, she could scarcely feel whether her limbs yet moved: there was a griping in her heart, and her breath came in short gasps of agony. The earth darkened and tipped before her eyes, but her resolve never faltered. To reach him, or die. Oh! how gladly she would die, if only she might reach him. Was not that he—there—only a short way on? Might not her voice reach him? Would not some good angel bear it to him? Even then she stumbled, and fell forward on her knees; but, ere she sank quite down, she threw forth a wild, piercing, despairing cry, giving to it her whole desolate soul—

"Bressant! Bressant!"

Then blackness obliterated every thing. But Bressant, as he walked heavily along, encompassed with bitter and miserable thoughts, suddenly halted, as if an iron hand had been laid upon his shoulder. Either he had actually heard a faint echo of that unearthly cry, or his spiritual ear had taken cognizance of the call of Sophie's soul. He turned himself about, with a quaking heart. There was the long white road, but no human being was visible upon it. Yet he knew that Sophie's voice had called him. She must be near. Slowly he began to walk back, half dreading to behold her image rise before him, with deep, reproachful eyes.

He had not gone twenty yards, when he started back, having almost set his foot upon something which lay face downward in the snow, clad in a dress almost as white. He would not have seen her but for her brown hair, which, falling loosely about, was caught and stirred by the inquisitive breeze. She herself lay quite still.

Bressant took her beneath the arms, and lifted her up. Crouching down, he supported her head against his shoulder, and brushed away the snow that had adhered to her face. There was a cut upon her chin, but the blood, after running a few moments, had congealed. Her eyes were not quite shut, but the lids were stiff and immovable. The mouth, too, was a little open. Was it the moonlight that gave her that death-like look? or was she dead indeed?

The young man broke out into a long, wavering cry. It was not weeping; it was not laughter; yet it bore a resemblance to both. It curdled his own blood, but he could not repress it. It was the voice of overstrained, unendurable emotion, and a horrible voice it was to hear. He feared he was losing his senses—looking in that white, motionless face, and uttering such a cry! At last, however, it died away, and there was silence. The silence was almost worse than the cry—the utter silence of a winter night.

"What shall I do?" he said to himself, helplessly.

The unearthly voice, and the discovery to which it had led, following the other events of the night, had made Bressant unfit to deal with this matter after his usual ready and practical style. But he would have found the problem an awkward one at his best. How could he appear at the Parsonage? What account could he give there of this lifeless body? What account could he give of it to himself? He was utterly bewildered and aghast. It seemed that the dead had risen from the grave, to drag him relentlessly back to the fullest glare of earthly ignominy—to the keenest experience of human suffering. And yet, did he quite deserve it? Was there no grain of leaven in his lump of sinfulness and weakness, if all were known? He is a hardened criminal, indeed, who can find no hope in the thought of appealing from human judgment to Divine!

Meanwhile, Mr. Reynolds had been luxuriating in a very unmistakable sense of injury. To some persons there are a positive relief and gratification in being really wronged: it raises their estimate of their own importance: by virtue of their title to feel angry, disappointed, or deceived, they can take their place in a higher than their ordinary rank. So Mr. Reynolds, finding himself qualified to plead a clear case of absolute and unwarrantable desertion, held up his head, and bore himself with becoming dignity.