Bressant by Julian Hawthorne

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"How did you leave Aunt Margaret?" inquired he.

"Oh, _desolee_, because I would go away," replied Cornelia, with a very
pretty laugh. "She vowed she could have spared me much better six weeks
earlier; for, you see, after I'd learned the ropes, and how to take care
of myself, I became, as she expressed it, 'such a dear, sweet,
_invaluable_ little _attachee_.'"

Sophie laughed at the comical air with which her sister repeated the
sentence; yet, when her laugh was gone, there remained a slight shadow
of disappointment. She, too, was unwillingly aware of some alteration.

"Is she such a grand lady as you expected?" asked she.

"Oh, my dear, grandeur's a humbug, let me tell you. Gracious! by the
time I'd been there a week, I could put it on as well as anybody. Aunt
Margaret, she was no end of a swell, and all that; but, as for
grandeur!--And she was such an odd old thing. Sometimes I seemed to like
her, and sometimes she almost made me faint. Once in a while I thought
she was trying to pump me about something; though, to be sure, there was
nothing in me to be pumped. I told her about Abbie, for one thing, as
much as I knew, and she seemed awfully interested--it was put on, I
suppose, very likely; and yet she really did seem to mean it. I remember
she couldn't get over my forgetting Abbie's last name: she even told me
to mention it the first time I wrote to her. So queer of the old
person."

"No necessity for you to write, my dear," observed the professor at this
point. "I've been intending to do it myself for some time, and I'll
thank her for her hospitality, and so forth."

Cornelia nodded, yawned, and then allowed her eyes to wander around the
room.

"How nice and cozy and home-like every thing does look! And so small.
Why, I should almost believe I was looking through the small end of the
telescope, or something."

"New York houses are so big, I suppose?" said Sophie.

"Gracious, dear!" exclaimed Cornelia, laughing again. "Why, the very
cupboards are bigger than this whole house. It'll take me ever so long
to get over being afraid to knock my head against something when I stand
up."

"You can sit out-doors until the weather gets too cold," observed the
professor. "The sky is as high here as in New York, isn't it?"

Cornelia ignored this remark with admirable self-poise. "Aunt Margaret
was asking a good deal about Mr. Bressant, too," said she. "She said
she'd only heard about him from you, papa; but I thought, sometimes, she
must be fibbing. Once in a while, you know, she acted just as if she had
forgotten having said she didn't know him. However, that's absurd, of
course. By-the-way, where is he? Here still?"

"Oh, yes. O Neelie dear, I have such news to tell you. But--yes, he's
out there by the fountain, I believe. Go out and speak to him, and then
come up to my room and hear the secret."

"All right, I'll be there directly;" and, springing from her chair with
a sudden overflow of animal spirits, drowning out the small growth of
affectation, the beautiful woman danced out upon the balcony, and down
the steps. Sophie went to her chamber, and the professor remained in his
study to indulge his own thoughts, which, by the way, appeared to be
neither light nor agreeable.

As Cornelia neared the fountain, her steps grew more staid. The
clustering shrubbery hid Bressant from sight until she was close upon
him. She thought, perhaps, in the few moments that passed as she walked
down the path, of that other time when she had picked her way, in his
company, between the rain-besprinkled shrubs. Here was the same tea-rose
bush, and hardly a flower left upon it. Yes, here was one, full-blown,
to be sure, and ready to fall to pieces; but still, perhaps he would
smile and remember when he saw it in her bosom; or perhaps--and Cornelia
smiled secretly to herself at the thought--perhaps he needed no
reminder. He was sitting by the fountain now. What more likely than that
he was thinking over that first strange scene that had been enacted
between them there? Dear fellow! how he would start and redden with
pleasure when he saw her appear, in flesh and blood, in the midst of his
reverie! Cornelia blushed; but some of the loose petals of the overblown
rose in her bosom became detached, and floated earthward.

All at once her heart began to beat so as to incommode her: she was
uncertain whether she was pale or red. It seemed to require all her
courage to get over the last few steps of garden-path that brought her
into view. What was it? A premonition? Now she saw him, as he sat with
his legs crossed, his head resting on his hand, turned away from her,
staring moodily before him.

He did not look up until Cornelia stood almost beside him; then, become
aware of her presence, he leaped suddenly to his feet, and towered
before her, one hand grasping the fantastically-curved limb which
ornamented the back of the rustic seat.

In the space that intervened while Cornelia, startled at his abrupt
movement, remained motionless in front of him, the piece of branch which
his hand held parted with a sharp crack. It broke the pause, and
Cornelia laughed.

"You seem to be recovering your strength pretty well, if you can break
the limb of a tree short off just by laying your hand upon it! How do
you do? Aren't you glad to see me?" and she held out her hand with a
frankness not all real, for she felt a secret misgiving, and an
undefined fear.

But the strain of Bressant's suspense was removed. He concluded that
either Cornelia had as yet heard nothing of his bond with Sophie, or
that, having heard it, it had not seriously affected her. Of the two
suppositions he was inclined to the first (and correct) one; but he kept
scanning her face with an uneasy curiosity. He took her hand, shook it,
and dropped it.

"How do you do?" said he.

They took their places side by side upon the bench. Cornelia felt a
great weight pressing heavily and more heavily upon her, crushing out
life and vivacity. This was not what she had expected; what did it
mean? was it indifference? was it aversion? could it--could it be an
uncouth way of showing joy? Poor Cornelia held her clasped hands in her
lap, and knew not what to say.

When the silence had lasted so long that in another moment she must have
screamed, she chanced to remember the watch. It was ticking steadily in
her belt. She dragged it out, her hands feeling stiff and numb, and then
commanding herself by a not inconsiderable effort to speak naturally,
she put it in his hand, which he opened mechanically to receive it.

"Here it is, all safe. You can't think how punctual I've learned to be
since I've had it. I got to be quite superstitious about winding it up;
but it did run down once--just about six weeks after I left. It was in
the forenoon, about eleven. I--I happened to be looking at it at the
time, and suddenly the second-hand began to go slower and slower, and at
last it stopped. You can't think how frightened I was. I couldn't help
thinking that something must have happened at home. I wrote to Sophie
that I would come home the same afternoon. Of course you know"--here
Cornelia interrupted the hurried and nervous flow of her words to force
a laugh--"of course it wasn't any thing but that I'd been up late
talking with Aunt Margaret, and had forgotten to wind it. It isn't out
of order or any thing."

She was out of breath now, and had to pause. She would gladly have kept
on indefinitely, for the sake of avoiding another of those dreadful
silences.

Bressant was not in the habit of paying much attention to coincidences,
but it happened to occur to him that the stoppage of the watch must have
taken place pretty nearly, if not exactly, at the time of his engagement
to Sophie, and the thought rendered his discomposure still more painful.

"Won't you keep the watch?" said he at length.

"Keep it?" repeated Cornelia, timidly, uncertain what might be coming
nest. Her breath went and came unevenly. "How can I keep it?" faltered
she. "They know--papa and Sophie know--that I haven't any such watch.
I--I have no right to keep it."

She could hardly have spoken more plainly; indeed, she had been
surprised into speaking much more plainly than she intended. The moment
after her pride rebuked her, and made her cheeks burn with shame; and a
feeling of anger at having so betrayed herself put a sparkle into her
eyes. Bressant, looking at her, was stricken by the angry glow of her
beauty. It began to dazzle his reason, and bind his will. Their eyes met
fully for a moment; a world of fatal significance can sometimes be
conveyed by a glance. The extremity of his danger perhaps aroused the
young man to a realization of it. He stood up, and pressed one hand over
his eyes.

"If you've no right to keep the watch, I've no right to give it you, I
suppose," said he, sullenly.

"I owe you an apology, certainly, Mr. Bressant," exclaimed Cornelia,
interrupting what more he might have been going to say. She was tingling
to her fingertips with the intolerable anger of a woman who finds
herself rejected and befooled. "Really, I am surprised at myself for
persecuting you so relentlessly. Not satisfied with depriving you of
your timepiece for two whole months, I actually am unable to surrender
my--my ill-gotten booty without giving you an uncomfortable feeling that
I want to task your beneficence further yet. Well, I've not a word to
say for myself. I had no grudge to pay. I'm sure your conduct to me has
always been--most unexceptionably polite! The most charitable
explanation is, that I was crazy. I hope you'll consent to accept it;
and I do assure you that I'm perfectly sane now, and mean to keep so.
You needn't," she continued laughing, "you really needn't be afraid of
my persecutions any longer. I'm going to be as circumspect as--as you
are. Now, good-by for the present." She held out her hand with an air of
formal courtesy. "I promised Sophie I'd be back directly. I'll see you
at dinner, I suppose?"

As she came to the good-by, Cornelia had risen from her seat; by the
action the remaining petals of the tea-rose had been shaken off, leaving
the nucleus bare and unprotected. Bressant's eyes fastened idly upon it,
but he said nothing, and did not move, Cornelia withdrew her unaccepted
hand, smiled, and, turning about, walked up the path to the house with
an easy and dignified grace, which was not so much natural as the
inspired result of passion.

Bressant looked down at the watch in his hand, and saw it marking the
hour at which a dark epoch in his life began. He knelt on one knee by
the basin of the fountain--but not to pray. Grasping in one hand the
guard-chain of his watch, he dashed the watch itself two or three times
against the stone basin-rim. When it was completely shattered, he tossed
it into the water, and then rose lightly to his feet.

CHAPTER XXI.

PUTTING ON THE ARMOR.

Sophie, in her room, was moving about hither and thither, ostensibly to
put things in order, but really to make the time before her sister's
appearance pass the easier. She was little given to the manifestation of
impatience; but now, so much did she long to pour out her heart to her
sister on the subject of her love; to speak with a freedom which she
could use to no one else--not even to Bressant himself--and to receive
the full and satisfying measure of sympathy which she felt that only
Cornelia could give her--dear, loving, joyous Cornelia!--so much did all
these things press upon her, that she found waiting a very tedious
affair.

At last she heard Cornelia's step along the hall, and up the staircase.
It sounded more slow and listless than a few minutes before, as if she
were treading under the weight of a weary load. Now that she was out of
Bressant's eyeshot, the support afforded by her anger had given way, and
she felt very tired, very reckless, and rather grim. She entered
Sophie's open door, crossed the room heavily, and, with scarcely a
glance at her sister, threw herself plump into the chair by the window.

"Poor child," thought Sophie; "she's so tired with that long journey;
but she'll be refreshed by what I have to tell her."

"I'm so glad you're here," she continued, aloud. "I've never wanted any
one so much,-especially since the last two weeks. A great happiness has
come to me, dear, but I haven't been able fully to enjoy it, because I
couldn't tell you--they didn't want me to write. But I wouldn't tell any
one before you, nor let any one tell you but me, because I wanted to
enjoy your enjoyment all myself."

Sophie had sat down at Cornelia's feet, upon a little wooden cricket
which stood in the window, and had taken one of her hands in both of
hers. Cornelia glanced down at her somewhat indifferently; she had
scarcely attended to what her sister had been saying. But the fathomless
expression of happiness upon Sophie's uplifted face struck through her
gloom and pain. She had never seen any thing like it before, and
probably at no moment of her life had Sophie's earthly content been so
complete.

"I am engaged to be married," said she, a rose-colored flush spreading
over her cheeks. She delayed lovingly over the words--they were dear,
because they expressed such a world of happiness.

Cornelia repeated the words stupidly. She felt as if she were rooted
beneath a rock, which was about to fall and crush her. Yet, resolutely
shutting her eyes to what she knew must come--to gain an instant's time
to breathe and brace herself--she asked, with an air of vivacious
interest, bending down, and studying Sophie's face the while--

"Engaged, did you say? To whom, dear?"

"Why, to Mr. Bressant. Who else could it be?"

Sophie spoke in a soft tone of gentle surprise, but the words rang in
Cornelia's brain as if they had been fired from a cannon. She closed her
eyes, and leaned back in her chair. The strings of her hat choked
her--she tore them apart, and the hat fell from her nerveless hand to
the floor. She strove to open her eyes and command herself, but her
sight was blurred and darkened, and her head dizzy.

In a minute or two, however, she recovered herself sufficiently to be
aware that Sophie was alarmed about her. The imperative necessity not to
betray herself gave her a brief and superficial control. Her mind was in
confusion, and it was, perhaps, for this reason--because she could not
collect her faculties and analyze the situation--that she was enabled to
feel a gush of the natural, tender love for her sister--a joy in her
joy. Knowing that such a mood could not last long, she hastened to make
it available: she bent down, and put her arms around Sophie's neck.

"I'm so glad, darling! so happy! How splendid! isn't it? What a perfect
match! Ah, Sophie, I sympathize with you with all my heart. I couldn't
have wished you any thing better."

This was doing very well. Her manner was a little exaggerated; her
speech was hurried, and almost mechanical. She avoided looking Sophie in
the face while the lies were coming out of her mouth (if they were real
lies, and not a bastard kind of truth, good while spoken, and the next
moment degenerating into falsehood). Notwithstanding these minor
defects, it was a very successful effort--excitement, and even vehement
emotion, were quite admissible in a warm-hearted girl who had her
sister's welfare nearly at heart, and much might be allowed to
surprise. Indeed, Sophie, though a good deal agitated, and even anxious,
was not in the least suspicious or dissatisfied. Such was the loyalty
and humility of her own nature, that much stronger grounds would have
failed to inspire misgivings.

"I thought you were going to be ill, at first," she remarked, with a
loving smile. "Perhaps I told you too abruptly--did I? You see, I
thought you half knew it already--at least, that you suspected it--and,
then, to tell the truth, dear," added she, with a bright smile in her
eyes, "I didn't think you'd care so much--be so _very_ glad, I mean.
There never was so sweet a sister as you."

Cornelia felt that this must not go on any longer. She could feel her
cheeks getting hot, and her eyes bright--very little more, and there
would be an outburst. She must leave the room at all hazards, and be by
herself.

She got up, and stood unsteadily, with her cold hand to her hot
forehead.

"I believe I _don't_ feel very well, Sophie. I think I must have a
little palpitation, or something. I've been awfully dissipated, and all
that, you know, with Aunt Margaret. I feel a little run down. Oh! it's
nothing serious. Don't tell papa! no--don't on any account. I'll just go
to my room, and lie down for half an hour. I shall be all right before
tea-time. You must tell me all the particulars afterward--not just this
moment. Don't mention any thing about me, you know, and don't let any
one come up. Good-by till supper, dear. _Au revoir_."

She got out of the room, not very gracefully, probably, but still she
escaped. A few hurried and uneven steps down the entry brought her to
her own door. She burst it open, entered, and locked it behind her in
feverish haste. Then, with a miserable sense of luxury, she flung
herself on the bed, and was alone.

Her first sensation, as soon as the tumult in her thoughts suffered her
to have any intelligent sensation at all, was one of secret pleasure and
relief. It was a surprise to herself--she even struggled against it, and
tried to convince herself that she was only miserable, but still the
sensation remained. Guilty or not, there it was, and she could not help
it. The news of Bressant's engagement to Sophie was a relief and a
pleasure to her.

The real pain--hard and bitter, and with no redeeming grain of
consolation--had been the unexpected and unexplained change in his
manner. She had met him, anticipating a tender and delicious renewal of
the relations on which they had parted--the memory of which had never
left her during her absence, and which had grown every day sweeter and
more precious in the recollection. His silence and coldness,
unaccompanied by any show of reasons, had penetrated her soul like iron.
It could only be that she had become distasteful to him, that what he
had said and done before her departure had been in a spirit of
deliberate trifling, or, at the best, that it had been a mistake, of
which he had been convinced during their separation, and now wished to
correct. The pride and resentment that were in her had risen up in
defence, and, had the matter rested there, might ultimately have gained
the victory.

But his engagement to Sophie--that was another story. In the first
place, if he loved her sister, it did not therefore follow that he
disliked her; quite the contrary. And, on the other hand, it readily
explained the restraint and embarrassment of his manner. How otherwise
could he have acted? Well--and was this all?

Ah! no--not all! There was a tawny light in Cornelia's eyes as she lay
upon the bed, flushed and dishevelled. She was thinking of a
moment--that one little moment--when their glances had met, and
penetrated to a fatal depth. For a time, the ensuing events had swept it
from her memory; but now it returned, charged with a deeper and darker
meaning than Cornelia at present cared to recognize. She was satisfied
that it gave her comfort. She hid her thought away, as a miser does his
gold: it was enough that it had existence, and could be used when the
fitting hour should come. She had not seen the little episode of the
watch; but that was, perhaps, scarcely necessary.

The intensity of the beautiful woman's reflections at length exhausted
her mind's power of maintaining them: she turned over on her side, and
began to follow with her eye the arabesques worked upon the white
counterpane. It was just the sort of occupation which suited her mood.
The arabesques were pretty and graceful; the counterpane was of
immaculate whiteness; there was just enough of effort in tracing out the
intricacies of the interlacements to give a gentle sensation of
pleasure; and there was the latent consciousness, behind this voluntary
trifling, that it could be exchanged at any moment for the most terribly
real and absorbing excitement.

At length it occurred to her that time was passing, and the hour for tea
must be near at hand. She sat up on the bed, threw off her light sack,
and unbuttoned her boots. Going to the glass, she saw that her hair was
in disorder, and partly fallen down, and that one cheek was stamped with
the creases of the pillow. She pulled off her gloves, and looked
critically at her hands.

"It'll never do to go down this way!" determined she. "I must make
myself decent."

In half an hour more she was finished, and took a parting peep at
herself in the mirror. Cold water and a soft sponge had taken from her
face all traces of travel and emotion. Her dark, crisp hair was arranged
in marvelous convolutions, and from the white tip of each ear, peeping
out beneath, hung an Etruscan gold ear-ring, given her by Aunt Margaret.
Her cheeks were pale, but not colorless; her eyes glowed like a tiger's.
She was dressed in a black demi-toilet, relieved with glimpses of yellow
here and there; an oblong piece cut out in front revealed, through
softened edges of lace, the clear, smooth flesh of the neck and bosom.
The dream of a perfume hovered about her, and touched the air as she
moved. Her wide sleeve fell open, as she raised her arm, disclosing the
white curves, which were remarkably full and firm for one of her age.

She gave a little laugh as she stood there that made the ear-rings
quiver, and parted her lips enough to show that her small white teeth
were set edge to edge.

"It can't do any harm," was passing through her mind. "If I'm to be his
sister, he ought to like me. It's no use making him detest me. If he
loves Sophie so much, what harm can it do for him to be pleased with my
beauty? Besides, haven't I a right to my own good looks?"

She kissed her fingers to her reflection, and made a deep courtesy. As
she did so, she caught sight of the little petal-less rose-stalk which
had fallen out of her traveling-dress on to the floor. She picked it up,
and, after turning it idly in her fingers for a moment, she yielded to a
sudden fancy, and fastened it into the bosom of her dress; so that this
symbol of a body from which the soul had departed formed the central and
crowning ornament of the voluptuous and lovely woman.

"There!" ejaculated she, with a smile which did not part her lips, but
seemed to draw her dark eyebrows a little closer together.

"Strange I'm so quiet!" she mused, as she walked slowly to the door.
"What an ordeal I have to go through! I must sit down with Sophie, and
papa, and--him: listen to all the particulars, ask all the proper and
necessary questions, smile and laugh; and it would be well, I suppose,
to rally the lovers archly on the ardor of their affection, and the
suddenness of the consummation. Better still, I can laughingly allude to
my own prior claim--suggest that I feel hurt at being distanced and left
out in the cold by that demure little younger sister of mine! Oh, yes!"
exclaimed Cornelia, clapping her hands together, "that will cap the
climax; what fun!"

Here the tea-bell rang. Cornelia put her hand on the door-handle.

"Of course, nobody could help loving Sophie--such a dear, simple, good
little thing! and why not he as well as any one else? and, of course, in
that case, Sophie must think that she loved him back--thought it her
duty, too, perhaps! Nobody was to blame."

"But he was mine first!" she whispered to her heart, again and again,
and she found a disastrous solace in each repetition. She flung open the
door, and ran down-stairs with a light step, a smiling face, and a
fierce, tight heart.

CHAPTER XXII.

LOCKED UP.

Bressant's health was now sufficiently established to warrant his moving
back to Abbie's. Not that he was particularly anxious to go, but he had
no pretext for staying, and his engagement to Sophie was a reason in
etiquette why he should not. Accordingly, about a week after Cornelia's
arrival, such of his books and other property as had been sent to him
from the boarding-house were packed in a box, which was hoisted in to
the back of the wagon; he and Professor Valeyon mounted the seat, and,
with Dolly between the shafts, they set out for the village.

"I suppose you remember a talk I had with you the first evening you came
here?" said the old gentleman, as they turned the corner in the road.
"Told you it would be work enough for a churchful of missionaries to
make any thing out of you, in the way of a minister, and so on?"

"Very well; I remember the whole conversation," said Bressant, pushing
up his beard into his mouth and biting it.

"Thanks to God--I can't take any credit to myself--you've been more
changed than I ever expected to see you. You've found your heart and how
to use it. That goes further toward fitting you for the ministry than
all the divinity-books ever printed."

Bressant's hankering after the ministerial life was not so strong as it
once had been; but he said nothing.

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