Bressant

"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.