Bressant

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.