Bressant

"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!"