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They would not be apart, but remained together in Bressant's room Sophie on the bed, with an expression of divine contentment on her face, Cornelia and the professor sitting near. "Papa," said Sophie, as the afternoon came on, "I want to make my will." Cornelia caught her breath sharply, and, turning away her face, covered her eyes with her hand.
The funeral was the day before yesterday. I did all the business before then. Yesterday I packed up, and here I am!" "Death couldn't have been unexpected, I presume?" said the professor, on whom Bressant's manner made an impression of resignation to his loss rather too complete. "The hour of death can only be a matter of guess-work at any time," returned the young man.
Their fragrance gave a delicate tone to the atmosphere of the room, and perhaps penetrated more nearly to Bressant's heart than an hour full of unanswerable arguments and exhortations. He turned to the fat servant, who stood smiling, and wiping her hands on her apron. "Who brought these flowers? Who arranged them here?"
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.
The name of love was of course familiar to him, but he could hardly as yet, perhaps, grasp the full significance of the sentiment. Like other forms of knowledge, it must be approached by natural gradations. Here, if nowhere else, Bressant's life of purely intellectual activity was a disadvantage. His stand-points and views were artificial, speculative, and material.
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.
After his nurse was gone, he lay with closed eyes, and a general sensation of comfort, until he fell asleep. Quiet dreams came to him, such as children have sometimes, but grown-up people seldom. Everywhere he seemed to follow a cool, white cloud. But where was Cornelia? In spite of nursing and a very strong constitution, Bressant's recovery was slow.
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.
As he raised it, a sigh escaped him; nor was his countenance so serene as it had been half an hour before. Bressant's recovery was now very rapid, as he had himself foretold. The wedding was finally fixed for New-Year's Day at noon.
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. He took her hand, shook it, and dropped it.
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