The Essential Julian Hawthorne Collection. Julian Hawthorne

somewhere in the house--he will know what to do!" she said, at last, trembling and white.

      "No! no!" cried Cornelia: and the shock of fear lest her father should see her, overcame the grasp of the hysterical paroxysm. She half raised herself on one arm, showing her face, red and disfigured, the veins on the forehead standing out, full and throbbing. "Come back! come back!" for Sophie had her hand on the door.

      She returned, in compliance with her sister's demand, and knelt down beside her on the floor. Cornelia let herself fall back, her head resting on Sophie's knee, in a state of complete exhaustion. There she lay, panting heavily; and a clammy pallor gradually took the place of the deeply-stained flush. But the fit was over: by-and-by she sat up, sullenly shunning Sophie's touch, and appearing to shrink even at the sound of her voice. Finally, she rose inertly to her feet, attempting to moisten her dry lips, walked once or twice aimlessly to and fro across the room, and ended by sitting down again upon her stool, and taking up her sewing.

      "Are you all well again, dear?" asked Sophie, timidly.

      "Better than ever," replied Cornelia, with a short laugh, which had no trace of hysteria about it.

      There was, however, a slight but decided change in her manner, which did not pass away: a sort of hardness and impenetrability: and so incorporated into her nature did these traits seem, that one would have supposed they had always been there. Some unpleasant visitors take a surprisingly short time to make themselves at home.

      But Sophie, seeing that her sister soon recovered her usual appearance, did not allow herself to be disturbed by any uncalled-for anxieties. Love, at its best, has a tendency to absorb and preoccupy those whom it inspires: if not selfish, it is of necessity self-sufficient and exclusive. Sophie was too completely permeated with her happiness, to admit of being long overshadowed by the ills of those less blessed than herself. Not that she had lost the power to sympathize with misfortune, but the sympathy was apt to be smiling rather than tearful. She was alight with the chaste, translucent, wondering joy of a maiden before her marriage: the delicate, pearl-tinted brightness that pales the stars, before the reddening morning brings on the broader daylight.

      She was not of those who, in fair weather, are on the lookout for rain: she believed that God had plenty of sunshine, and was generous of it; and that the possibilities of bliss were unlimited. She was not afraid to be perfectly happy. A little sunny spot, in a valley, which no shadow has crossed all day long, was like her: there seemed to be nothing in her soul that needed shadow to set it right.

      Cheerfulness was soon reestablished, therefore, so far as she was concerned; and the remembrance of Cornelia's distracting seizure presently yielded to the throng of light-footed thoughts that were ever knocking for admittance at her heart's door. Once afterward, however, the event was recalled to her memory, by the revelation of its cause. Little that happens in our lives would seem trifling to us, could we but trace it, forward or backward, to the end.

      CHAPTER XXVI.

      BRESSANT TAKES A VACATION.

      Friday, December 30th, was the day appointed for Abbie's ball, and the morning of the 28th had already dawned. Bressant stood, with his arms folded, at the window of his room, watching the downfall of a thickening snow-storm which had set in the previous midnight. There had evidently been no delay or intermission in the cold, white, silent business; to look out-of-doors was enough to make the flesh seem thin upon the bones.

      In spite of the snow, however, the little room was feverishly hot, owing to the gigantic exertions of the small iron cylinder-stove. The round aperture over the little door was glowing red, like an enraged eye; and the quivering radiation of the heat from the polished black surface was plainly perceptible to the sight. The room had lost something of the neat and fastidious appearance which it had worn a few months before. The colored drawing of a patent derrick, fastened to the wall by a tack at each corner of the paper, had broken loose at one end, and was curling over on itself like a withered leaf. The string by which the ingenious almanac had been suspended over the mantel-piece was broken, letting the almanac neatly down into the crevice between the wall and a couple of fat dictionaries, which lay, one on top of the other, upon the ledge. It was quite hidden from view, with the exception of one corner, which was a little tilted upward, showing the hole through which the faithless string had passed.

      The terrestrial and astronomical globes bore the appearance of not having revolved for a long time. A part of the pictured surface of the latter had scaled off, disclosing a blank whiteness beneath. Even the heavens, it seemed, were a sham; nothing more than a varnished painting upon a plaster-of-Paris foundation. The flower-pots still stood in the windows, but hot air and an irregular water-supply had made sad inroads upon the beauty of the plants. The lower leaves were turned brown; some of them had fallen off, and lay--poor, little unburied corpses--upon the narrow circle of earth which, having failed to keep life green within their cells, now denied to them the right of sepulture. A few of the topmost sprouts still struggled to keep up a parody of verdure, and one or two faded flowers had not yet forsaken their calices--a silly piece of devotion on their part! Icy little blasts, squeezing in through the crevices of the window-sash, whistled about the forlorn stalks, cutting and venomous. The poor flowers would never see another summer; better give up at once!

      Even the books which met the eye on every side, wore a deserted air. Not that they were dusty, for the chambermaid did her duty, if Bressant failed in his; but there was something in the heavy, methodical manner of their sleeping upon one another, such as they could never have settled into had they been recently disturbed or opened. 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. 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