But surely it was only during this absence that this idea of abandoning Sophie, and turning to herself, had occurred to him. Half as a question, half as an exclamation, the words found their way through Cornelia's twitching lips—
"What has happened to you since you went away?"
"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?