Sophie, in her room, was moving about hither and thither, ostensibly to
put things in order, but really to make the time before her sister's
appearance pass the easier. She was little given to the manifestation of
impatience; but now, so much did she long to pour out her heart to her
sister on the subject of her love; to speak with a freedom which she
could use to no one else--not even to Bressant himself--and to receive
the full and satisfying measure of sympathy which she felt that only
Cornelia could give her--dear, loving, joyous Cornelia!--so much did all
these things press upon her, that she found waiting a very tedious
affair.
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. She entered
Sophie's open door, crossed the room heavily, and, with scarcely a
glance at her sister, threw herself plump into the chair by the window.
"Poor child," thought Sophie; "she's so tired with that long journey;
but she'll be refreshed by what I have to tell her."
"I'm so glad you're here," she continued, aloud. "I've never wanted any
one so much,-especially since the last two weeks. A great happiness has
come to me, dear, but I haven't been able fully to enjoy it, because I
couldn't tell you--they didn't want me to write. But I wouldn't tell any
one before you, nor let any one tell you but me, because I wanted to
enjoy your enjoyment all myself."
Sophie had sat down at Cornelia's feet, upon a little wooden cricket
which stood in the window, and had taken one of her hands in both of
hers. Cornelia glanced down at her somewhat indifferently; she had
scarcely attended to what her sister had been saying. But the fathomless
expression of happiness upon Sophie's uplifted face struck through her
gloom and pain. She had never seen any thing like it before, and
probably at no moment of her life had Sophie's earthly content been so
complete.
"I am engaged to be married," said she, a rose-colored flush spreading
over her cheeks. She delayed lovingly over the words--they were dear,
because they expressed such a world of happiness.
Cornelia repeated the words stupidly. She felt as if she were rooted
beneath a rock, which was about to fall and crush her. Yet, resolutely
shutting her eyes to what she knew must come--to gain an instant's time
to breathe and brace herself--she asked, with an air of vivacious
interest, bending down, and studying Sophie's face the while-"Engaged, did you say? To whom, dear?"