"I believe I don't feel very well, Sophie. I think I must have a
little palpitation, or something. I've been awfully dissipated, and all
that, you know, with Aunt Margaret. I feel a little run down. Oh! it's
nothing serious. Don't tell papa! no--don't on any account. I'll just go
to my room, and lie down for half an hour. I shall be all right before
tea-time. You must tell me all the particulars afterward--not just this
moment. Don't mention any thing about me, you know, and don't let any
one come up. Good-by till supper, dear. Au revoir."
She got out of the room, not very gracefully, probably, but still she
escaped. A few hurried and uneven steps down the entry brought her to
her own door. She burst it open, entered, and locked it behind her in
feverish haste. Then, with a miserable sense of luxury, she flung
herself on the bed, and was alone.
Her first sensation, as soon as the tumult in her thoughts suffered her
to have any intelligent sensation at all, was one of secret pleasure and
relief. It was a surprise to herself--she even struggled against it, and
tried to convince herself that she was only miserable, but still the
sensation remained. Guilty or not, there it was, and she could not help
it. The news of Bressant's engagement to Sophie was a relief and a
pleasure to her.
The real pain--hard and bitter, and with no redeeming grain of
consolation--had been the unexpected and unexplained change in his
manner. She had met him, anticipating a tender and delicious renewal of
the relations on which they had parted--the memory of which had never
left her during her absence, and which had grown every day sweeter and
more precious in the recollection. His silence and coldness,
unaccompanied by any show of reasons, had penetrated her soul like iron.
It could only be that she had become distasteful to him, that what he
had said and done before her departure had been in a spirit of
deliberate trifling, or, at the best, that it had been a mistake, of
which he had been convinced during their separation, and now wished to
correct. The pride and resentment that were in her had risen up in
defence, and, had the matter rested there, might ultimately have gained
the victory.
But his engagement to Sophie--that was another story. In the first
place, if he loved her sister, it did not therefore follow that he
disliked her; quite the contrary. And, on the other hand, it readily
explained the restraint and embarrassment of his manner. How otherwise
could he have acted? Well--and was this all?
Ah! no--not all! There was a tawny light in Cornelia's eyes as she lay
upon the bed, flushed and dishevelled. She was thinking of a
moment--that one little moment--when their glances had met, and
penetrated to a fatal depth. For a time, the ensuing events had swept it
from her memory; but now it returned, charged with a deeper and darker
meaning than Cornelia at present cared to recognize. She was satisfied
that it gave her comfort. She hid her thought away, as a miser does his
gold: it was enough that it had existence, and could be used when the
fitting hour should come. She had not seen the little episode of the
watch; but that was, perhaps, scarcely necessary.