"Cornelia Valeyon is her name," said he, and then, as she remained
rigid, he bent forward, with a whispered laugh, and kissed her on the
face.
"There! now we belong to each other--a good match, aren't we? Quick!
now; run into the house, and get your things on. You must walk home with
me, and we'll arrange every thing. Go! I shall wait for you here."
She reentered the house, cold and dizzy, just as her partner arrived
with the coffee. She explained--what scarcely needed to be told--that
she felt faint: she must go up-stairs. In three minutes she had put her
satin-slippered feet into a pair of water-proof overshoes, pinned up
her trailing skirts, thrown on her long wadded mantle, with sleeves and
hood, and had got down-stairs again before "assistance" could arrive.
All the time, there was a burning and tingling where his lips had been,
but she would not put up her hand to touch the spot, and relieve the
sensation. It was, in a manner, sacred to her; albeit the sanctity was
largely mingled with bewilderment, remorse, and fear. When she came out,
Bressant was standing where she had left him, tossing a couple of
snow-balls from one hand to another. He dropped them as she approached,
and brushed the snow from his gloves. She took the arm he offered
her--timidly, and yet feeling that it was all in the world she had to
cling to. It was true--by that kiss she belonged to him, for it had made
her a traitor to all else on whom she had hitherto had a claim. Yet upon
how different a footing did they stand with one another from that which
she had prefigured to herself! This was he whom she was to have brought
vanquished to her feet! With one motion of his strong, masculine hand he
had swept away all her fine-spun cobwebs of opportunity and method, and
had laid his clutch upon the very marrow of her soul. But though she had
lost the command, she was party, if not principal, to the guilt. It was
he who had taken fire from her.
"You remember last summer," said he, "that night when an arch was in the
sky? We didn't understand one another then, and I didn't understand
myself. But, during the last day or two, I've been thinking it all over.
I've had too good an opinion of myself all along."
"What is it that you've been thinking?" asked Cornelia, feeling
repelled, and yet driven, by a piteous necessity, to know all the
contents, good or bad, of this heart which was her only possession.
"Of all that had been said or done this last half-year. There's nothing
you care for more than me, is there?" he demanded, concentrating the
greatest emphasis into the question.