"As for the stolen money," the boy continued, "all you have to do about
that is, to let it alone; it is safe, and will be cared for. But you
must go straight to the Parsonage. Your marriage-day is Sunday; be sure
you are there by noon. It may be you will not find Sophie there; but she
will leave a gift for you, at any rate, and you must be in time to claim
it."
"But how can I ask Sophie's forgiveness, and the professor, and
Cornelia?"
"Trust wholly in Sophie," returned the other, with an accent of loving
reproof, "never doubt her love and forgiveness. You must make your peace
with the professor as best you can; but perhaps he has found that to
forgive in himself which will enable him to be more charitable to you.
As for Cornelia, she and you must recompense each other for the evil you
have mutually wrought upon each other."
"How recompense each other?" questioned Bressant, in surprise; "it was
not a high nor a true love that we felt for each other; it was a love of
the passions and senses."
"Therefore let it be the work of your lives--a work of penitence and
punishment--to elevate and refine your love, which has been degraded,
until it become worthy of the name of love in its highest sense. You
have lowered each other, and now each must help to raise the other up.
The work can be delegated to no one else."
"But Sophie," murmured Bressant, pressing his hand over his eyes.
"Sophie is lost to you," responded his companion, with a tremulous sigh.
"Perhaps if you had kept yourself pure and true through all temptations,
she might have been yours. But you failed, and every failure must bring
its loss. The air of such a love as that is too fine for you to breathe
now; you could not be happy nor at ease; but do not grieve for her--only
mourn for your own deterioration, and strive faithfully, and with
constant effort, to make it good. Sophie--she will be happier, and
better cared for, than, as your wife, she could ever have been."
"But I shall go back to poverty and disgrace, and perhaps to hatred!"
"The evil you have done will be a clog upon you; but its very weight
will assure you that your face is turned toward heaven. Life will never
be to you what you dreamed of making it six months ago. You will find it
hard and practical, weary and monotonous; but once in a while, perhaps,
you will catch a breath of air from heaven itself, and will be
refreshed, or a ray of its light will glimmer on your path, and show you
where to tread. The end may be a long way off, but you cannot say you
have no chance of reaching it."