Bressant raised himself at her approach, and stood with one hand
against the railing, looking down upon her with a half-smile of interest
and satisfaction, which made Cornelia feel not so much like a human
being, as some rare natural curiosity which he was glad to have the
opportunity of examining.
"You are one of the daughters?" said he, with the sudden scrutinizing
contraction of the eyebrows that often accompanied his questions. "There
are two, aren't there? Which one are you?"
"I'm Cornelia," replied she, provoked, as the words left her mouth, that
she had not said "Miss Valeyon." But the question had surprised her out
of her presence of mind, and the necessity of speaking loud, if nothing
else, hindered her from making the correction.
"Is the other any thing like you?" resumed he, after a moment's more
contemplation, which, spite of its directness, had in it a certain
element of unsophisticatedness that prevented it from seeming rude.
"Who, Sophie?" exclaimed the young lady, bursting forth into an
unexpected gurgle of laughter, to which Bressant at once responded in
kind, though having no idea what the merriment was about. "I wish you
could see her! There couldn't be a greater difference if I was a negro!"
The laugh died away in Bressant's eyes, and he pressed his hand rapidly
down over his face, as if to sharpen his wits, or clear away cobwebs.
"That's natural," he remarked, reflectively. "I never saw any thing like
you."
"If he'd said 'any body,'" thought Cornelia, "I should have said he
meant to compliment. How funny he is! just like a boy in some ways. I
believe I know more than he does, after all!"
"Have you any sisters, Mr. Bressant?" asked she aloud, looking up at him
with more cordiality and confidence than she had yet felt or shown.
"Not any. I should think it would be a good thing. Do you like it?"
"Of course; but then I am a sister myself, so it don't apply," said
Cornelia, with the sunshine of another laugh. It was delightful to look
at her at such times; every part of her partook of the merriment, so
that her hands, feet, and waist, might all be said to laugh for
themselves. Cornelia could express a great deal more in a bodily than in
a spiritual way. Her material self, indeed, seemed so completely and
bounteously endowed as to leave little place or occasion for a soul. The
warm, rounded, fragrant, wholesome personality which met the eye,
satisfied it; the harmonious tumult of life, that thrilled in every
movement, was contentment to the other perceptions; the thought of a
soul, bringing with it that other of death, was cold and inconsistent.
Such mortal perfection loses its full effect, unless we can look upon it
as physically immortal: as soon as we begin to refine our ideas into the
abstract, we sully our enjoyment.