you; I was sure you would. You're always so kind! You see I'm obliged to go home now, but papa will want to stay to supper, probably, or to play backgammon, and, of course, I shall leave him the wagon. Now, I want you to promise to see that Dolly is properly harnessed before he starts--will you? You know that man they have here isn't always quite sober, especially when it's Fourth of July, or any thing of that sort; and papa is getting old."
"Yes, Miss Valeyon. I'll attend to it. I'll fix the old gentleman up, like he was my own father. And you're just right about that fellow that's around here; _I_ wouldn't trust him. Why--" Bill was on the point of mentioning that he had made one of the convivial party that evening, but checked himself in time, and looked particularly profound.
Cornelia had probably had more than one motive in making her request of Bill Reynolds. She wanted to avoid being urged to dance, by keeping his mind otherwise employed; she enjoyed the amusement of making him imagine that he was of some consequence and importance to her; and, lastly, she was very willing that all this should concur with some possible benefit to her father. Of Bill's irresponsible condition she had of course no suspicion; indeed, he might have been far worse, with impunity, as far as she was concerned. It takes considerable practice to detect the effects of liquor, except when very excessive; and Cornelia had no such training.
"And," added she, as she saw Bressant making his way toward her, with unmistakable signs on his face of having been successful in his errand, "and suppose you go now, and find out when papa leaves, so as to be sure to be on hand."
It was very neatly managed, on the whole; and Cornelia, as she put on her shoes, and drew the hood around her face, congratulated herself on her tact and readiness. Yet she felt a little uneasiness, assignable to no particular cause, and upon no definite subject; it may have been nothing more than some slight qualms of conscience at having so deluded her unfortunate admirer. As she came down from the ladies' dressing-room, she felt a strong impulse to go and kiss her papa good-by; but reflecting that Bill would probably be with him, and that she would see him at any rate before she went to bed, she thought better of it; and, taking Bressant's arm--he was waiting her at the foot of the stairs--she signified her readiness to start.
"When did papa say he was coming?" asked she, as they moved through the passage-way to the door.
"He was playing backgammon; he said he should be through in ten minutes; he would probably overtake us before we got to the Parsonage," replied the young man.
"I hope he'll be all safe!" said Cornelia, half to herself, the vague feeling of uneasiness still working within her.
At the door they were met by Abbie, who bade them good-night, with the same expression upon her lips and in her eyes that she had worn when presenting them to one another early in the evening.
"Take good care of each other, my children," said she, as they passed out; but her tone was so low as to be audible to Cornelia alone.
CHAPTER XII.
DOLLY ACTS AN IMPORTANT PART.
The faintest of breezes wafted in the young people's faces as they descended the wooden steps of the boarding-house and passed along the dark, deserted sidewalk of the village street. The noisy dance was soon left at a distance; how extravagant and unnatural it seemed in comparison with the deep, sweet night in which they were losing themselves!
The brightness of the stars, and the wavering peaks and jagged edges of the northern lights, brought out the shadows of the uneven hills, and revealed the winding length of downy mist which kept the stream in the valley warm. Such was the stillness, and the subdued tone of the landscape, that it seemed unreal--the phantom of a world which had lost its sunshine, and was mourning for it in gentle melancholy.
The sense of the solitude around them brought the young man and woman closer to one another. For enjoyment to be, mortally speaking, perfect, it needs that a soft and dreamy element of sadness should be added to it; and this was given by the gracious influence of the night. The darkness, too, encouraged the germs of that mutual reliance, hopefulness, and trust, which combine to build up the more vital and profound relations of life. There is a magic mystery and power in it, which we can laugh at in the sunshine, but whose reality, at times, forces itself upon us mightily.
As Bressant trod onward, with the warm and lovely woman living and moving at his side, and clinging to his arm with a dainty pressure, just perceptible enough to make him wish it were a little closer--it entered his mind to marvel at the tender change that seemed to have come over familiar things.
"I've walked often in the night, before," observed he, looking around him, and then at Cornelia; "on the same road, too; but it never made me feel as now. It is beautiful." He used the word with a doubtful intonation, as if unaccustomed to it, and not quite sure whether he were applying it correctly.
"You speak as if you didn't know what you were talking about!" said Cornelia, with a round, melodious laugh. "Did you never see or care for any thing beautiful before this evening?"
"You remember that night in the garden?" asked Bressant, abruptly. "I've learned a great deal since then. I couldn't understand it at the moment; I wasn't prepared for it--understand? but I know now--it was beauty--I saw it and felt it--and it drove me out of myself."
Cornelia was thrilled, half with fear and half with delight. Bressant spoke with an almost fierce sincerity and earnestness of conviction, that quite overbore the shield of playful incredulity which woman instinctively raises on such occasions; they seemed to have crossed, at one step, the pale of conventionalities; and, sweet and alluring as the outer wilderness may be, it is wilderness still, and full of sudden precipices. Besides, the very energy and impetuosity which the young man showed, suggested the apprehension that the power of his newly-awakened emotions was greater than his ability to control and manage them.
But beauty, as he understood it, was something of deeper and wider significance than that generally accepted. It was all, in mankind and nature, that appeals to and gratifies the senses and sensuous emotions. Cornelia had been the door through which he had passed into a consciousness of its existence; the fragrant pass leading to the mighty valley. Unfortunately neither he nor she was in a position to comprehend this fact: she was no metaphysical casuist, and never imagined but that he would find the end, as well as the beginning of his newly-opened world in her; and he, dizzied by the tumult and novelty of the vision, was naturally disposed to attribute most value and importance to the only element in it of which he had as yet taken any real and definite cognizance.
"What a strange, one-sided life you must have had!" Cornelia remarked, after they had walked a little way in silence. "Don't you think you'll be happier for having found the other side out?"
Bressant started, and did not immediately reply. Thus far he had looked upon this unexpected enlargement of feeling as merely a temporary episode, after all; not any thing permanently to affect the predetermined course and conduct of his life. The idea that it was to round out and perfect his existence--that he was to find his highest happiness in it--had never for a moment occurred to him. He did not believe it possible that it could coexist with lofty aims and strenuous effort; it was a weakness--a delicious one--but still a weakness, and ultimately to be trampled under foot.
But Cornelia had taken the ground that it was the half of life--not only that, but the better and more desirable half. For the first time it dawned upon the young man, that he might be obliged to decide between following out the high and ascetic ambition which had guided his life thus far, and abandoning, or at least lowering it, to take in that other part of which Cornelia was
