Bressant Part 14

"You have taught me that there is no one like you in the world," said Bressant. His voice sounded strangely to her, coming across such an abyss of shame, remorse, and dismay. Did he know the bitter satire his words conveyed? Sophie's face was hidden in her hands. She dared not think what might come next.

"Is it nothing to you to know that you are more to me than any thing else?" demanded he, and his tone was becoming husky and unsteady. The pa.s.sion that had been smouldering within him so long, unsuspected in its intensity even by himself, was now beginning to be-stir itself, and shoot forth jets of flame. "Why have you let yourself be with me--why have you made yourself necessary to me--if I was nothing to you?"

Sophie, in the extreme depths of her degradation and abas.e.m.e.nt, became all at once quiet and composed. She lifted her face, pale, and smitten with suffering, from her hands, and, folding them in her lap, looked at Bressant calmly, because she understood herself at last, and felt that the time for hiding her head in shame had gone by.

"You have _not_ been nothing to me," said she, "though I didn't know it before, or, rather, I _would_ not. I had an idea that I was leading you up to higher things, as an angel might, and all the time I was making use of G.o.d's truth and recommendation, as it were, to gratify and shield my own selfishness and--" here her voice sank, and her lips quivered, and grew dry, but she waited, and struggled, and finally went on--"and immodesty. I don't know why I should tell you this--except that I've told you every thing else, and this may save you from some of the wrong the rest has done you. But the most of it must remain irreparable." A long sigh quivered up from Sophie's heart, and quivered down again, like a pebble sinking through the water. Such a sigh, in a woman, is the sign of what can scarcely come twice in a lifetime.

"I don't understand any thing about that; I don't want to!" exclaimed Bressant, with an impetuous gesture. "What you've done seems to have been better than what you meant to do, at any rate. You've made yourself every thing to me. Say that I am as much to you, and what more do we need? Say it! say it!" and, in the vehemence of his appeal, the sick man half raised himself from his bed.

"I cannot! I cannot!" said Sophie, in a low, penetrating voice of suffering. "If you were the lowest of all men, I could not. I came to you in the guise of an angel, and what I have done, what woman is there that would not blush at it? It may not be too late to save you--"

"Stop!" cried Bressant, with an accent of hoa.r.s.e, masculine command, such as she could not gainsay. "It is too late!--I will not be saved!

Look in my eyes, Sophie Valeyon, and tell me the name of what you see there!"

Her sad, gray eyes, stern to herself, but tender and soft to him, as a cloud ready to melt in rain-drops, met his, which were alight with all the fire that an aroused and pa.s.sionate spirit could kindle in them. She saw what she had never beheld before indeed, but the meaning of which no woman ever yet mistook. It was her work--the a.s.surance of her disgrace--the offspring of her self-seeking and unwomanly behavior; and yet, as she looked, the blood rose gradually to her pale cheeks, and stained them with a deeper and yet deeper spot of red; her glance caught a spark from his, and her fragile and drooping figure seemed to dilate and grow stately, as if inspired by some burst of glorious music.

Bressant, in the mid-whirl and heat of his emotion, fell back upon the pillow, whence he had partly raised himself, trembling from head to foot.

"Is it love?" he said, in a smothered tone that was scarcely more than a whisper. He was beaten down and overawed by the might and grandeur of the pa.s.sion which, growing in his own breast, had become a giant that swayed and swept all things before it.

"Yes--love!" said Sophie, in a voice like the soft ring of a silver trumpet. Her heart was steadied and strengthened by what mastered him.

"Love--it is above every thing else. It has brought me down so low--perhaps, through G.o.d's mercy, it is the path by which I may rise again. You will guide me, dear?"

And, with a gesture of divine humility, she put her hand in his, and looked down, with the smile brightening mistily in her eyes.

At that moment--recalled, perhaps, by a chance similarity in position, gesture, or expression--came over him, like a sudden chill and darkness, the memory of his last interview with Cornelia.

CHAPTER XVI.

PARTING AN ANCHOR.

Cornelia, upon her arrival in New York, had been met at the station by an emissary of Aunt Margaret, and conducted to a country-seat some distance up the river. Four or five young ladies were already a.s.sembled there, and as many young gentlemen came up on afternoon trains, and availed themselves of Aunt Margaret's hospitality, until business called them to the city again the nest morning, except that on Sat.u.r.days they brought an extra change or two of raiment, to tide them over the blessed rest of Sunday.

"I've been so _ill_, my love--how sweet and fresh you _do_ look!

Give your auntie a kiss--there. _Oh_! you naughty girl, how jealous all the girls will be of those _eyes_ of yours!--so ill--_such_ dreadful sick-headaches--oh, yes! I'm a _great_ sufferer, dear, a great _sufferer_--but no one, hardly, knows it. I tell _you_, you know, dear, because you are my own darling little Cornelia. Oh! those sweet _eyes_! So ill--so _unable_, you know, to be _up_ and _doing_--to be as I should wish to be--as I once _was_--as you are now, you--splendid--creature--you! Now you _must_ let me speak my heart out to you, dear; it's my nature to do it, and I _can't_ restrain, it--foolish I know, but I always _was_ so foolish! oh dear! well--Ah!

there's the first bell already. Let me show you your room, darling. As I was going to say, I've been so indisposed that I've been obliged to pet myself up a little here, before starting on our _tour_, you know, but in a week I mean to be well again--I _will_ be. Oh! I have immense _resolution_, dear Neelie--_immense_ fort.i.tude, where those I love are concerned. There, this is your little nest--now _one_ more kiss. Oh!

those sweet _lips_! Remember you sit by me at dinner."

"What a funny old woman Aunt Margaret is!" said Cornelia to herself, after she had closed the door of her chamber. "Such a queer voice--goes away up high, and then away down low, all in the same sentence. And what a small head for such a tall woman! and she's so thin! I do hope she won't go on kissing me so much with her big mouth! how fast she does twist it about! and then her front teeth stick out so! and she keeps shoving that great black ear-trumpet at me, whenever she thinks I want to speak; and her eyes are as pale and watery as they can be, and they look all around you and never at you. Well, it's very mean of me to criticise the old thing so; she's as kind as she can be. I wonder whether she knows Mr. Bressant; her manner reminds me sometimes of him; in a horrid way, of course, but--poor fellow! what is he doing now, I'd like to know!" Here Cornelia's meditations became very profound and private indeed; she, meanwhile, in her material capacity, making such alterations and improvements in her personal appearance as were necessary to prepare herself for the table.

Every few minutes--oftener than any circ.u.mstances could have warranted--she pulled a handsome gold watch out of her belt and consulted it. She did not, to be sure, seem solely anxious to know the hour; she bent down and examined the enameled face minutely; watched the second-hand make its tiny circuit; pressed the smooth crystal against her cheek; listened to the ceaseless beating of its little golden heart. That golden heart, it seemed to her, was a connecting link between Bressant's and her own. He had set it going, and it should be her care that it never stopped; for at the hour in which it ran down--such was Cornelia's superst.i.tious idea--some lamentable misfortune would surely come to pa.s.s.

The dinner-bell sounded; she put her watch back into her belt, bestowing a loving little pat upon it, by way of temporary adieu. Then, feeling pretty hungry, she ran down the broad, soft-carpeted stairs, with their wide mahogany banisters--she would have sat upon the latter and slid down if she had dared--and entering the dining-room, which was furnished throughout with yellow oak, even to the polished floor, she took her place by her hostess's side. She had already been presented to the fashionable guests who sat around the ample table, and a good deal of the awe which she had felt in antic.i.p.ation, had begun to ooze away.

Although much was said that was unintelligible to her, she could see that this was not the result of intellectual deficiency on her part, but merely of an ignorance of the ground on which the conversation was founded. As Cornelia stole glances at the faces, pretty or pretentious, of the young ladies, or at the mustaches, whiskers, or carefully-parted hair of the young gentlemen, it did not seem to her that she could call herself essentially the inferior of any one of them. As to what they thought of her, she could only conjecture; but the gentlemen were extravagantly polite--according to her primitive ideas of that much-abused virtue--and the ladies were smiling, full of pretty att.i.tudes, small questions, and accentuated comments. No one of them, nor of the young men either, seemed to be very hungry; but Cornelia had her usual unexceptionable appet.i.te, and ate stoutly to satisfy it; she even tasted a gla.s.s of Italian wine at dessert, upon the a.s.surance of Aunt Margaret that "she must--_really_ must--it would never do to come to New York without learning how to drink wine, you know;" and upon the word of the young gentleman who sat next to her that it wouldn't hurt her a bit--all wines were medicinal--Italian wines especially so; and so, indeed, it proved, for Cornelia thought she had never felt so genial a glow of sparkling life in her veins. She was good-natured enough to laugh at any thing, and brilliant enough to make anybody else laugh; and the evening pa.s.sed away most pleasantly.

But Cornelia was no fool, to be made a b.u.t.t of; and her personality was too vigorous, her individuality too strong, not to make an impression and way of its own wherever she was. The young ladies tried in vain to patronize her: they had not the requisite capital in themselves; and the young gentlemen soon gave up the attempt to make fun of her; her vitality was too much for them, and they were, moreover, disconcerted by her beauty. Miss Valeyon, however, was new to the world, and her curiosity and vanity had large, unsatisfied appet.i.tes. To have been patronized and made fun of would have done her little or no harm; but in gratifying these appet.i.tes she might do a good deal of harm to herself.

When the young gentlemen were in town, or in the smoking-room, the young ladies were of course thrown upon their own resources, and generally drifted together in little groups, to talk in low tones or in loud, to laugh or to whisper. Cornelia, who soon got upon terms of companionship with one or two members of these conclaves, could hardly do otherwise than occasionally join the meetings. At first she found little or nothing of interest to herself in what they talked about.

The discussion of dress, to be sure, was something, and she found she had much to learn even there. Then there was a great deal to be said about sociables, and theatres, and sets, and fellows; and there was also more or less conversation, carried on in a low tone that occasionally descended to a whisper, which, beyond that it seemed to have reference to marriage and kindred matters, was for the most part Greek to Cornelia. A kind of metaphor was used which the country-bred minister's daughter could not elucidate, nor could she comprehend how young ladies, unmarried as she herself was, could know so much about things which marriage alone is supposed to reveal.

Once or twice she had requested an explanation of some of these obscure points, but her request had been met, first by a dead silence, then by a laugh, and an inquiry whether she had no young married friends, and also whether she had ever read the works of Paul Feval, Dumas, and Balzac--all of which gave her little enlightenment, but taught her to keep her mouth shut, and open her eyes and ears wider.

One day when "Aunt Margaret" had invited her to a _tete-a-tete_ in the boudoir, it occurred to Cornelia, in the wisdom of her heart, to take advantage of the opportunity to introduce the subject. She was a widow: was very good-natured; would be sure not to laugh at her, and could hardly help knowing as much as the young ladies knew.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Vanderplanck, as Cornelia entered, "such a relief--such a _refreshment_ to look at that sweet face of yours! There!

I must have my _kiss_, you know. Yes, I was just thinking of you, my love--so longing to have a quiet _chat_ with you--your dear father!--such a _grand_ man he is! _such genius_! Oh! _I_ was his devoted. Tell me all about him, and that sweet _home_ of yours, and _dear_ little Sophie, too. Oh! I was so shocked, so terrified, to hear of her illness; and--let me see!--oh, yes, and that new pupil your papa has--Mr. Bressant--_how_ is he? _does_ he behave well? _is_ he pleasant?

_do_ you see much of him? _does_ he keep himself quiet?--such a--"

"Why! how did you know about him?" interrupted Cornelia, into Mrs.

Vanderplanck's ever-ready ear-trumpet. "Is he a relation of yours, or any thing?"

Aunt Margaret stopped short, and pressed her thin, wide lips together.

She had never imagined but that Professor Valeyon had told his daughters through whose immediate instrumentality it was that Bressant made his appearance at the Parsonage; but finding, from Cornelia's questions, that this was not so, she bethought herself that it might be well for her young guest to remain in ignorance, at least for the present. It was not too late, and, after a scarcely-perceptible pause, she made answer:

"It was in your dear papa's _answer_ to my invitation, my love. Oh! so shocked I was dear little Sophie couldn't come--lay awake _all_ that night with a headache--yes, _indeed_!--when he _wrote_ to me, you know--such a dear, n.o.ble letter it _was_, too! Oh! I read it over a dozen--_twenty_ times at least!--he mentioned this new pupil of his--seemed interested in him--of course I _can't_ help being interested in whatever interests any of you dear ones, you know--he mentioned his strange name and all--it _is_ a strange name, isn't it, love?"

"It isn't his real name," interposed Cornelia; "n.o.body except papa knows who he is. It's just like one of those ancient names, you know--the Christian name and the surname in one."

"Oh, yes, I see--so odd, isn't it?--such a _mystery_, and all that--yes--so that's how I came to speak of him, I suppose. One gets _ideas_ of a person that way sometimes, don't you know, though they may never have actually _seen_ them at all? Oh! when I was a _young_ thing, I was just full of those--_ideals, I_ used to call them--oh, you know all about it, I _dare_ say!"

"He met with a very serious accident just before I came away," said Cornelia to the ear-trumpet; "he stopped Dolly--our horse--she was running away with papa in the wagon. He saved papa beautifully, but he was dreadfully hurt--his collar-bone was broken, and he was kicked, and almost killed. He's at our house now, and papa's taking care of him."

At this information Aunt Margaret became very white, or rather bloodless, in the face. She allowed the ear-trumpet to hang by its silver chain from her neck, and, reaching out her hand to a recess in the writing-table at which she sat, she drew forth a small ebony box, set in silver, and carved all over with little figures in ba.s.s-relief.

Opening it, she took out a few grains of some dark substance which the box contained, and slipped them eagerly into her large mouth, Cornelia watched her out of the corner of her eyes, and, being a physician's daughter, she drew her own conclusions.

"Ho, ho! that's where your sick-headaches, and yellow complexion, and nervousness, and weak eyes, come from, is it? You'd better look out!

that's morphine, or opium, or some such thing, I know; and papa says that old ladies like you, who use such drugs, are liable to get insane after a while, and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you were to become insane, Aunt Margaret!"

This agreeable prophecy, being confined solely to Cornelia's thoughts, was naturally inaudible to Mrs. Vanderplanck. She murmured something about her doctor having prescribed medicine to be taken at that hour, and then, the medicine appearing to have an immediate and salutary effect, she found her color and her voice again, and took up the conversation.

"Shocking! oh, shocking! _so_ sad for the poor young man--no father--no--no mother there to care for him. He _it_ an orphan, is he not?--no relatives, I suppose--no one who _belongs_ to him, poor boy!

Dear, dear!--but he's _not_ fatally injured, is he?--not fatally?"

"Oh, no," replied Cornelia, whose opinion of Aunt Margaret's character was much improved by this evidently sincere sympathy in the suffering of some one she had never seen--"oh, no; papa says he'll be all well in three months."

"And he's staying at your house, and under your dear father's care?"

"Yes, he is now. Before his accident he was boarding at Abbie's, down in the village. She would have been very kind to him, of course, but I suppose he'd rather be at our house, because papa can always be at hand."

While Cornelia was delivering this into the black ear-trumpet, she turned her eyes away from Aunt Margaret's face, being in truth somewhat embarra.s.sed at talking so much about the man who had her heart.

Consequently she did not observe the expression which crossed her companion's face at her mention of the modest name of the boarding-house keeper. Her features seemed to contract and sharpen, and there was positively a glitter in her watery eyes, seemingly mingled of consternation, astonishment, and hatred. In another moment the expression had pa.s.sed away, or was softened into one of nervous alarm and anxiety; and even this, when she spoke, was wellnigh effaced.

"Certainly--yes, _certainly_! your dear father--_what_ a wise man he is!