Bressant Part 8

"Well, sir," said she, with rather a constrained air, rising, from the sofa in a way that confirmed the young man's opinion about her infirmity; "well, sir, shall I expect you on Thursday evening?"

"Yes; I'll come," said he, with an elastic inclination of his shoulders, and a smile. He thought himself fortunate in so good an opportunity to put his invulnerability to the proof.

Abbie bowed without speaking, and moved toward the door. Having opened it, she turned round, with her hands upon the latch: "Professor Valeyon tells me you're an orphan, sir?"

"My father died last month; I never knew my mother," returned Bressant, pushing his brown beard between his teeth, and biting it impatiently. He wished people would get through asking him about his deceased relatives.

"Never knew your mother! it must have been--have you never felt the need of her?"

"Oh, no! I was better without one," said he, quite provoked at his landlady's pertinacity. He turned about, and threw himself into his chair. The woman shrank back beyond the threshold.

"Good-day, sir, and thank you," she said. But Bressant could not be expected to hear the low, timid tone in which she spoke. Seeing that he made no response, she softly closed the door.

She went along the dark entry to her own room. On a little table in one corner stood an old-fashioned desk. She opened it, and, unlocking an inner drawer, took therefrom a small morocco case, lined with red velvet, and containing a daguerreotype much faded by age. She studied it long and earnestly, but seemingly without any very satisfactory result.

"But how can I expect it?" murmured she. "So long ago as this was taken! so sickly and unformed as he was then! But, oh! did they think I could be blind to that face, and form, and expression! and there is none other but he, now; the father is dead. Dead! Well, may G.o.d forgive him all the evil of his life! I'm sure I do. But what will this turn out to be, I wonder--a curse or a blessing? I must wait--it isn't for me to speak; I must wait, and the end may be happy, after all."

CHAPTER X.

ONLY FOR TO-NIGHT!

On the evening of the 4th of July, Professor Valeyon and Cornelia got into the wagon, and drove off, behind Dolly, to the boarding-house. It was a warm, breathless night, and the stars looked brighter and more numerous than usual.

The boarding-house was one of the largest buildings in town--an accidental sort of structure, painted white, green-blinded, and protected, from the two roads at whose intersection it stood, by a white-washed board-fence, deficient in several places. The house expanded into no less than four large bay-windows, affording an outlook to three small rooms upon the ground-floor. The four or five other larger apartments were forced to pa.s.s a gloomy existence behind a loop-hole or two apiece, which could not have measured over three feet in any direction.

The two largest rooms lay corner to corner, at right angles to one another, and communicating by a pa.s.sage-way through their point of contact. Who the original genius was who discovered the admirable facilities this else preposterous arrangement afforded for dances will remain forever unknown; but the experiment once tried became an inst.i.tution as permanent as Abbie herself.

The small triangle of s.p.a.ce between the two rooms, which to utilize had theretofore been an unsolved problem, served admirably as a station for the band; they could be heard in either apartment equally well. The small boudoirs, nooks, and corners, which were scattered here and there with lavish hand, did excellent duty as flirtation-boxes for those of the dancers who needed that refreshment; the only drawback being that one was never quite sure of privacy, on account of the complicated system of doors and entries that prevailed.

But, in spite of all objections, a dance at Abbie's was the rallying-cry of the community. All the respectable people in town put on their newest clothes--and if they were new it did not so much matter what the style might be--and thronged, on foot or in wagon, to the boarding-house door.

They came to have a good time, and they always succeeded in their object. What pigeon-wings were performed! what polkas perpetrated! what waltzes wrecked! How the long lines of the Virginia Reel, or "On the Road to Boston," extended through the hall from end to end, and how the couples twisted, whirled, and scooted between them! How the call-man, with his violin under his chin, stopped playing to vociferate his orders, or anathematize some bewildered pair! How the old folks, sitting on chairs and benches along the walls, nodded and smiled and mumbled to one another as the ruddy faces of their descendants pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed before them, and spoke to one another of like scenes thirty, or forty, or fifty years ago! How happy everybody was, and what a jolly noise they made!

As Cornelia and her papa approached the house, every window was alight, above and below. The door was thrown hospitably open, and the lamplight streamed forth and ran down the steps, and lay in a long rectangular pool upon the road. Abbie stood near the entrance, directing the ladies one way and the gentlemen another. Punctuality at an affair of this kind being among the village virtues, the whole company was present within a surprisingly short time of the appointed hour.

"Good-evening, Professor Valeyon; good-evening, my dear; how well-you look! Step up-stairs--the first room on the right."

"My pupil is to be here to-night, isn't he?" inquired the professor, as his daughter vanished.

"Yes, he said he'd be down. He doesn't seem to be used to society. Miss Cornelia told me she thought it would do him good to begin, so I went up the other day and asked him."

"Oh! humph!" said the old gentleman, who had vainly endeavored to catch Abbie's eye while she was speaking. He stood silent a few moments, and then moved off to the gentlemen's dressing-room, taking a pair of white-kid gloves from his pocket as he went.

Cornelia, having removed her hood, put on her slippers, shaken out her skirt, touched her hair with the tips of her gloved fingers, and settled the ribbon at her throat, descended to the reception-room--as that part of the entrance-hall where Abbie stood was styled--and found her papa awaiting her. She was about to take his arm, when the hostess touched her on the shoulder.

"Wait a moment," said she, with a peculiar grave smile; "I'll bring you your _protege_."

Bressant was standing in the door-way of an inner room, leaning with the elbow of one arm in the hand of the other, as he pulled at his mustache and twisted the beard on his chin. He looked ill at ease, and as if he rather regretted his intrepidity in coming down. Had he been what is called a student of human nature, he might have been interested in the quaint people and customs which an occasion like this would bring to light. But he believed that all the traits and elements of mankind at large were comprised, in a superior form, within himself, and that, knowing himself, he would virtually know the world. This somewhat exclusive creed had, doubtless, been aided and abetted by his deafness, which, even had he been otherwise inclined by nature, must have thrown him back, in great measure, upon himself; or, possibly, the dogma may have been but an outgrowth of the physical defect: he fights hard and well, in this world, who counteracts the bias given by bodily infirmity.

In any case, however, since such was the position of his mind, he could scarcely be expected to derive much entertainment from a social occasion like the present. It is even uncertain whether he would not actually have repented and taken to flight, had not Abbie come up at the critical moment, and carried him off to Cornelia.

"I wanted to have the pleasure of presenting Mr. Bressant to you myself," said she, with the same peculiar smile; and so left them together.

The young man stood confronting the young woman, who, besides being dressed with great taste, looked, owing to the whimsical circ.u.mstances in which she was placed, every bit of beauty she had. Bressant stared at her in astonishment.

One woman's beauty cannot be contrasted with another's; as well compare a summer valley with the white clouds sailing over it; each is to be enjoyed in its own way. But Cornelia's loveliness carried with it a peculiar quality, which not only gratified the eye, but went further, and seemed to touch a vital chord in the beholder, jarring throughout his being with a sweet distribution of effect, and causing heart and voice to vibrate. It made Bressant conscious in every fibre that he was man and she woman. Whence came the influence he could not tell, and meanwhile it gained ever stronger and deeper hold upon him. Was it from the eyes, a-sparkle with the essence of youth and health? or from the mouth, with its red warmth of full yet delicate curves? the gates of what sweetness of breath! or from the crisp, dark, l.u.s.treless luxuriance of the hair? or from the curved shadows melting on the cheeks, and nestling beneath the chin? He could trace it to no single one of these various elements--yet how lovely all were! Whence, then, was it? In a bottle of wine there are many drops, alike in color, shape, flavor, and sparkle; in which one, of all, lurks the intoxication? The only way to make sure of the drop is to drink the bottle; and, even then, though there will be no doubt about the intoxication, its precise origin may still be disputed.

As Bressant bowed to Cornelia, who courtesied grandly in return, the band struck up a waltz, which seemed to be at once reflected in her face and manner. She was particularly sensitive to musical impressions, and instinctively looked up to Bressant's face for sympathy, forgetting at the moment that his infirmity would probably debar him from sharing her enjoyment. However that might be, he was certainly not indifferent to the silent music of her beauty; he was gazing down upon her with an intensity which caused her to droop her eyes, and draw an uneven breath or two. There was in him all a man's fire, strangely mingled with the freshness of a boy.

"Take my arm," said he, offering it to her. After an instant's hesitation, more mental, however, than physical, she laid her graceful hand within it, and they moved toward the dancing-room.

But at the instant of contact an electric pulsation seemed to pa.s.s through Cornelia's blood, imbuing it with a powerful ichor, alien to herself, yet whose potency was delicious to her. She fancied, also, that she herself went out in the same way to her companion, establishing a magnetic interchange of personalities, so that each felt and shared the other's thoughts and emotions.

They now stood in the princ.i.p.al dancing-hall, where several couples, who had already taken the floor, were revolving with various degrees of awkwardness. The music had flowed into Cornelia's ears until she was full of the rhythmical harmony. She glanced up once more at her partner, this time with a l.u.s.trous look of confidence. Was it possible that he had become inspired through her? Certainly it seemed as if the feeling of the tune were discernible in his face as well as hers; it was even betokened by the lightsome pose of his figure, and a scarcely subdued buoyancy in his step. Moment by moment did the occult sympathy between one another and the cadence of the music grow more a.s.sured and complete; and at length--though precisely how it came about neither Cornelia nor Bressant could have told--they were conscious of floating through the room, mutually supporting and leading on each other, mind and motion pulsating with the beat of the tune, amid a bright, half-seen chaos of lights, faces, and forms, dancing a waltz!

Neither felt any surprise at what, but a few moments before, both would have deemed an impossibility. The easy, whirling sweep of the motion, not ending nor beginning, seemed, to Bressant as well as to Cornelia, the most natural thing in the world. Beautifully as she danced, he was no whit her inferior. They moved in complete accord. Years of practice could not have made the harmony more perfect.

The charm of dancing, although nothing is easier than to experience it, is something that eludes statement. It is the language of the body, graceful and significant. It has that in it which will make it live and be loved so long as men and women exist as such. The fascination of the motion, the magic of the music, the hour, the lights; the nearness, the touch of hands, the leaning, the support, the starting off in fresh bewilderments; the trilling down the gamut of the hall; the pauses and recommencements; even the little incidents of collision and escape; the trips, slips, and quick recoveries; the breathless words whispered in the ear, and the laughter; the dropped handkerchief, the crushed fan, the faithless hair-pin--these, and a thousand more such small elements, make dancing imperishable.

Presently--and it might have been after a minute or an hour, for all they could have told--Bressant and Cornelia awoke to a sense of four bare walls, papered with a pattern of abominable regularity, a floor of rough and unwaxed boards, a panting crowd of country girls and b.u.mpkins.

The music had ceased, and nothing remained in its place save a fiddle, a harp, and an inferior piano.

"Come out to the door!" said Bressant, "the air here is not fit for us to breathe."

They went, Cornelia leaning on his arm, silent; their minds inactive, conscious only of a pleasant, dreamy feeling of magnetic communion. Both felt impelled to keep together--to be in contact; the mere thought of separation would have made them shudder.

The door stood open, and they emerged through it on to the wooden steps.

At first their eyes, dazzled by the noisy glare of the house, could distinguish nothing in the silent darkness without. But, by-and-by, a singular gentle radiance began to diffuse itself through the soft night air, as if a new moon had all at once arisen. They looked first at each other, and then upward at the sky. Cornelia pressed her companion's arm, and caught her breath.

From the north had uprisen a column of light, of about the apparent breadth of the Milky Way, but far more brilliant, and defined clearly at the edges. Higher and higher it rose, until it reached the zenith.

Pausing a moment there, it then began to slide and lengthen down the southern slope of the sky, lower and lower, till its extreme limit seemed to mingle with the haze on the horizon. Having thus completed its stupendous sweep, it remained, brightening and paling by turns, for several minutes. Finally, it slowly and imperceptibly faded away, vanishing first at the loftiest point of all, and lingering downward on either side, till all was gone.

"What a glorious arch!" exclaimed Cornelia.

"It was put there for us, was it not?" rejoined Bressant.

Some of the other guests had come out in time to see the latter part of this spectacle, as it trembled athwart the heavens. They "Oh'd" and "Ah'd" in vast astonishment and admiration; and one of them humorously a.s.serted that it had been engaged, at a huge expense, to celebrate the anniversary of American Independence. So the celestial arch vanished in the echo of a horse-laugh. But Bressant and Cornelia, as they stood silently arm-in-arm, felt as if it were rather the presage of an emanc.i.p.ation of their own selves. From, or to what, they did not ask; nor did the old superst.i.tion, that such signs foretell ruin and disaster, recur to their minds until long afterward.

Dancing was now recommenced, but, by an unuttered agreement, the two refrained from partic.i.p.ating again. The enjoyment had been too entire to risk a repet.i.tion. They sat down in one of the small boudoirs, which, through a demoralized corridor, commanded a view of the extremity of one of the dancing-rooms.

From this vantage-ground they could see the distinctive features of the a.s.sembly pa.s.s before their eyes. Girls who danced well striving to look graceful in the arms of men who danced ill, or floundering women bringing disgrace and misery upon embracing men. Dancers of the old school, whose forte lay in quadrilles and contra-dances, cutting strange capers, with faces of earnest gravity. People smiling whenever spoken to, and without hearing what was said; and on-lookers smiling, by a sort of photographic process, at fun in which they had no concern.

Introductions, where the lady was self-possessed and bewitching, the gentleman monosyllabic and poker-like; others, where he was off-hand, ogling, and facetious; she, timid, credulous, and blushing. All kinds of costumes, from the solitary dress-coat, and low-necked ball-dress, worn respectively by Mr. and Mrs. Van Brueck from Albany, to the mixed tweed sack and trousers, and the checked gingham, adorning the Browne boy and girl.

"How foolish it all seems when you're not doing it yourself!" remarked Cornelia at last, laughing softly.

"But very wise when you are."