Bressant: A Novel

NURSING.

After seeing Cornelia off, Professor Valeyon bethought himself of Abbie; she must be wondering what had become of her late boarder, and he resolved to stop at the house, and give her an account of the accident. He had got some distance beyond the boarding-house when the idea occurred to him. Just as he was about to head Dolly round in the opposite direction, he discerned a figure beyond, beneath an umbrella, which looked very much like the person he was seeking. He drove on, and in a few minutes overtook her.

"Going up to the Parsonage?" cried the old gentleman, getting gallantly down into the mud. "Here, jump up into-the wagon; I want to tell you about your—boarder."

"He—there's nothing the matter with him, of course?" said Abbie, with a short laugh. She was looking very pale, and as if she had not slept much of late. "No, don't drive mo to the Parsonage; take me home, if you please, Professor Valeyon. Well, about Mr. Bressant?"

"Doing very well now; he was pretty seriously hurt." And he went on to give a short account of what had happened, which Abbie did not interrupt by word or gesture; she sat with her head bent, and her lips working against each other.

"It's quite certain he'll recover?" she asked, when all was told.

"As certain," quoth the professor, non-committally, "as any thing in surgery can be."

"It wouldn't be safe to move him, of course?"

"Not till he's a good deal better; you see, the collar-bone—"

"Yes, I'll take your word for it," said Abbie, very pale. "Well, I'm glad he's in such good hands. If I had him he wouldn't be comfortable; I should be sure to do him more harm than good; it's better as it is; much better."

She spoke in an inward tone, looking vacantly out into the rain, and fumbling with the handle of her umbrella.

"But you'll come up and see him once in a while, at the Parsonage?"

Abbie shook her head. "No, no, Professor Valeyon; why should I? Do you suppose he wants to see me? do you suppose he's thought of me once since he went away? It would be a strange thing for an educated, intellectual, wealthy young man like him to do, wouldn't it?" asked Abbie, with a smile.

The professor's eyes met hers for a moment, and then she looked away. Presently she spoke again:

"I'd a great deal rather leave this world as I've lived in it, for the last twenty years and more, than run any risk of making a blunder. I don't want things to change, Professor Valeyon; but if they do, it musn't be through any act of mine, or yours either."

By this time they had arrived at the boarding-house; and the old gentleman, having seen Abbie safely in to the door, drove homeward, frowning all the way, and at intervals shaking his head slowly. When he got home, he shut himself into his study, and there paced restlessly backward and forward, and stared out of the window across the valley. That open spot on the hill-top seemed to afford little or no enlightenment or satisfaction; and when he sat down to his solitary dinner, the frown had not yet cleared away.

The next day the rain was over, and a cart was sent up to the parsonage, containing Bressant's books, and such other of his belongings as he would be likely to need during his illness; and, accompanying them, a note from Abbie, expressing her regret at his misfortune, and her hopes that he would return to his rooms at her house as soon as his health was sufficiently reestablished. The young man heard the note read, and congratulated himself, as he closed his eyes with a yawn, that he was not under his quondam landlady's ministrations.

But even the best circumstances could do little to lighten the insufferable tediousness of his confinement. Probably, however, such changes and modifications as may have been in progress in his nature, attained quicker and easier development by reason of his physical prostration. The alteration in his bodily habits and conditions paved the way for an analogous moral and mental process. The powers of a man are never annihilated; if dormant in one direction, they will be active in another; and thus Bressant's passions, naturally deep and violent, being denied legitimate outlet, had given vigor, endurance, and heat of purpose, to the prosecution of his intellectual exercises. But, as soon as these elements of his nature found their proper channels, they rushed onward with far more dash and fervor than if they had never been dammed or deflected.

The combined effect upon the young man of the companionship of a beautiful woman and his own broken bones, had been to make him feel and ponder on the nature of her power over him. The name of love was of course familiar to him, but he could hardly as yet, perhaps, grasp the full significance of the sentiment. Like other forms of knowledge, it must be approached by natural gradations. Here, if nowhere else, Bressant's life of purely intellectual activity was a disadvantage. His stand-points and views were artificial, speculative, and material. Love cannot be reduced to a formula, and then relinquished; nor is it ever safe to use, as pattern for an untried work, the plan whereby something else was accomplished. Life has need of many methods.

Nearly a week of musing and speculation had passed over the young man's head, when one day, as he was feeling unusually disconsolate, and wishing for unattainable things—Cornelia among others—he became aware, through some subtle channel of sensation, that somebody was standing in the door-way. He was lying in such a position that he could not see the door, so, after waiting a few moments, he exclaimed, with an invalid's irritability:

"Come in—or shut the door!"

"I'll come in, if you please," answered an amused voice, which, though soft and low, possessed a penetrating quality which made it easily audible to the deaf man. He had never heard it before; but either because of this quality, or for some other more occult reason, he conceived a most decided liking for it.

It's owner now became visible. She was a delicate-looking girl, with a pale, conch-shell complexion, brown hair as fine as silk, and pleasant, serene, gray eyes. She was dressed very simply in white, with a blue band across her hair, and a blue scarf and sash around throat and waist. Her face, though showing signs of quiet strength, and of a self-confidence which was the flower of maidenly modesty and innocence, was not beautiful according to any recognized standard. Bressant, from his intuitive perception of form and proportion, was aware of this. The forehead was too high, the nose irregular, the mouth lacked the perfect curve, and the teeth, though white and even, were not small enough for beauty.

Nevertheless, Bressant was at once impressed with the young girl's presence. It was as if an ethereal cloud—such as that which, shone through by white sunlight, was just floating past the window—had eddied unexpectedly into his chamber, cooling and quieting him with the freshness of its heavenly vapor. Her eyes met his with a simple directness which made his glance waver, though he was not given to humility. Something, whereof neither science nor philosophy can take cognizance, seemed to emanate from her, elevating while it humbled him.

"If I'd known who you were, I—I shouldn't have asked you to shut the door!" said he, in an apologetic tone quite new to him.

"And how do you know who I am?" inquired the vision, with a refreshing smile.

"I meant, what sort of a person you were; but you must be Miss Sophie: only I thought she was ill."

"I am Miss Sophie, but I'm not to be thought ill any more. One invalid in the house is enough. I'm going to nurse you, and, since I'm well, you may be twice as ill as ever, if you choose."

"Well!" said Bressant, quite resignedly. He was becoming a very respectable patient.

"In what way do you want to be taken care of?" resumed the nurse with a cheerful, business-like gravity which was at once becoming and piquant.

"Stay here and talk; I like to hear your voice: and you look so cool and pleasant."

Very few people could oppose this young man in any thing; he knew so well what he wanted, and demanded it so uncompromisingly. But Sophie's sense of fitness and propriety was as sound and impenetrable as adamant, and scarcely to be affected by any human will or consideration. She felt there was something not quite right in his manner and in the nature of his demand; and, being in the habit of making people conform to her ideas, rather than the reverse, she at once determined to correct him.

"If there's any thing you wish me to read to you, I'll do it. I didn't come to sit down and talk to you; but, if you like my voice, you can have more pleasure from it in that way."

"It would be no use for you to read: I couldn't understand—I couldn't attend to your voice and the book at the same time."

"We'd better wait, then," said Sophie, turning her clear, gray eyes upon him with an expression of demure satire. "By-and-by, perhaps, it won't have such a distracting effect upon you—when you come to know me better. If not, I must keep away altogether."

Bressant's forehead grew red with sudden temper. He felt reproved, but was not prepared to acknowledge that he had merited it.

"You're very generous of your voice!" exclaimed he, resentfully. "It's your fault, not mine, that it's agreeable. You're not so kind as your tone is."

"I don't mean to be unkind," said she, more gently, looking down. "You don't seem to see the difference between unkindness and—what I said."

"What is the difference?" demanded he, taking her up.

Sophie paused a few moments, compassionating this great, willful boy, and wondering what she could do for him. He had saved her father's life, thereby imperilling his own, and disabling himself, and she could not but admire and thank him for it. But his manner puzzled and annoyed her, and was an obstacle in the way of her would-be helpfulness.

"You wouldn't ask that question, I think, if you'd had sisters, or a mother," she said, at last. "I suppose you've lived only with men. But you must learn how to treat young women from your own sense of what is delicate and true."

Bressant stared and was silent: and Sophie herself was surprised at the authoritative tone she was assuming toward a bearded man whom she had never met before. But it was impossible to associate with Bressant without either yielding to him, or, at least, behaving differently from at other times, in one way or another. He was a magnet that drew from people things unsuspected by themselves.

The pause was finally broken by the young man's accepting the situation with a grace, and even docility, which was nearly too much for Sophie's gravity.

"If you'll read, I will listen and understand it: you'd better try the Bible. I have a great deal of work to do upon that, still: you'll find one on the table by the window."

She got the book, with whose contents she was considerably better acquainted than was the divinity student, and sat down to read, marveling at the oddness of the situation; while he lay apparently absorbed in the cracks on the ceiling. By degrees—for having carried her point she could not help being more gracious—she began to allow a little embroidery of conversation to weave itself about the sacred text She spoke to Bressant about such simple and ordinary matters as went to make up her life—the books she had read, the people she knew, the country round about, a few of her more inward thoughts. He listened, and said no more than enough to show he was attentive; sometimes making her laugh by the shrewdness of his questions, and the quaintness of his remarks.

But he said nothing more to bring a grave look into the eyes of his young nurse; and she, finding him so gentle and boyish, and withal manly and profound, chatted on with more confidence and freedom; and, being gifted with fineness and accuracy of observation, and a clear flow and order of language and ideas, made talking a delight and a profit.

There was nothing formal or didactic about Sophie, and her talk rippled forth as naturally and spontaneously as a brook trickles over its brown stones, or the over-hanging willows whisper in the wind. There was in it the unwearied and unweariable freshness of nature. And Sophie's vein of humor was as fine and pungent as the aroma of a lemon: it touched her words now and then, and made their flavor all the more acceptable.

So Bressant gained his end at last, though he had yielded it; and this fact was not lost upon the trained keenness of his observation. After his nurse was gone, he lay with closed eyes, and a general sensation of comfort, until he fell asleep. Quiet dreams came to him, such as children have sometimes, but grown-up people seldom. Everywhere he seemed to follow a cool, white cloud. But where was Cornelia?

AN UNTIMELY REMINISCENCE.

In spite of nursing and a very strong constitution, Bressant's recovery was slow. The fact was, his mind was restless and disturbed, and produced a fever in his blood. Large and powerful as he was, his physical was largely dependent on his mental well-being, as must always be the case with persons well organized throughout. He would never have been so muscular and healthy had his life not been an undisturbed and self-complacent one. These questions of the heart and emotions were not salutary to his body, however beneficial otherwise.

At the same time, no one is quite himself who is ill, and doubtless Bressant would have escaped many of his difficulties, and solved others with comparatively little trouble, if his faculties had not been untuned by illness. While he was more open to the influx of all these novel ideas and problems, he was less able to deal with and dispose of them. So the professor, while encouraged by the observation of his apparent progress in the direction of human feeling and emotional warmth, was concerned to find him falling off in recuperative power.

Sophie was largely to blame for it. Bressant was getting to depend too much upon her society. He brightened when she came in, and was gloomy when she went out. He liked to talk and argue with her; to dash waves of logic, impetuous but subtle, against the rock of her pure intuitions and steady consistency. He was careful not to go too far; though, indeed, she usually had the best of the encounter. Of course his knowledge and trained faculties far surpassed Sophie's simple acquirements and modest learning; but she had a marvelous penetration in seeing a fallacy, even when she knew not how to expose it; and she mercilessly pricked many of the conceited bubbles of his understanding.

Doubtless she would have noticed the too prominent position which she had come to occupy in the invalid's horizon, had not her eyes, so clear to see every thing else, been blinded by the fact that he, also, was grown to be of altogether too much importance to her. She never for a moment imagined that any thing but an abstract and ideal scheme for benefiting Bressant was actuating her in her intercourse with him. She proposed to educate him in pure beliefs and true aspirations; to show him that there was more in life than can be mathematically proved. But that she could derive other than an immaterial and impersonal enjoyment from it—oh, no!

This was quixotic and unpractical, if nothing worse. What other means of imparting spiritual knowledge could a young girl like Sophie have, than to exhibit to her pupil the structure and workings of her own soul? But this could not be done with impunity; neither was Bressant a cup, to be emptied and then refilled with a purer substance. Young men and women with exalted and ideal views about each other, cannot do better than to keep out of one another's way. Unless they are prepared to mingle a great deal of what is earthly with their dreams, they will be apt, sooner or later, to have a rude awakening.

The conceit of her ideal crusade against Bressant's shortcomings blinded Sophie to what she could not otherwise have helped seeing—that she enjoyed his companionship for its own immediate sake. She had, perhaps, more direct and simple strength of character than he; but he made up in other ways for the lack of it. Besides, he had not taken measures to obstruct the natural keenness of his vision, and therefore saw, with comparative clearness, how the land lay; an immense advantage over Sophie, of course. But when he came to analyzing and classifying what he saw, he found his intelligence at fault. That little episode with Cornelia was the only bit of experience he had to fall back upon; and that was more of a puzzle than an assistance to him.

Matters went on thus for about six weeks, at which time Bressant was still confined to his room, although decidedly convalescent. It had seemed to him for some time past that a crisis would soon be reached in his relations with Sophie, but what the upshot of it would be he could not conjecture. He only felt that at present something was concealed—that there were explanations and confessions to be made, which would have the effect of putting his young nurse and himself upon more open and intimate terms. He looked forward to this culmination with impatience, and yet with anxiety. One morning, when they had been reading Spenser's "Faerie Queene," Cornelia's weekly letter was brought in, and subsequently the conversation turned upon her.

"I used to think she was much more beautiful than you," remarked Bressant, thoughtfully, twisting and turning the palm-leaf fan he held in his hands. "I don't think, now, that I knew what beauty was," he added, concentrating his straight eyebrows upon Sophie, in a scrutinizing look.

"No one could be more beautiful than Neelie," said Sophie, with gentle emphasis. "What has made you change your opinion?" As she spoke, she closed the book on her lap, and leaned her cheek upon her hand. Some of the sunshine fell upon her white dress, but left her face in shadow. It struck Bressant, however, that the clear morning light which filled the room emanated from her eyes rather than from the sunshine.

"I don't know that I have changed my opinion," said he, looking down again at the fan; "I learn new things every day, that's all. Do you ever think about yourself?"

"I suppose I do, sometimes; nobody can help being conscious of themselves once in a while."

"About what you are, compared with other people, I mean."

"There's nothing peculiar about me; still, I may be different, in some ways, from other people," answered Sophie, with simplicity.

"I can judge better about that than you; there was some use in deafness, and being alone, and thinking only of fame, and such things."

"What use?" asked Sophie, leaning forward, with interest, for he had never spoken about his former life before.

"The same way that a man who never drinks has a more delicate sense of taste than a drunkard," returned Bressant, apparently pleased with his simile. "I've seen so little of women, that I can taste you more correctly than if I had seen a great many. Understand?"

Sophie did not answer, being somewhat thrown out by this new way of looking at the matter. There seemed to be some reason in it, too.

"If I'd associated with other people, I shouldn't have been sensitive enough to recognize you when we met; no one except me can know you or feel you," continued he, following out his idea.

Sophie began to feel a vague misgiving. What did this mean? What was going to be the end of it? Ought she to allow it to go on? And yet—most likely it meant nothing; it was only one of his queer fancies that he was elaborating. There did not seem to be any thing suspicious in his manner.

"It wasn't easy even for me," he resumed, throwing another glance at her; she sat with her eyes cast down, so that he could observe her with impunity. "It would have been impossible unless you had helped me to it. You have taught me yourself, even more than I have studied you."

Sophie started, and a look of terror, bewilderment, and passionate repudiation, lightened in her eyes. How dared he—how could he, say that? how so falsely misrepresent her actions, and misinterpret her purposes? Her mind went staggering back over the past, seeking for means of self-justification and defense. She had only meant to benefit him—to amplify and soften his character—to inspire him with more ideal views and aims; and to do this she had—what? Sophie paused, and shuddered. Could it, after all, be true? Had she, forgetful of maidenly modesty and reserve, opened to this man's eyes her secret soul? invited him into the privacy of her heart, to criticise and handle it?—invited him!—brought forward, and pressed upon his notice, the thoughts and impulses which she should scarcely have whispered even to herself? Had she done this?

"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 passion 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 abasement, 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 God'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 hoarse, 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 passionate 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 assurance 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 passion 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 God'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.

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 assembled 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 Saturdays 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 fortitude, 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 circumstances 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 superstitious idea—some lamentable misfortune would surely come to pass.

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 anticipation, 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 attitudes, 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 appetite, and ate stoutly to satisfy it; she even tasted a glass of Italian wine at dessert, upon the assurance 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 passed away most pleasantly.

But Cornelia was no fool, to be made a butt 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 appetites. To have been patronized and made fun of would have done her little or no harm; but in gratifying these appetites 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 Féval, 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 tête-à-tête 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, noble 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; "nobody 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 bass-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 embarrassed 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 passed 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! he has such a profound knowledge of medicine and surgery—all those things—so prudent, so careful! Still, a woman is a treasure, you know—a good, sensible, efficient woman is a host—oh, yes, in a sick-room. This boarding-house keeper, now—she's just such a person, I dare say—elderly, sober, experienced—a married woman, probably, with a large family, no doubt? Abbie, Abbie! what did you say her last name was, my love?"

Cornelia was so much amused at the idea of Abbie's being a married woman with a large family that she did not observe how Aunt Margaret, awaiting her answer, was all in a tremble. If she had not been laughing, she could scarcely have helped seeing how the ear-trumpet shook as it was presented to her.

"Oh, no," said she, "she's not married, Aunt Margaret—at least not now, though I believe she's a widow, or something of that kind, you know—and she hasn't any children at all! As to her other name, I don't know it, and I believe hardly any one does. You see, she's one of that queer sort of people; she's very quiet, and always grave, and nobody knows much about her, except that she's very good, and has lived in the village for twenty years and more. I believe, though, papa has met her before, or knows something about her in some way; but he never says any thing to us on the subject."

This was all that could be got out of Cornelia upon the topic of Abbie, and Mrs. Vanderplauck was obliged to swallow whatever uneasiness, curiosity, or misgiving she may have felt. In the midst of an exhortation to her young guest to repeat her visit daily to the boudoir, and regale her auntie with anecdotes of the dear old, interesting people in the village, Abbie and all, some one of the young ladies knocked at the door, and hurried Miss Valeyon off, without her having asked, as she had intended, for an explanation of the puzzling, metaphorical allusions.

Mrs. Vanderplanck, left to herself, rocked backward and forward in her chair, with her hands clasped over her forehead, much in the way that an insane person might have done.

"Who'd have thought it! who'd have thought it! In the very village—in the very house—of all places in the world!—in the very house!—and he laid up—can't be moved—can't be taken away. Why didn't I know?—why didn't I find out?—careless—stupid—thoughtless! Curse the woman! couldn't I have imagined that she'd never be far away from her dear professor—and we sent him there—we hid him away—we disguised his name—college was too public for him—let him finish his education in the country—and then we could escape away—to Germany—France—anywhere—and carry all the money with us—all the money!—half for me, and half for him!—and what'll become of it now? Curse the woman! I knew she couldn't be dead. But she sha'n't have the money—no! she sha'n't, she sha'n't!

"Is it possible, now?—could it be that that girl was deceiving me? Did she know the woman's name, after all?—no, no! she hasn't the face for it—no hypocrite in her yet—not yet, not yet! Well, but what if it's all a mistake?—Why not a mistake? why not?—tell me that! Plenty of women called Abbie, aren't there? Why shouldn't this be one of them—one of the others? No, but the professor had known her before—oh, yes!—known her before! and there's only one Abbie that the professor knew before! Curse her—curse her!

"Well, what if she is there? how will she know him? The professor won't tell her—he can't—he dare not tell her!—for I made him promise he wouldn't, and I've got his promise, written down—written down!—Ah! that was smart—that was smart! Yes, but the boy looks like his father!—that'll betray him!—she'll know him by that—know him? well, just as bad—yes, and worse too, in the end—worse! Oh! curse her!

"Never mind. I know how to manage. If the worst comes to the worst, I know what to do! And I must write to him—not now—as soon as he's well—he must come away. Even if it should turn out all a mistake, he must come away!—I'll write to him, as soon as he's well, that he must come away. And I'll question Cornelia again—ah! she's a handsome girl!—it's well I got her up here, out of the way!—I'll find out more from her. It may be a mistake, after all—it may, it may!"

While Aunt Margaret, sitting in her boudoir, thus took doubtful and disconnected counsel with herself, Cornelia was left to manage her little difficulties as best she might. Being tolerably quick in observing, and putting things together, and unwilling to trust to intuitive judgments of what was safe or unsafe in the moral atmosphere, she set to work with all her wits, and not without some measure of success, to fathom the secrets of the tantalizing freemasonry which piqued her curiosity. By listening to all that was said, laughing when others laughed, keeping silent when she was puzzled, comparing results and drawing deductions, she presently began to understand a good deal more than she had bargained for, was considerably shocked and disgusted, and perhaps felt desirous to unlearn what she had learned.

But this was not so easy. Things she would willingly have forgotten seemed, for that very reason, to stick in her memory—nay, in some moods of mind, to appear less entirely objectionable than in others. She had little opportunity for solitude—to bethink herself where she stood, and how she came there. During the daytime, there were the young ladies, here, there, and everywhere; there could be no seclusion. In the afternoons and evenings some admiring, soft-voiced young gentleman was always at her side, offering her his arm on the faintest pretext, or attempting to put it round her waist on no pretext at all; who always found it more convenient to murmur in her ear, than to speak out from a reasonable distance; whose hands were always getting into proximity with hers, and often attempting to clasp them; whose eyes were forever expressing something earnest or arch, pleading or romantic—though precisely what, his lingering utterance scarcely tried to define; who never could "see the harm" of these and many other peculiarities of behavior; and, indeed it was not very easy to argue about them, although the young gentlemen never shrank from the dispute, and never failed to have on hand an inexhaustible assortment of syllogisms to combat any remonstrance that might be advanced withal; while at the worst they could always be surprised and hurt if their conduct were called into question. Well, they appeared to be refined and high-bred. Compare them with Bill Reynolds! And the flattery of their attention, and the preference they gave her over the other girls, were not entirely lost upon Cornelia.

In the absence of both gentlemen and ladies, there, on an easily-accessible shelf in the library, were those works of Dumas, Féval, and the rest, to which Cornelia's attention had been indirectly invited. She had a sound knowledge of the French language, and an ardent love of fiction, and beyond question the books were of absorbing interest.

At first, indeed, Cornelia, as she read, would ever and anon blush, and look around apprehensively, for fear there should be an observer somewhere; and this, too, at passages which a week before she would have passed over without noticing, because not understanding them. If any one appeared, she hid the book away in the folds of her dress, or under the sofa-cushion, and put on the air of having just awakened from a nap. By-and-by, however, when she had become a little used to the tone of the works, and had asked herself, what were the books put there for, unless to be read, she plucked up courage, as her young friends would have said—albeit angels might have wept at it—and overcame her notions so far as to be able to take down from its shelf and become deeply interested in one of the Frenchiest of the set, while three or four people were sitting in the library!

A triumph that! Howbeit, when she went to bed that night there was a persistent pain of dry unhappiness in her heart, and a self-contemptuous feeling, which she tried to get the better of by calling it ennui. But in time a kind of hardness, at once flexible and impenetrable, began to encase her, rendering her course more easy, less liable to embarrassment, more self-confident than before.

At length a crisis was brought on by the attempt of the boldest of her admirers to kiss her. She repelled him passionately, facing him with gleaming eyes, and lips white with anger and disgust. He was surprised, at first—then angry; but she spoke to him in a way that cowed, and finally almost made him ashamed of himself. He even went so far, afterward, as to try to knock a fellow down for speaking disrespectfully of "Neelie." For her own part, she locked herself into her room, and cried tempestuously for half an hour; then she spent a still longer time in lying with her heated face upon the pillow, reviewing the incidents of her life since Bressant had entered into it. He was the superior of any man she had met before or since: she was sure of it now; it could no longer be called the infatuation of inexperience. She took herself well to task for the recent laxity and imprudence of her conduct; did not spare to cut where the flesh was tender; and resolved never again to lay herself open to blame.

This was very well, but the mood was too strained and exalted to be depended upon. Cornelia got up from the disordered bed, put it to rights again, washed her stained face carefully, rearranged her hair, and went down-stairs. All that afternoon she was cold, grave, and reserved; inquiries after her health met with a chilling answer, and her friends wisely concluded to leave her malady, whatever it were, to the cure of time. As dinner progressed, Cornelia began to thaw: when Mr. Grumblow, the member of Congress, requested her, with solemn and oppressive courtesy, to do him the honor of taking a glass of wine with him, she responded graciously; and as the toasts circulated, she first looked upon her ideal resolves with good-humored tolerance, and then they escaped her memory altogether. She became once more lively and sparkling, and carried on what she imagined was a very brilliant conversation with two or three people at once. By the time she was ready to retire, she had practised anew the whole list of her lately-abrogated accomplishments; and she wound up by picking the French novel out of the corner into which she had disdainfully thrown it twelve hours before, reading it in bed until she fell asleep, and dreaming that she was its heroine. And yet she had not forgotten to wind up Bressant's watch, and put it in its usual place under her pillow.

It might seem strange that his memory should not have kept her beyond the reach of deleterious influences. But a young girl's love is any thing but a preservative, if it shall yield her, in any aspect, other than such pure and delicate thoughts as she would not scruple to whisper in her mother's ear, or to ask God's blessing on at night. Should there be any circumstance or incident, however seemingly trifling and unimportant, in her reminiscences, which nevertheless keeps recurring to the mind with a slight twinge of regret—a feeling that it would have been just as well had it never happened—then is love a dangerous companion. Gradually does the trifling spot grow upon her; in trying to justify it, she succeeds only in lowering the whole idea of love to its level; and this once accomplished, in all future intercourse with her lover she must be undefended by the shield of her maidenly integrity. And not all men are great enough not to presume on woman's weakness, even though it be that woman, to assert whose honor and purity they would risk their lives against the world.

Some such quality of earthiness Cornelia may have felt in the course of her acquaintance with Bressant, preventing her love from ennobling and elevating her. Alas! if it were so. If she cannot draw a high inspiration from the affection which must be her loftiest sentiment, what shall be her safeguard, and who her champion?

In the course of ten days or a fortnight, Aunt Margaret announced that the condition of her head would admit of traveling, and the long-expected tour began. But the more important consequences of Cornelia's fashionable experiences had already taken place.

SOPHIE'S CONFESSION.

Sophie did not stay long in the invalid's room after the awakening they had undergone with respect to one another. She went instinctively to her father's study, and, entering the open door, kissed the old man ere he was well aware of her presence. He took her affectionately upon his knee, and hugged her up to him with homely tenderness.

"My precious little daughter!" quoth he; "what would your old father do without you?"

"Am I so much to you, papa?" asked she, with her cheek resting upon his shoulder.

"Very much—very much, Sophie: too much, perhaps; for I don't see how I could bear to lose you."

"Do you mean to have me die, papa?"

"How is your sick boy getting along?" returned the professor, clearing his throat, and not seeming to hear his daughter's words.

Sophie caught a breath, and paled a little at the thought of the news she had to tell about the sick boy. Her father had just told her she was precious to him, and she felt that to be married might involve a separation virtually as complete as that of death, and perhaps harder to bear. But, again, she needed his sympathy and approval: and, sooner or later, he must hear the truth. She was not, perhaps, aware that etiquette should have closed her lips upon the subject until after Bressant had spoken to the professor; at all events, she had no intention of delegating or postponing her confidence.

"He seemed quite well when I left him. I have been having a—talk with him, papa."

"He begins to show the effects of being talked to by you, my dear. You're a wise little woman in some ways, that's certain! and have done him good in more ways than one," said papa, with parental complacency.

Sophie shrank at this, remembering how lately she had fed herself with the same idea. She had learned a great deal about herself since discovering how little of herself she knew.

"He is a—man!" said she, trying to throw into the word an expression of its best and loftiest meaning. "I can do very little to help him."

"Hope to see him a man some day, my dear," returned the professor, gathering his eyebrows. "Has a great many faults at present. Why, in some respects, he's as ignorant and inexperienced as a child. Very one-sided affair still, I fear, that soul of his!"

"One-sided, papa?"

"Yes: don't believe it would carry him very far toward heaven, as it is now," said the old gentleman, whose severity of judgment was cultivated in this instance as a preservative against possible disappointment. "He needs melting in a crucible."

"What does that mean?"

"If you weren't a wise little woman, as I said, I shouldn't be talking about my pupil's character and management with you, my dear. But I can trust you as well as if you were forty;" and here he gave her another little hug, which made Sophie feel like a receiver of stolen goods. "Well, now, theorizing won't do a young fellow like that much good. He needs something real—that he can take hold of, and that'll take hold of him. You and I can't give it him—not more than an impetus in the right direction, at any rate. But the only thing that can make his future tolerably secure—make it safe to count upon him (or upon any other man, for that matter), is for him to fall heartily and soundly in love, in the old-fashioned way, and with a strong-hearted, worthy woman."

"O papa! do you really think marriage will help him to be greater and better?"

"It's the only thing for him, my dear," said Professor Valeyon; and, although he was looking his guilty little daughter straight in the face, and at such short range, too, this would-be sharp-sighted old man of wisdom never thought to ask himself why she blushed so. "As soon as he gets well again, I must see to getting him somewhere where he can have a chance to profit by what we have done for him."

"Papa," said Sophie, sitting up, and stroking the old gentleman's white beard, "you don't know how happy it makes me to hear you think that to love and to be loved will be good for him."

"So anxious to get rid of him, eh?"

"No; oh! papa, don't you see? it's because—because I never want to get rid of him!" and Sophie, catching her father suddenly around the neck, hid her face in his linen coat-collar.

The professor, his features discharged of all expression, sat stone-still, looking straight before him. Had Death been embracing him, instead of his daughter, he could hardly have been struck more motionless. Existence, spiritual as well as physical, seemed for a space to have come to a stand-still.

By-and-by, startled at his silence, Sophie raised her head and looked at him with alarmed eyes. With an effort, he turned his face toward her, and smiled as naturally as though his mouth had been frozen.

"I'm an old man, you see, my dear: a surprise like this makes me feel it," he made shift to say, in an uncertain voice. "So—you're engaged to each other?"

"We're waiting for you to say we may be, papa."

"It is right—it is just!" said the professor, solemnly, though still with a sluggish utterance. "I sought to glorify God to the end of mine own glorification, and lo! He hath taken from me my own heart's blood!" Swept off his feet by the profundity of his emotion, the ministerial form of speech, so long disused, rose naturally to the old man's lips.

But presently, the paralyzing effect of the shock beginning to wear off, he drew a few long breaths, and found himself growing very hot. He took out his handkerchief and wiped away the perspiration that had gathered on his forehead. Then he took his little daughter strongly yet tremblingly to his heart, and kissed her more than once.

"God bless you! my darling—my Sophie—you're my Sophie still, if you are in love with that—great overgrown rascal. I'm a fool—an old fool! Well—and how long has this been going on between you, my darling?"

Sophie's heart, which, in the passionate tumult of her recent interview with her lover, had remained so steady and unfaltering, began now to beat with such violence as to impede her utterance and visibly to shake her. She was resolved to show herself to her father even as she was.

"I hardly can say how long, papa—I think—I think it must have been a—a long time—at least, on my side. Oh! I have been so false—so false to myself, and so unwomanly! I have courted him, papa—I, papa—think of it! I've thrown myself in his way, and—and made him interested in me; and talked to him about things that—no one but his mother, or you, should have done. Poor fellow!—I've forced myself upon him, papa. I took advantage of his illness and helplessness, and pretended all the time I was thinking only of his spiritual welfare, and—and not of—of any thing else. That was the wickedest part. And yet, somehow, I deceived myself too—or, rather, I wouldn't see the truth: and I didn't know—papa, I really believe I didn't know that I—loved him, till he—till he began to speak of it; then it seemed suddenly to fill all my heart, as if it had always lived there. For I succeeded, papa: I've won his love, and, oh! he loves me so! he loves me so! and so I've found my punishment in my happiness. God is so just and good. The happier his love makes me, you see, the more I shall be humbled to think how it became mine. It is well for me, for I was proud and reserved and full of self-conceit. And you really think it will not hurt him to love me, and to have me love him, papa?"

"Stuff and nonsense!" growled the old gentleman, testily; "hurt him!"

But the professor was really a very wise man, in spite of his occasional blindness; and he refrained from showing Sophie the exaggeration and distortion which marked the view she took of her conduct. He saw it would involve lowering the high integrity of her ideal conceptions respecting delicacy and honor—hardly worth while, merely for the sake of explaining the distinction between a trifling piece of self-deception and mistaken vanity, and the severe and unrelenting sentence which Sophie had passed upon herself. Meanwhile, every word she had uttered had been an indirect, but none the less telling blow upon a sore place in his own conscience. It was long since Professor Valeyon had stood so low in his own self-esteem.

They sat awhile in silence, Sophie nestling up to her father as if seeking protection from the very love that had come to her; and he sighed, and sighed again, and coughed, and pulled his nose and his beard, and finally blew his nose. Then, depositing Sophie upon her feet, he got slowly up, stretched himself, and went for his pipe.

"Run off, my dear. Go up in your room, or out in the garden, or somewhere. I must be alone a little while, you know; must think it all over, and see how things stand. Besides, I must step in and see this fellow who's going to rob me of my daughter, and tell him what I think of him. Come, off with you!"

"You'll be happy about it—you'll forgive us, won't you, papa?" she said, turning at the door.

The old gentleman shuffled heavily up to her, and kissed her on the forehead.

"God bless you, and God's will be done, my darling!" said he; but at that moment he could say no more.

An hour afterward, however, when the professor knocked the ashes out of his second pipe, and laid his hand upon the latch of Bressant's door, the expression upon his strongly-cut features was neither gloomy nor severe. There was a look in his eyes of benignant sweetness, all the more impressive because it made one wonder how it could find a place beneath such stern eyebrows and so deeply lined a forehead. But, cutting off an offending right hand, although a bitter piece of work enough for the time being, may, in its after-effect, work as gracious a miracle in an older and more forbidding gentleman even than Professor Valeyon.