Bressant Part 5

A mosquito, which, after considerable reconnoitring, had settled upon Bressant's broad hand, had sacrificed its life to rescue Cornelia from her dilemma.

Bressant felt the soft, warm fingers strike smartly, and then begin to remove, cautiously and slowly, because the mosquito was possibly not dead after all. What was the matter with the young man? His blood and senses seemed to quiver and tingle with a sensation at once delicious and confusing. In the same instant, he had seized the soft, warm fingers in both his hands, and pressed them convulsively and almost fiercely.

Cornelia very naturally cried out, and sprang to her feet. Bressant, it would seem not so naturally, did the same thing, and with the air of being to the full as much astonished and startled as she.

"What do you mean, sir? how dare you--?" she said, paling after her first deep flush.

He looked at her, and then at his own hand, on which the accommodating mosquito was artistically flattened, and then at her again, with a slight, interrogative frown.

"How did it happen? What was it? I didn't mean it!"

Cornelia was quite at a loss what to do or say under such extraordinary circ.u.mstances. She felt short of breath and indignant; but she had never heard of a young man's questioning a lady as to how he had come to take a liberty with her. As she stood thus confounded, her unfortunate perception of the ludicrous betrayed her once more; but this time her recent shock played a part in it, and came very near producing a bad fit of hysterics. Bressant looked on without a word or a motion.

In less than a minute, for Cornelia's nerves were very strong, and had never been overtaxed, she had regained command of herself. Bressant was standing between her and the house, and she pointed up the path.

"Please go home as quickly as possible."

Off he walked, with every symptom of readiness and relief. Cornelia followed after, but, when she reached the house, she found her papa staring inquiringly out of his study-door; the uncanny pupil in divinity had disappeared.

CHAPTER VI.

CORNELIA BEGINS TO UNDO A KNOT.

Bressant, to do him justice--for he was, on the whole, rather apt to be polite than otherwise, in his way--entirely forgot the professor's existence for the time being. He was too self-absorbed to think of other people. He thought he was bewitched, and felt a strong and healthy impulse to throw off the witchery before doing any thing else. He sprang up the steps, across the balcony, traversed the hall with a quick tramp that shook the house, s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat from the old hat-tree, came down upon the porch-step (which creaked in a paroxysm of reproach at his unaccustomed weight), and, in another moment, stood outside the Parsonage-gate, which, to save time, he had leaped, instead of opening.

The road was white no longer, but brown and moist. The sky overhead was deep purple, and full of stars. The air wafted about hither and thither in little, cool, damp puffs, which were a luxury to inhale. Bressant drew in two or three long lungfuls; then, setting his round straw hat more firmly on his head, he leaned slightly forward, and launched himself into a long, swinging run.

To run gracefully and well is a rare accomplishment, for it demands a particularly well-adjusted physical organization, great strength, and a deep breath-reservoir. Bressant's body poised itself lightly between the hips, and swayed slightly, but easily, from side to side at each spring. The knees alternately caught the weight without swerving, and s.h.i.+fted it, with an elastic toss, from one to the other. The feet came down sharp and firm, and springily spurned the road in a rapid though rhythmical succession. In a few moments, the turn around the spur of the hill was reached, and the runner was well settled down to his pace.

The stone-fences, the occasional apple-trees, the bushes and bits of rock bordering the road, slipped by half seen. The full use of the eyes was required for the path in front, rough as it was with loose stones, and seamed with irregular ruts. Easy work enough, however, as long as it remained level, and open to the starlight. But, some distance beyond, there dipped a pretty abrupt slope, and here was need for care and quickness. Sometimes a step fell short, or struck one side, to avoid a stone, or lengthened out to overpa.s.s it. The whole body was thrown more back, and the heels dug solidly into the earth, at each downward leap.

Here and there, where the incline was steeper, four or five foot-tramps followed rapidly upon each other; and then, gathering himself up, with a sudden, strong clutch, as it were, the young man continued on as before.

Thus the slope was left behind; and now began a low, long stretch, lying between meadows, overshadowed by a bordering of willow-trees, and studded with lengths of surrept.i.tious puddles, for the ground was clayey, and the rain was unabsorbed. As Bressant entered upon it, he felt the cold moisture of the air meet his warm face refres.h.i.+ngly; he was breathing deep and regularly, and now let himself out to a yet swifter pace than before.

The willow-trees started suddenly from the forward darkness, and vanished past in a dusky twinkling. The road seemed drawn in swift, smooth lines from beneath his feet, he moving as in a mighty treadmill.

The breeze softly smote his forehead, and whispered past his ears. Now he rose lightly in the air over an unexpected puddle, striking the farther side with feet together, and so on again. Twice or thrice, his steps sounded hollowly over a plank bridging. At a distance, steadily approaching, appeared the outlet, light against the dark willow setting.

When it was reached, ensued a rough acclivity, hard for knees and lungs, winding upward for a considerable distance. Up the runner went, with seemingly untired activity, and the stones and sand spurted from beneath his ascending feet. The air became drier and warmer again as he mounted, and the meadows slept beneath him in their clammy darkness.

Near the brow of the hill stood a farm-house, black against the sky.

Bressant marked the light through the curtained window, dimly bringing out a transverse strip of road; the pump standing over its trough with uplifted arm and dangling cup; the rambling shed, with the wagon half hidden beneath it; the barn, with blank windowless front, and s.h.i.+ngled roof. A dog barked sharply at him, as he echoed by, but inaudibly to Bressant's ears. Presently a raised sidewalk divided off from the road, affording a smoother course; the outlying houses of the village slipped past one after another; a white picket-fence twittered indistinguishably by. The runner was nearing the end of his journey, and now leaned a little farther forward, and his feet fell in a quicker rhythm than ever.

At the beginning of the village street stood the corner grocery; a wooden awning in front, some men loafing at the door, who looked up as the sound of Bressant's pa.s.sing struck their ears; within, an indistinct vision of barrels of produce, hams pendent from the dusky ceiling, some brooms in a corner, and a big cheese upon the counter. Next succeeded the series of adjoining shop-fronts, with their various windows, signs, and styles; all wooden and clap-boarded, however, except the fire-engine house, of red brick, with its wide central door and boarded slope to the street. Bressant's steps echoed closely back from between the buildings; once he clattered sharply over a stretch of brick sidewalk; once dodged aside to avoid overrunning a dark-figured man. The village was left behind; yonder stood the boarding-house, dimly white and irregular of outline; he remembered it from the glimpse he had had in pa.s.sing on his way from the depot. In a few quick moments more he stood before the door, glowing warm, from head to foot, drawing his deep breath easily, his blood flowing in full, steady beats through heart and veins. He took off his hat, pa.s.sed his handkerchief over forehead and face, and then pulled the tinkling door-bell. A fat Irish girl presently appeared, and ushered him in with a stare and a grin, wiping her hands upon her ap.r.o.n.

Meanwhile Cornelia, having said a few words to her father to excuse Bressant's unceremonious departure--she refrained instinctively from letting him know what had actually taken place--bade him good-night, and went up-stairs with a more sober step than was her wont. She tapped at Sophie's door, and stayed just long enough to make the necessary arrangements for the night. Sophie, being drowsy, asked but few questions, and received brief replies. When Cornelia reached her own room, she closed the door with a feeling of relief. It had never been her habit to fasten her door; but to-night, after advancing a few paces into the chamber, she hesitated, turned back, and drew the bolt. Then, having hastily pulled down the curtains, she seemed for the first time to be free from a sensation of restraint.

She walked up to the dressing-table, which was covered with a disorderly medley of a young lady's toilet articles--comb and brush, a paper of pins, ribbons, a brooch, little vase for rings, an open purse, a soiled handkerchief--and began mechanically to undo her hair, and shake out the braids. It was dark-brown hair, not soft and delicately fine like Sophie's, but vigorous and crisp, each hair seeming to be distinct, and yet harmonizing with the rest. As it was loosened and fell voluminously spreading over her shoulders, she paused, resting against the table, and looked at her face in the gla.s.s with critical earnestness. The candle, standing at one side of the mirror, cast soft and deep shadows beneath the darkly-defined eyebrows, and against the straight line of the nose, and around the clear, short curves of the mouth and upper lip. The light rested tenderly on her firm, oval cheeks, so deep-toned, yet pale, and brought out an almost invisible dimple on each cheek-bone beneath the eye, usually only to be distinguished when she laughed or smiled. The forehead, so far as it could be seen beneath the hair, was smooth and straight, neither high nor especially wide. The ears were small and white, but rather too much cut away below to be in perfect proportion.

Over all seemed spread a mellow, rich, transparent, laughing medium, that was better than beauty, and without which beauty would have seemed cold and tame, or at least pa.s.sionless. There was a delicate mystery in the face, too, not conscious or self-woven, but of that impalpable and involuntary sort which sometimes looks from the eyes of young unmarried women, whose natures have developed sweetly and freely, without warping or forcing. It has nothing to do with religion, nor with what we commonly understand by spirit. It is not to be described or a.n.a.lyzed; like the blue of heaven, it is the infinitely elusive property which is the very secret and necessity of its existence.

Cornelia looked searchingly at this face, and, though much of its subtlest charm must necessarily have been lost upon her, she saw a great deal that gave her pleasure. She had never been subjected to that awakening but coa.r.s.ening process which teaches a girl to call herself a beauty; but there is a certain amount of instinctive perception, in these matters, and she could not but know that what had virtue to gratify her would not lack in effect over others. Nor was she in the habit of taking stock of herself in the looking-gla.s.s; only to-night she seemed to have an especial motive in making or renewing her own acquaintance.

At length she dropped her eyes, and, with nimble fingers and swiftly-applied hair-pins, wound up her hair into its nocturnal knot.

She removed her ear-rings and rings, and put them into the vase; but here reverie overtook her once more, and held her in a meditative half-smile, until consciousness revived, and startled the blood into her cheeks. She walked over to her little sofa, with dispatch and business in her step, and sat down to unlace her boots.

There is something in these little ever-recurring actions, however--these things which we do so often as to do them unconsciously--which predisposes to thought and reflection. Cornelia, having untied the knot, had not got farther than the fourth hole from the top, her eyes meanwhile wandering slowly around the picturesque but rather disorderly little room, before she became dreamily interested in watching the shadow of a neck-scarf she had hung upon the support of the looking-gla.s.s, projected upon the wall by the flickering light of the candle. As she looked, her fingers began to labor upon the boot-lace, and her eyes grew gradually larger and darker. Occasionally there were little quiverings of the upper and under lids, barely perceptible movements of the tip of the nose and the nostrils, and twitching at the mouth-corners. By-and-by the twitchings resolved themselves into a smile, very faint and far away at first, but broadening and brightening every moment; now, the dimples were visible at half a glance, and now, upon the still air of the chamber, there rippled forth--

Cornelia put her hand to her mouth, and gave a quick, furtive glance over her shoulder, as if in fear lest some one might have overheard her.

She recollected with some relief that the door was locked at any rate, and the curtains down. But, for all that, as she realized what she had been thinking about, and how very far her papa or Sophie would be from laughing if they were told about it, she felt her cheeks tingle, and could not be busy enough with that boot-lace!

There! that was off; now for the other. What a queer man he was, though!

Could all that have been put on in the garden--pretending he didn't know! (This was such a tiresome old knot!) If she only hadn't been such a goose and laughed--what must he think? What could have been the reason he rushed off in such a hurry? Probably was afraid she'd tell papa, and then he couldn't be his pupil. Suppose she should tell! that would be mean, though. Perhaps he didn't intend it, after all. He seemed nice in some ways, though he was so queer. Very likely it was only a sort of spasm--an electric, magnetic thing--she had heard of something of the sort. Yes, and she had felt funny herself that evening--a numb, quivery, p.r.i.c.kly kind of sensation: it may have been the thunder-storm! It was strange, though; she never remembered to have felt it before. She wondered whether Mr. Bressant ever had. Perhaps deaf people were more subject to it. What a pity he should be deaf! It made it so awfully embarra.s.sing to talk to him sometimes. It must be dreadful for them to be in love with anybody. Imagine having to talk in that way to a deaf person! or being--

This time it was the candle which took upon itself the task of warning and censors.h.i.+p. It flickered, flared, gasped, and went out. It was a very pathetic, and, it is to be hoped, effective way of remonstrance.

But the last thing seen of Cornelia, she was sitting on the sofa, leaning carelessly forward, one hand holding her curved, little, booted foot, the knot still untied, her eyes fixed dreamily on nothing, the half-smile flickering on her lips, and the womanly contours of her figure doubtfully lighted and darkly shaded by the uncertain candle-light.

CHAPTER VII.

PROFESSOR VALEYON MAKES A CALL.

The morning following Bressant's arrival was clear and cool. Professor Valeyon looked out of the window of his bedroom, which was at the garden-end of the house, and opposite Cornelia's, and saw the cold, white mists lying in the valley, and the rough hills, like islands, lifting their dark shoulders above it.

As he looked, the sun, having climbed a few inches above the eastern uplands, let a bright glance fall right upon the open spot at the summit of the professor's favorite hill. A few minutes afterward he poured a golden flood into the valley, carrying consternation to the delaying vapors, insomuch that they straightway put themselves into commotion preparatory to departure. No spare time was allowed them; some were bundled off into the dark gullies and pa.s.ses of the hills; others betook themselves hastily to that side of the valley which was yet in shadow, to sleep a few moments beyond the legitimate time; others still, finding escape impossible, rose heavenward like a mighty incense, and were by the sun converted into something wellnigh as glorious as himself.

"Good simile for a sermon, that! turning persecution into a means of glorification!" thought the professor, recurring to the days of his pastors.h.i.+p.

As may be inferred, the old gentleman was in the habit of getting up early; a praiseworthy practice, but one so universal with elderly people as to suggest a doubt of its being entirely a voluntary virtue. Be that as it may, the professor was up, and proceeded to set his blood in motion over a wash-bowl. His toilet was not so intricate and serious a matter as it might have been forty years or so previous, but was nevertheless a duty most scrupulously and conscientiously performed, from June to December, and round again. The last thing attended to before putting on his coat was always carefully to brush and dispose his hair. Until within two or three years, he had been able to keep up appearances by coaxing a gray rift across the top of the bald place; but it had grown month by month thinner and grayer, and more difficult to keep in position, until at last he had bravely told himself it was a vanity and a delusion, and had consigned it to obscurity and oblivion among the rusty side-locks which still st.u.r.dily surrounded the naked and inaccessible summit. Since that time he had occasionally allowed his thoughts to revert to it regretfully, though not bitterly nor rebelliously.

But, on this particular morning, he stood, brush in hand, before his looking-gla.s.s with an expression upon his elderly features at once undecided, wistful, and shame-faced; detached, after a short search, a few frosty spears from the a.s.sortment at the left side of his head; scrutinized them anxiously for a moment, and then, by the aid of a little water, and cautious brus.h.i.+ng and pulling, succeeded in spatting them down into their long-abandoned place.

"I'm an old fool, that's certain!" muttered he, as, after a final surrept.i.tious sort of glance at the unaccustomed embellishment, he turned away. "But then I don't go out calling every day!"

He slipped on his coat, opened his door, and descended the stairs with his usual solid deliberation. As he emerged upon the balcony, the suns.h.i.+ne had just lighted up the tree-tops in the garden, but a little nest of white mist still rested upon the fountain, whose indefatigably small gabble could be heard proceeding mysteriously from the centre thereof. A few large, thin mosquitoes, cold and portentously hungry from their all-night's fast, came swooping at the professor with shrieks of dismal tenuity, intending to get a warm breakfast out of him. But he had had large experience in dealing with such gentry, and, so far from standing treat, he slew several and threw the rest into confusion.

"And now," said he to himself, as he descended the steps, "I'll take a look at Dolly; Michael hasn't let out Lady Bountiful or the hens yet, I suspect."

The barn lay in a separate enclosure to the west of the garden; it was a primitive structure enough, but had been refitted within so as to afford accommodation for the family steed and the cow. The former, Dolly, was a well-preserved bay, neatly put together, and, had the professor been so inclined, she might have become a celebrity in her day. As it was, she had seen no more stirring duty than to convey her owner to and from church, during the years of his ministrations there; to draw the plow and the hay-cart occasionally, and to gallop over the rough country roads beneath the side-saddle, for the benefit of Cornelia or Sophie.

She was at this time about fifteen years old, but still retained much of the spirit of her best days, and not unfrequently gave the professor some pains to keep her within bounds.

He threw open the barn-door, and forth upon the crisp air floated the close, sweet smell of hay and cow's breath. Some swallows twittered and glanced up near the dark roof, as smart and wide-awake as if they had not just been startled out of bed. The sun, s.h.i.+ning through the cracks and knot-holes into the dusky interior, drew lines of dusty light across the darkness. A hen, that had escaped from the coop and got up into the hay-loft to lay an egg, set up a strongly-remonstrative cackle against being disturbed in so interesting a proceeding. Lady Bountiful lowed argumentatively, and Dolly stamped, wagged her head knowingly up and down, and then shook it with a whinny. The professor patted her neck and smoothed down her nose.

"Need some exercise, don't you, old girl?" quoth he, looking pleasantly upon her. "All right! we'll go down-town after breakfast. Yes! we'll make a call on Abbie." So saying, he pulled down some fresh hay, and left her to champ it; then, picking his way across the uneven floor to where the white and horned countenance of Lady Bountiful was thrust through the bars of her stall, he slipped her halter and let her out into the meadow. Having examined the wagon, to make sure it was in proper order, he concluded his labors by throwing open the hen-coop, out of which immediately hastened a troop of indignant and astonished fowls, led by a rooster, who seemed always to be vacillating between insufferable masculine arrogance and an effeminate curiosity and avarice.

By the time Professor Valeyon had remounted the granite steps, he was quite ready to do justice to his breakfast. Cornelia came singing down-stairs, with a full-blown tea-rose in her hair, and looking as if she had already breakfasted upon the greater part of the day's suns.h.i.+ne.