Bressant Part 6

She reported Sophie to be awake and comfortable, so the gentleman climbed up-stairs and shuffled into her peaceful, rose-colored room to give her a morning kiss. The Lord's Prayer glowed forth as brightly from the wall as if it had been p.r.o.nounced for the first time that day.

"Well, heard all about my new pupil from Cornelia, I suppose?" said papa, when the kiss had been given, sitting down by the bedside, and holding his daughter's pale, slender hand in his own.

"He who came last evening? No, I've not seen Neelie to speak to her, since he was here. What is he to be taught?"

"Wants to be a minister," replied the professor, rubbing his beard.

"Shall do what I can for him, because he's the son of a former friend, now dead. I'm afraid he won't do, though. Needs a good deal besides Hebrew and history."

"But you can give him all he does need, papa," rejoined Sophie, with serene faith in the old gentleman's infallibility.

"I don't know," returned he, his eyes resting upon the Lord's Prayer. "I don't know," he repeated, turning them to his daughter's transparent face, which seemed almost an incarnation of the divine words. "I think, my dear, that you could put some ideas into his head that would do him more good than any thing I can give him;" and he smiled gravely upon her.

"All right, papa," said Sophie, gayly, with a tender kindling of her soft, gray eyes. "Nothing could make me happier than to do good to somebody. As soon as I get well enough, I'll take him under my charge."

Her manner was playful, but there was a vibration in her tone which caught the professor's ear, and conveyed to him the idea that there was an unseen depth of yearning and pa.s.sionate desire to be something more than an invalid, selfish and helpless, during her earthly life; an inheritance, perhaps, of the apostolic spirit which had played a not inconsiderable part in the history of his own life. And surely, he may have thought, there never was human being better qualified than she to inspire to high and pure simplicity of life and thought, were it merely by the example of her own. And would it not be a strange and beautiful thing, if this beloved daughter of his should be the means of turning to worthier and truer ambitions a man whom, of all others, he had reason to wish honored and respected among mankind! It was a very alluring thought, and the professor quite lost himself for a few moments in the contemplation of it. He did not reflect, and Sophie could not know, that there might be danger in the prosecution of such a scheme; for, all the knowledge which a young girl like her can have or impart, must find its ultimate origin in the heart. But then, again, the matter had taken no definite or practical shape in his mind as yet, and things which in the abstract may wear an appearance of being highly desirable often put on quite a different look when presented in concrete form. This would be especially the case with a man like Professor Valeyon, who was half a dreamer, and half a practical, common-sensible individual. With Sophie, however, whose whole life was necessarily a tissue of delicate and high-wrought theories, there was no safeguard of the kind to be relied upon.

No more conversation was had upon the subject at that time. The professor went down to his breakfast, and, having disposed of it with good appet.i.te, and smoked his morning-pipe with quiet satisfaction, Michael brought Dolly and the wagon round to the front door, the old gentleman clambered in, and off they rattled to Abbie's boarding-house.

This "Abbie," as she was called in the village--indeed, not more than one in a hundred knew her other name--had long been an inst.i.tution among the townspeople. When she first became a resident was uncertain: some said more, some less than twenty years ago. Certain it was, at all events, that she had grown, during her sojourn there, from a young and comely, though sober-faced woman, to considerably more than middle age; though time had perhaps used her less kindly than most women in her situation in life, which is saying a good deal. No one could tell where she came from, or what her previous life had been. She had first made her appearance as purchaser of the house in which she had ever since lived, and kept boarders. She was uncommunicative, without seeming offensively reserved; quietly tenacious of her rights, though far from grasping or aggressive, and was endowed with decided executive ability.

She had made a most unexceptionable landlady; one or two of her boarders had been with her almost since the inception of her enterprise; while all the better cla.s.s of transient visitors to the village, which had a moderate popularity as a summer resort, made their first application for rooms to her.

Some ten or twelve years after her establishment, Professor Valeyon and his family had moved into town. They had not taken up their quarters at Abbie's, though she could easily have accommodated them, as far as room went; a circ.u.mstance which caused all the more surprise in some quarters, because there seemed to have been some previous acquaintance between herself and the professor. But Abbie was even less talkative upon this than upon other subjects; and no one ventured to catechise the grave and forcible-looking man who was the only other source of possible information. After a time, he settled in the house which subsequently became the parsonage; and, since no particular relations were kept up between his family and the boarding-house keeper, curiosity and comment died a natural death, and it even came to be doubted whether they ever had met each other before, after all.

Abbie, at the present time, was a taciturn personage, neither tall nor short, stout nor thin. Her eyebrows were straight and strongly marked, and much darker than her hair, which, indeed, had begun to turn gray several years before. There was nothing especially noticeable in her other features, except that the lips were habitually compressed, and the chin so square-cut and firm as to be almost masculine. A good many little wrinkles could be traced around the mouth, and at the corners of the eyes, especially when she was much depressed; and sometimes her expression was very hard and stern. Her manners were quite undemonstrative; they seemed to be neither fastidious nor the reverse, and it would have been hard to predicate from them in what station of life she had been brought up. She certainly adapted herself well to whatever society she happened to be with; neither patricians nor plebeians found any thing to criticise; but, whether this were the result of tact, or owing merely to the adoption of a negative standard, no one could say. In language she was uniformly correct, without seeming at all scholastic; she occasionally used the idioms and dialectic peculiarities of those around her, though never with the air of being heedlessly betrayed into them.

On the whole, therefore, the boarding-house keeper remained a problem or a commonplace, according to the fancy of the observer. In any case, she had grown to be a necessity, if not a popular element, in the village society. It was in her large, rambling rooms that all the grand parties and social celebrations took place. Was a picnic or other pleasure-expedition in prospect, Abbie's experience and managing ability were depended on for its success. She it was who arranged the details of weddings; and her a.s.sistance was almost as necessary a condition of a legitimate funeral, as that of Death himself!

Professor Valeyon drove up to the door in his wagon, got down with all the care that the successful support of his burden of years demanded, and chained Dolly to the much-gnawed post which was fixed for the purpose on the edge of the sidewalk. He ascended the steps, and was met by Abbie on the threshold. He removed his hat with old-fas.h.i.+oned courtesy, and gave her cold hand a quiet, warm grasp.

"Good-morning, Abbie," said he, gruffly, but cheerfully, and with a very kind look out of his deep-set old eyes. "Is all well with you this morning?"

"Yes," replied she, with a faint smile, that seemed to show more of weariness than merriment. "Come into the boudoir, Professor Valeyon.

You're a stranger."

"But that's going to be remedied--that's going to be remedied!" rejoined the old gentleman, seating himself, and allowing his hand to wander to the top of his head, to make sure the hair-swathe was safely in position. "Bond of union been established between us, you know."

Abbie laid her finger upon her under lip--a common act of hers when interested or absorbed--and looked at her caller inquiringly.

"That young fellow that came last night, sent his trunk up before coming himself. Saw him, didn't you?"

Abbie shook her head. "I saw his trunk, but not him. Mr. Bressant, I think. You know him?"

"He's going to study divinity with me. I take some interest in him, though he's in an unsatisfactory condition just now; intellectual savagery, I should call it. I take it, his training has been at fault.

Seems to have no social nor affectionate instincts. It would be a good thing to make him feel their value, to begin with."

"I'll make it as home-like for him as I can, Professor Valeyon."

"Well, well! I meant to ask you to do it. It'll be a new experience for him. He's never known a mother since he was a baby, and his father was--well!"--the old man checked himself--"his father is just dead." He seemed about to add something more in regard to the deceased gentleman, but forbore, glancing narrowly at Abbie, who looked only grave and thoughtful.

"How old is he? A boy?" she asked, presently.

"Boyish in some ways, but must be twenty-five or six, and looks older. A tall fellow, well made."

"He might still be a son of mine," said Abbie, with another dim smile, and a sigh. "Perhaps it would do me no harm to consider him as such.

Would that satisfy you?"

"Just what I want!" exclaimed the professor heartily, and with heightened color. "Something can be made of him, I think," he added; "but a great deal depends on the sort of treatment he eats and sleeps under. Well, you be motherly to him, Abbie. That's all I have to ask.

You will find good in it for yourself, too, as you say: more than you think, very likely."

She sighed again, playing absently with her fingers upon her dark-colored dress, and gazing out of the window. Professor Valeyon said no more on the subject of Bressant, but spoke of Cornelia's proposed trip, and the Fourth-of-July party, and Sophie's convalescence; and finally took his straw-hat from the table upon which he had placed it, and moved toward the door.

"Good-by, Abbie. Remember"--the old gentleman paused, with her hand in his, and glowing upon her from beneath his bushy eyebrows; "remember you have friends about you who don't need to be sought after. And another thing, Abbie; if you should ever find that Time has the power to liberate as well as to imprison you, don't forget that some wants may exist a long while without finding expression, but that they do exist, for all that!"

Perhaps it was the consciousness that he was using rather grandiloquent language in the wording of this enigmatical little speech, that caused the good professor to look so red and embarra.s.sed. Abbie drew her hand away, and laid her finger on her lip.

"Can you still say that?" asked she, with a sad kind of gleam in her eyes and voice.

"More than ever--more than ever!" declared he, with emphatic incoherence. And without more words he hurried down the steps, and in another minute was rattling rapidly homeward, astonis.h.i.+ng Dolly herself by the speed which he encouraged her to put forth.

"It'll all work round," soliloquized he; "very good beginning this. If I could have spoken more explicitly--but she'll be prepared, and that's a great step toward clearing things up. Gee up! Dolly."

CHAPTER VIII.

GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

"Sophie," said Cornelia, several days afterward, "do you know, I believe I'll stay for that party at Abbie's, after all."

The two sisters were engaged in planning out an evening dress, and Sophie's bed was so covered with the confusion thereof, that her quiet little face, appearing above, looked odd by contrast.

"I'm glad," replied she, with the simplicity and lack of ornamentation that made her words forcible; "and I'm sure Abbie will be glad, too."

"There's no reason why I shouldn't, you know," resumed the elder sister, falling into that pleasing vein of argument wherein we consciously express the views of our interlocutor; "a few days won't make any difference to Aunt Margaret, and I wouldn't like to have poor old Abbie think that I slighted her, just because I am going to enter New York society! Besides, I think this dress will look very nice when it's finished--don't you?"

"Yes, dear," said Sophie, smiling to herself. "Is Mr. Bressant going to the party?"

"Oh, I don't know. No, I should suppose not. He's a great student, you know, and is going to be a minister and every thing. That isn't the sort of people that takes interest in parties. Besides, he couldn't hear the music, so, of course, he couldn't dance."

"Some deaf people can hear music, and even compose it."

"Can they? But then just imagine having to talk to a deaf person in a ballroom! it would be awfully embarra.s.sing, don't you think so?"

Sophie, who knew her sister well, and was very shrewd besides, began to suspect that it would not be displeasing to Cornelia to be opposed, and even out-argued upon the question of Mr. Bressant's probable attendance at the party, and qualifications to make himself agreeable when there.

She enjoyed the amus.e.m.e.nt, in Her demure way, and was besides interested to hear something about her father's pupil.

"I should think," said she, in a modestly suggestive manner, keeping her eyes busy with her work, "that it would be less embarra.s.sing at a party than anywhere. You know everybody expects to say and hear nothing but nonsense, and there isn't a great deal said even of that. And you're obliged to talk loud, at any rate, on account of the music and noise."