Bressant: Chapter 12

Chapter 12

DOLLY ACTS AN IMPORTANT PART.

The faintest of breezes wafted in the young people's faces as they
descended the wooden steps of the boarding-house and passed along the
dark, deserted sidewalk of the village street. The noisy dance was soon
left at a distance; how extravagant and unnatural it seemed in
comparison with the deep, sweet night in which they were losing
themselves!

The brightness of the stars, and the wavering peaks and jagged edges of
the northern lights, brought out the shadows of the uneven hills, and
revealed the winding length of downy mist which kept the stream in the
valley warm. Such was the stillness, and the subdued tone of the
landscape, that it seemed unreal--the phantom of a world which had lost
its sunshine, and was mourning for it in gentle melancholy.

The sense of the solitude around them brought the young man and woman
closer to one another. For enjoyment to be, mortally speaking, perfect,
it needs that a soft and dreamy element of sadness should be added to
it; and this was given by the gracious influence of the night. The
darkness, too, encouraged the germs of that mutual reliance,
hopefulness, and trust, which combine to build up the more vital and
profound relations of life. There is a magic mystery and power in it,
which we can laugh at in the sunshine, but whose reality, at times,
forces itself upon us mightily.

As Bressant trod onward, with the warm and lovely woman living and
moving at his side, and clinging to his arm with a dainty pressure, just
perceptible enough to make him wish it were a little closer--it entered
his mind to marvel at the tender change that seemed to have come over
familiar things.

"I've walked often in the night, before," observed he, looking around
him, and then at Cornelia; "on the same road, too; but it never made me
feel as now. It is beautiful." He used the word with a doubtful
intonation, as if unaccustomed to it, and not quite sure whether he were
applying it correctly.

"You speak as if you didn't know what you were talking about!" said
Cornelia, with a round, melodious laugh. "Did you never see or care for
any thing beautiful before this evening?"

"You remember that night in the garden?" asked Bressant, abruptly. "I've
learned a great deal since then. I couldn't understand it at the moment;
I wasn't prepared for it--understand? but I know now--it was beauty--I
saw it and felt it--and it drove me out of myself."

Cornelia was thrilled, half with fear and half with delight. Bressant
spoke with an almost fierce sincerity and earnestness of conviction,
that quite overbore the shield of playful incredulity which woman
instinctively raises on such occasions; they seemed to have crossed, at
one step, the pale of conventionalities; and, sweet and alluring as the
outer wilderness may be, it is wilderness still, and full of sudden
precipices. Besides, the very energy and impetuosity which the young man
showed, suggested the apprehension that the power of his newly-awakened
emotions was greater than his ability to control and manage them.

But beauty, as he understood it, was something of deeper and wider
significance than that generally accepted. It was all, in mankind and
nature, that appeals to and gratifies the senses and sensuous emotions.
Cornelia had been the door through which he had passed into a
consciousness of its existence; the fragrant pass leading to the mighty
valley. Unfortunately neither he nor she was in a position to comprehend
this fact: she was no metaphysical casuist, and never imagined but that
he would find the end, as well as the beginning of his newly-opened
world in her; and he, dizzied by the tumult and novelty of the vision,
was naturally disposed to attribute most value and importance to the
only element in it of which he had as yet taken any real and definite
cognizance.

"What a strange, one-sided life you must have had!" Cornelia remarked,
after they had walked a little way in silence. "Don't you think you'll
be happier for having found the other side out?"

Bressant started, and did not immediately reply. Thus far he had looked
upon this unexpected enlargement of feeling as merely a temporary
episode, after all; not any thing permanently to affect the
predetermined course and conduct of his life. The idea that it was to
round out and perfect his existence--that he was to find his highest
happiness in it--had never for a moment occurred to him. He did not
believe it possible that it could coexist with lofty aims and strenuous
effort; it was a weakness--a delicious one--but still a weakness, and
ultimately to be trampled under foot.

But Cornelia had taken the ground that it was the half of life--not only
that, but the better and more desirable half. For the first time it
dawned upon the young man, that he might be obliged to decide between
following out the high and ascetic ambition which had guided his life
thus far, and abandoning, or at least lowering it, to take in that other
part of which Cornelia was the incarnation. The prospect drove the blood
to his heart and left him pale. He would not entertain it yet. Had he
not promised himself to let this one night go by?

"It would be a very sweet happiness, if I were sure of finding it," said
he; and Cornelia, turning this answer over in her foolish heart, made a
great deal out of it, and was thankful for the darkness that veiled her
face. But Bressant was hardly far advanced enough in the art of
affection to make a graceful use of double meanings; and most likely
Cornelia might have spared herself the blush.

Nevertheless, the young man was more deeply involved than he suspected.
That magnetic sympathy could not otherwise have existed between him and
his companion. The music could not have sounded through her sense to
his, nor her whisper have penetrated the barrier of his infirmity,
unless something akin to love had been the interpreter and guide; and
not a one-sided something, either.

On they walked, with the feeling of intimacy and mutual contentment
growing stronger at every moment. The ground was full of ruts and
inequalities, and ever and anon a misstep or an overbalance would cause
them involuntarily to tighten their hold upon each other;
involuntarily, but with a secret sensation of pleasure that made them
hope there were more rough places farther on. They did their best to
keep up a desultory conversation, perhaps, because they wished to spare
each other the embarrassment which silence would have caused, in leaving
the pleasant condition of affairs without a veil. When this kind of
thing first begins to be realized between young people, the enjoyment
takes on a more delicate flavor from a pretended ignoring of it.

It is beautiful to imagine them thus placed in a situation to which both
were strangers, knowing not what new delight the next moment might bring
forth. There was an element of childlikeness and innocence about it, the
more pleasing to behold in proportion as they were elevated in mind or
organization above the average of mankind.

A woman who loves thinks first of the man who has her heart; while he,
as a general rule, is primarily concerned with himself. If Bressant
wished Cornelia to be happy and loving, it was in order that he himself
might thereby be incited to greater love and happiness; but, had her
pleasure been, independent of his own, he would not have troubled
himself about it. To her, on the other hand, Bressant's well-being would
have been paramount to her own, and to be preserved, if need were, at
its sacrifice.

Even a perception, on her part, of this selfishness in him, would not
have alienated her. Selfishness in him she loves does not chill, but
augments, a woman's affection. Cornelia, already inclined to allow her
companion every thing, would have seen nothing unbecoming in his being
of the same mind himself. He could scarcely value himself so high as
she.

Meanwhile Professor Valeyon, having won his game of backgammon, hunted
up his hat, made his adieux, and went to the shed for his wagon. He
perceived a figure apparently busy in buckling Dolly between the shafts,
and, supposing it to be the ostler, called to him to know whether every
thing was ready.

"All serene, Profess'r Valeyon," responded the voice of Mr. Reynolds, as
he led Dolly--who seemed rather restive--out into the yard. "Here you
are, all fixed! I done it for you, in style. Jump in, and I'll give you
the reins."

"Is this the reason you were asking me what time I should start, Bill?"
inquired the old gentleman, as he mounted to his seat. "Very kind of
you: sure she's all right?"

"Well, I ought to know something about harnessing a mare by this time, I
guess!" responded Bill, with a good deal of dignity, as he handed up the
reins. "Well, well I no doubt--no doubt! I'm accustomed to oversee it
myself, that's all.--Steady, Dolly! Good-night."

"Good-night, Profess'r Valeyon," said Bill, who, in harnessing the mare
had managed, with intoxicated ingenuity, so to twist one of the buckles
of the head-gear, that every time the reins were tightened, the sharp
tongue was driven in under her jaw-bone. The wagon rattled off at an
unusual speed; there was no need for a whip, and the professor
congratulated himself upon the fine condition of his steed.

"Hasn't shown such speed for years," muttered he, admiringly. "If I'd
only been a horse-jockey, now, I could have made a fortune out of her!
Points all superb--only wants a little training."

They had now descended the hill on which stood the village, and were
flying along the level stretch between the willow-trees. The wheels
crunched swiftly and smoothly along the ruts, or, striking sharply
against a stone, made the old wagon bounce and creak. Dolly was putting
her best foot foremost, and her ears were laid back close to her head:
though that, by reason of the darkness, Professor Valeyon could not see.
He and Dolly had travelled this road in company so often, however, and
every turn and dip was so well known to him, that it never would have
occurred to him to feel any anxiety. Beyond keeping a firm hold of the
reins, he let the mare have her own way.

In a few minutes the willow stretch was passed, and they began to
stretch with vigorous swing up the slope. Dolly's haunches were visible,
working below in the darkness, and occasionally a spark of fire was
struck from the rock by her hoof. Really she was doing well to-night. As
they topped the brow of the slope, the professor tightened the reins a
little. It wouldn't do to let the old mare overwork herself. But,
instead of slackening her pace, she sprang forward more swiftly than
ever.

"That's odd!" murmured the old gentleman. "Can any thing be the matter,
I wonder?" and he gave another steady pull on the reins. The wagon was
jerked forward with such a wrench as almost to throw him backward. There
was no doubt that something was the matter, now.

By this time they were within a quarter of a mile of the Parsonage, and
rapidly approaching the sharp bend around the rocky spur of the hill.
Dolly's skimming hind-legs spurned the road faster and faster, and the
fences flickered by in a terrible hurry. They whisked around the curve
with a sharp, grating sound of the wheels on the rock, and the Parsonage
lay but a short distance ahead. Suddenly a white object seemed to rise
out of the road not more than a hundred yards in advance. Dolly, with
the bit caught vigorously between her teeth, stretched her neck and head
out and ran. Professor Valeyon, bracing himself with his feet against
the dash-board, leaned back with his whole weight and sawed the reins
right and left. When within a few yards of the white object--which
seemed to have fluttered back to one side of the road--his right rein
broke: he lost his balance and fell over backward into the bottom of the
waggon, while Dolly, quite unrestrained, dashed on madly.

The professor had just made up his mind that he stood very little chance
of seeing Abbie or his daughters again, when he felt the onward rush
suddenly modified. There were a pawing and snorting, an irregular jerk
or two, and then a dead stop. The old gentleman picked himself up and
descended to the ground uninjured beyond a few slight bruises.

Cornelia and Bressant had been pacing the latter part of their way
slowly, there being a disinclination on both their parts to come to the
end of it. But they had passed the bend, and were within a few rods of
the Parsonage, before Cornelia pressed her companion's arm, paused,
listened, and said:

"I think I hear him coming: yes! that's Dolly--but how fast she's
going!"

As they stood, arm-in-arm, Bressant was between Cornelia and the
approaching vehicle: but, when it swung around the corner, she stepped
forward, thus bringing her white dress suddenly into view. At the same
moment the velocity of the wagon was much increased, and, as it came
upon them, both saw the figure on the seat, easily recognizable as the
professor, fall over backward. Bressant, who had been busy freeing the
guard of his watch, handed it to Cornelia, at the same time pressing her
back to one side. He then stepped forward in silence, half facing up the
road.

Cornelia remained motionless, her hands drawn up beneath her chin: and
while she drew a single trembling breath, and the busy watch ticked away
five seconds, the whole act passed before her eyes. She saw Bressant
standing, lightly erect, near the centre of the road, could discern his
darkly-clad, well-knit figure, seemingly gigantic in the gloom: his head
turned toward the on-rushing mare, one foot a little advanced, his arms
partly raised, and bent: remarked what a marvelous mingling of grace and
power was in his form and bearing: as the watch ticked again, she saw
him spring forward and upward, grasping and dragging down both reins in
his hands: another tick--he was dashed against Dolly's shoulder, and his
body swung around along the shaft, but without loosening his hold upon
the reins: tick, tick, tick, the mare's headway was slackened; the
dragging at the bit of that great weight was more than she could carry;
tick, tick, tick, she staggered on a few paces, trailing Bressant along
the road; tick, tick, she came to a panting, trembling stand-still;
Bressant let go the reins, but, instead of rising to his feet, he
dropped loosely to the earth and lay there; tick--the five seconds were
up, and Cornelia drew her second breath.

By the time the professor had scrambled out of the wagon and got around
to the scene of action, he found the mysterious white figure--his own
daughter--kneeling in the road beside a prostrate something he knew must
be Bressant.

"Father, is he dead?" she asked, in a broken, horror-stricken voice.

The old gentleman was too much concerned to reply. Had this been a
narrower nature he might have been aggrieved at Cornelia's ignoring his
own late deadly peril in her anxiety for the young man. But he would
have done her wrong; her heart had stood still for him till she had seen
his safety assured; then it had gone out in gratitude, admiration, and
tender solicitude, for the man who had shown unfaltering and desperate
determination in saving him.

Having backed Dolly--who was standing, quite subdued, with hanging head
and heaving sides--away from the body, Professor Valeyon stooped down to
make an examination. He had begun life as a surgeon, and was well
skilled in the science. He cautiously unbuttoned the closely-fitting
coat.

"Stop! let me alone! let me alone!--will you?" growled Bressant,
speaking thickly and disjointedly, like one just recovering from a
fainting-fit, but with unmistakable signs of ill-temper.

"Thank God! you're alive, my boy," said the professor, too much relieved
to notice the tone. "Cornelia, my dear, run to the house, and get
Michael and the wheelbarrow.--Any bones broken, do you think?" he
continued, carefully pursuing his investigations the while.

"No, nothing! can't you let me lie here alone?" was the sulky reply.
But, as the other's hand happened to press lightly in the vicinity of
the chest, Bressant drew a quick, gasping breath, and could not control
a spasm of pain.

"Don't touch there--it's where the shaft struck me," said he, in a voice
that was no more than a whisper, but as sullen as if he had been the
victim of some unpardonable wrong. There was a trace of mortification in
it, too, such as might have been caused by detection in a disgraceful
act.

"Never saw any thing like this in him, before," said the professor to
himself. "Badly injured, too, I'm afraid: collar-bone broken, at any
rate. Ah! there's the wheelbarrow, and Neelie with some cushions. Now,
Michael, take hold of him carefully, and help me lift him in." But
Bressant, as he felt the first touch, opened wide his half-closed eyes,
and looked around savagely.

"Keep your hands off me," whispered he, in a menacing tone; "if I must
go into the house, I'll walk in myself."

"Nonsense! you're crazy! 'walk in?'" cried the professor.

Bressant said no more, but, with an effort that forced a groan, he
rolled over on his face, and thence raised himself to a kneeling
posture. He paused so a moment, and then, by another spasmodic
movement, succeeded in gaining his feet. He had been twice kicked in his
right leg, and the pain was wellnigh insupportable. He stood balancing
himself unsteadily.

"Let me help you," said Cornelia, coming to his side. But he took no
notice of her, not even turning his eyes upon her. He staggered blindly
along the road to the gate; it gave way before him with a reluctant
rattle, and closed with an ill-tempered clap as he passed through.
Swaying from side to side of the marble walk, he at last reached the
porch. In trying to ascend the steps, he stumbled, and pitched forward
in a heavy fall.

"There!--confound his obstinacy! he's fainted," muttered the professor,
with an awful frown, while the tears ran down his cheeks. "Here,
Michael, help me carry him in before he comes to."

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