Bressant: Chapter 27

Chapter 27

FACT AND FANCY.

The snow-storm continued all that afternoon. The customary hour for
Bressant's visit to the Parsonage went by, and he did not appear. The
professor smoked two extra pipes, and spent half an hour looking out
across the valley trying to discern the open spot upon the top of the
hill. Finally, the early twilight set in, and he returned to his chair,
but felt no impulse to light a lamp and take up a book. He sat tilted
back, pulling Shakespeare's nose with meditative fingers. A gloom
gradually settled over the room, withdrawing one after another of the
familiar objects around him from the old gentleman's sight; it even
seemed to creep into his heart, and create a vague uneasiness there. He
tried to shake it off, telling himself that he was the happiest and most
fortunate old fellow alive; that every thing was coming out just as he
had hoped and prayed it might; that one daughter, with the man of her
choice, would be just far enough removed from his fireside to give
piquancy to the frequent visits he should receive from her; while the
other would still, for a time, continue to pour out sunshine in the
house, and redouble her love for him by way of compensating for what he
should miss in Sophie's absence. And then the professor built an airier
and a fairer castle still: beneath it lay the heavy clouds of suffering,
barren effort, and hope deferred; its sunlit walls were hewn of solid
faith; the banner which floated over the battlements was woven with
white threads of truth; over the arched entrance-gate was written
"Constancy." Yet, fair and lofty as the castle was, the
building-materials were taken from no less homely edifices than the
village boarding-house and his own Parsonage!

By-and-by, however, the vision faded, or else the clouds upon which it
was built rose up and hid it. The professor, returning to himself, found
that he was now surrounded with thick darkness, and, strive as he would,
he could paint no fancies upon it which did not partake more or less of
the character of the background. Sophie seemed to have lost the steady
cheer of her aspect; she was pale and fragile, and every moment took
away yet more of earthly substance, till scarcely any thing but the
faint lustre of her face and form remained. Then, all at once, the
features which had heretofore been only sad, changed into an expression
of horror and torture and despair; and, while the professor, himself
aghast, strained his old eyes to make out more clearly the
half-indistinguishable image, it vanished quite away. But, at the last
moment, it had spoken--at least, the lips bad moved as if in speech,
though no sound had reached the professor's ears; yet he fancied he had
caught a glimmering of the purport. He pressed his hands over his
forehead to shut out the thought, and wondered no longer at the
expression upon Sophie's face.

Then Cornelia moved across the hollow blackness of the room. She was
sunshiny no longer, but morose and stern; her eyebrows were drawn
together; a secret defiance was in her tigerish eyes; her lips were set,
yet seemed, ever and anon, as she turned her face aside, to tremble
with a passionate yearning. As he gazed, she disappeared, but the
professor had a feeling that she was still concealed somewhere in the
darkness. And, at last, she came again--she, or something that looked
like her. The old gentleman shivered and recoiled, as though a
snow-drift had somehow blown into his warm, old heart. Was it his
daughter who looked with those unmeaning eyes, encircled with dark
rings, in which life and passion burned out had left the dull ashes of
remorse and hopelessness? Where were the luminous cheeks and the queenly
step of his proud and beautiful Cornelia?--What words were those? or was
it only fancy?--Ah!--The professor started with a sharp exclamation: but
he was alone in his dark study, and the phantom of Cornelia was gone.

He composed himself in his chair again, and, presently, a third figure
grew into form and color before him. At first, as a stately young girl,
with the arched feet and hot blood of the south, and her eyes dark and
soft as a Spaniard's; but her beauty lasted but for a moment. A
withering change came over face and figure: she was cold and hard; her
youthful ardor, warmth, and freshness, had been shrivelled up or worn
away. The rich black hair grew rusty, and the dark, delicate complexion
became dull and lustreless. Nevertheless, the professor continued to
look with hopeful expectation, confident that a further alteration would
ensue, which, though, it would not restore the grace of youth, would
give a peace and happiness yet more beautiful. And, indeed, it seemed,
for a moment, as though his expectation would be gratified. The figure
raised its head, and held forth its hands, and the professor's bright
anticipation was reflected in its eyes. But, alas! the brightness faded
almost before it could be affirmed to exist. The hands dropped to the
sides, the head was averted, and the whole form shrank back, and sank to
the ground. For the third time--the professor's imagination was
certainly playing him strange tricks this evening--the ghost of spoken
words appeared to fall upon his ears, and sink like molten lead into his
heart. He groaned, and there was an oppression on his chest, so that he
struggled for breath; but, in another moment, the crouching figure was
gone, and the oppression with it; but drops of sweat stood upon the old
man's broad forehead.

Still another vision awaits him, however, and he draws himself up
sternly to encounter it, and a heavy frown lowers on his thick gray
eyebrows. But the lofty form which confronts him, massive and stalwart,
alike in mind and body, meets his gaze unflinchingly, and frowns back in
angry defiance. The old professor pauses in his intended denunciation,
being taken aback somewhat, at the unexpected counter-accusation which
strikes out at him from the young man's eyes. Yet do his self-confidence
and indignation become reconfirmed, for there, behind, the three former
phantoms appear together, and seem to launch against the last a deadly
shaft of bitter reproach and judgment. The professor watches it cleave a
passage through the stalwart figure's heart, and he bows his head, and
thinks--it is but justice! In the same instant, a cry of intensest pain
and horror escapes him: the deadly arrow, additionally poisoned by the
blood it has just shed, has passed quite through the spectre of his
former pupil, and is buried up to the feather in Professor Valeyon's
own vitals! This shock effectually wakened the old gentleman--for, after
all, he had only been having an uneasy nap in his straight-backed
chair!--and he started to his feet, and fumbled nervously for the
match-box. Just then, Sophie appeared at the door with a lamp in her
hand--the real Sophie, this time--no intangible shadow.

"Why, papa dear! What are you doing in here in the dark? Have you been
asleep?"

"Come here, my dear!" said the professor, in a shaken voice, holding out
his hand. He took her on his knee, and hugged her to him eagerly,
passing his hand down her arm, and pressing her slender fingers. "Are
you well and happy, Sophie?"

"Yes, papa," she answered, laying her head as usual on his shoulder.

"He--your--young man didn't come to-day?" continued the professor, with
an attempt to be jocose. "He's getting very squeamish to be kept back by
a snow-storm!" Sophie replied only by nestling closer to her father's
shoulder.

"Where's Neelie?" inquired the professor, again breaking the silence.

"She's seeing about supper, I believe."

"Have you heard any thing about Abbie lately?" proceeded the other. He
must have been either strangely anxious to keep up a conversation, or
unusually inquisitive, this evening.

"Not very lately; I saw her about a week ago. She didn't look in very
good spirits, it seemed to me."

"Not in good spirits, eh? not in good spirits? and that was a week ago!
was she ill?"

"I don't think there was any thing the matter--with her health, I mean;
she only looked very sad--as if something had almost broken her heart.
But then she always is grave, you know."

"She has been of late years, that's certain," muttered the old man,
gruffly; "and does she begin to be broken-hearted _now_!" he added, to
himself. More thoughts, and angry ones, he might have had, but the
memory of his untoward dream still hovered about him, and he suppressed
them.

"What are you thinking of, papa?" demanded Sophie, with an inquietude of
manner which attracted the professor's attention. He laid his finger on
her pulse, and touched her forehead.

"You've taken cold, my dear," he said, with the most tender anxiety of
tone. "What have you been doing? How have you exposed yourself?"

"I was out on the porch about an hour ago," replied she, languidly. "I
wanted to--to see if he was coming, you know. The snow came on me a
little, I believe, and I had on my slippers. But I didn't feel any
thing--any cold. I was out only a moment."

Professor Valeyon turned his strong-featured face away from the lamp, so
that the shadow covered his expression. He could feel the heat of
Sophie's cheek through his coat, as she lay heavily on his shoulder;
heavily, but not half so heavily there as upon his heart. But, with the
physician's instinct, his voice was on that account all the more
cheerful.

"Well, well, my little girl; it won't do to run any risks nowadays,
remember! I shall make you drink a big cup of hot water, with a little
tea and sugar in it, and go to bed early, with three or four extra
blankets. Meanwhile, come! let's go and see whether Cornelia has got
supper ready yet." So saying, the old gentleman gained his feet,
offering his arm with a bow, took up the lamp with his other hand, and
off they went, leaving Shakespeare's plaster bust placidly to face the
darkness alone, as he had often done before.

The next morning the storm was over, and the sun came dazzling over the
spotless fields, but Sophie kept her bed, with bright, restless eyes,
and hot checks. The professor dreaded a return of the typhoid pneumonia,
and paced his study incessantly, in a voiceless fever of anxiety;
physically exhausting himself the better to affect quiet and unconcern
when in her room. He mentioned his fears to no one--not even to
Cornelia; besides, if care were taken, she might recover yet, without
fatal, or even serious danger. To herself, therefore, and to all who
inquired, he spoke of her attack as merely a cold, which must be nursed
for prudence' sake. Meanwhile, no signs of Bressant. Sophie said not a
word, but Cornelia showed uneasiness, and kept making suggestive remarks
to her father, and hazarding unsatisfactory explanations of his absence.
She never ventured to say any thing to her sister on the subject,
however. There was a gulf between the two that widened like a river,
hour by hour.

Toward evening a letter came from the boarding-house, directed to
Professor Valeyon. It was in Abbie's handwriting, and must contain some
news of Bressant. The old gentleman shut himself up in his room, the
better to deal with the intelligence, and the paper rustled nervously
in his fingers as he read; but the news amounted to little, after all.

"For fear dear Sophie and you should feel anxious about Mr. Bressant, I
will tell you all I know of his absence," said the letter. "A telegram
came for him yesterday morning about ten. Joanna, the servant, who took
it up to him, says Mr. Reynolds told her it was from New York. So I
suppose some friend there--you will probably be able to say who--has
been taken very dangerously ill, or perhaps is dead. The summons must
have been very urgent, for he left his room not ten minutes afterward,
and took the half-past ten o'clock train down.

"I feel sure he will be back by to-morrow evening. Don't let your
daughters fail to be here to meet him."

After reading this, and without pausing to indulge in casuistry,
Professor Valeyon betook himself straight to Sophie's chamber.

"You've heard something!" said she, in a low, assured tone the moment he
entered. "A letter? give it me--I would rather read it myself."

The professor gave it into her hand, with a smile; but Sophie's eyes
were too deep and dark for any smile to glimmer through. As she opened
it he turned his back upon her, and saw out of the window the sinking
sun redden the snow-covered hill-top above the road.

"Yes, I'm sure he will be back to-morrow," said Sophie's quiet voice
after a minute or two. She made no comment on his having allowed any
thing to take him away at such a time--on the eve of his
marriage--without first sending word to her; but gave Abbie's letter
back into her father's keeping, and lay with closed eyes. He sat down in
the chair by the bedside, and presently noticed that she lay more
peacefully, and breathed inaudibly and easily, and that the feverish
flush was leaving her cheeks. A slight moisture, too, made itself
perceptible on her forehead.

"Her life is in this fellow's hand!" thought the professor, and he
trembled to his very heart, but dared not ask himself wherefore.

"Do you really think it would hurt me to sew, dear papa?" said she, at
length, looking up from her pillow.

"Better let sewing and every thing else alone for the present, my dear;
it'll be enough work to get all well again by next Sunday."

Sophie sighed. "I did so want to finish my wedding-dress all myself,"
said she. "It needs only a few hours' work now, and Cornelia is so busy
on her own account, it's hard to ask her. Oh, yes! dear papa, I know how
glad she'd be to help me," she added quickly, seeing the old gentleman's
eyebrows meet, and his forehead redden.

"I should hope she would! Must be very busy if she hasn't time to do so
much as that!" growled he. "I'll send her up to you, my dear."

"Papa!" said Sophie, calling him back from the door; and it was not
until she had possession of his hand and was holding it against her
cheek that she went on. "Don't let the wedding be put off, if I
shouldn't be able to sit up on Sunday. I'll be carried down into the
guest-chamber, where he was ill for so long. Don't--papa, I know you
won't think hardly of me; but I feel a kind of superstition about that
particular day and hour: that if all is not done then, it never will be.
Am not I foolish? But do let it be so, and never mind wisdom!"

There was a vein of strenuous earnestness only partly concealed beneath
her words and manner, which the gruff old gentleman, who was as
sensitive as a photographic plate, where his affections were concerned,
did not fail to note. He kissed her on both cheeks--a fully sufficient
answer to her request, and shuffled out of the room in his old slippers;
which, thanks to Sophie's filial attentions, still held together with
dying faith fulness.

The rest of the day the two sisters passed together--Cornelia working
upon her sister's wedding-dress, and Sophie guiding her by directions
and suggestions. Not since they first began to grow apart, had there
been between them so great an appearance of sisterly love and
cordiality. Yet, if Cornelia allowed herself to think at all, it must
have seemed, in the light of her purpose regarding Bressant, as if she
was preparing a shroud rather than a wedding-garment. Or, perhaps, as
she observed the change which even so brief and light an illness had
made in Sophie's delicate face, there may have lurked, in the secret
places of her mind, a darker and guiltier thought than that. But let not
our condemnation be too unconditional, lest the precedent come home,
some day, to ourselves. It may astonish us, hereafter, to discover how
many of our most respectable acquaintances are murderers--only in
thought!

But Sophie's condition seemed steadily to improve, and, by the morning
of the 30th, the professor apprehended no danger but from imprudence.
That she should attend Abbie's party was, of course, out of the
question; but there was no longer any obstacle in the way of Cornelia's
availing herself of the entertainment, if she were so inclined.

Deadly and immitigable as woman's purpose is often represented to be, it
may, especially before she becomes thoroughly hardened to crime, be
swayed by shades of feeling or sentiment which would appear, to a man,
ridiculously trifling, and which, indeed, she could not herself explain
or calculate upon; and there is the more likelihood of this, in
proportion to the depth to which her emotions and affections are
involved in the affair. As to Cornelia, there are no means of
determining whether she ever wavered in her designs against her sister's
happiness, and her friend's constancy, or not; she, at any rate, decided
to go to the ball, and even condescended to accept Mr. Reynolds's tender
of his escort thither. There are a host of respectable motives always on
hand for such occasions, and Cornelia might be going either from a
curiosity to find out whether Bressant would return, and in order, if
so, to bring her sister the latest news; or, to obtain relief from the
monotony of home-life; or, to oblige Abbie, who counted upon her
appearance; or, to display her ball-dress, cut after the latest New-York
pattern; or, all these small matters may have been the wheels whereon
rolled the invisible car, but for which they would not have existed.

As she was attiring herself, Sophie, who was seated in her deep
invalid-chair, looking at her, was seized by an uncontrollable longing
to put on her wedding-dress, and satisfy her mind as to its being a good
fit. There it lay, upon the sofa, and nothing could be easier than just
to slip into it. Cornelia, absorbed in her own crowded thoughts, never
dreamed of opposing the idea, and lent all necessary assistance to carry
it out. It was not until Mr. Reynolds had sent up word that the sleigh
waited at the door, and, gathering up her cloak and tippet, she had
kissed Sophie, left her, and was hurrying down-stairs with rustling
skirts, that she realized that she had given her parting salute to one
dressed as a bride!

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