Bressant: Chapter 31

Chapter 31

MOTHER AND SON.

The grand ball at Abbie's was still in progress, though showing signs
of approaching dissolution, when Bressant entered the house quietly at a
side-door, and crept up to his room. He wished not to be seen or heard
by anybody; but it happened that Abbie saw him, and the sight partly
alarmed and partly relieved her. She could now account for the
mysterious disappearance of Cornelia some hours before. But why had
Bressant returned so secretly? and why were his movements all so
surreptitious? Something must be out of order, either at the Parsonage
or elsewhere. She reflected and conjectured, and of course became
momentarily more and more uneasy. Nor did a short visit to his door
relieve her apprehensions: a confused and non-descript sound had
proceeded from within, as if the young man were packing up. Whither
could he be going, she asked herself, on the very eve of his marriage?

It is never difficult to find cause for anxiety; but it seemed to Abbie
that the misgivings she entertained were reasonable and logical.
Bressant had made up his mind to desert Sophie, because the fortune
which he had all his life considered his own turned out to belong to
another, on whose generosity he was too proud or too suspicious to
depend. He was going off, either to struggle through poverty to a
fortune of his own making, or, giving himself up to his misfortune, to
remain all his life in want and misery; or, perhaps--Abbie did not
openly admit this alternative, but still, knowing what she thought she
did of his nature and the circumstances, the suspicion had
existence--perhaps, in conjunction with a certain evil-disposed person
in New York, he contemplated fraudulently absconding.

Now, Abbie imagined that the key whereby alone all these difficulties
could be unlocked, lay in her own hands. It was a key of which, so long
as her own interest alone had been concerned, she had refused to avail
herself; but, when the welfare of those she loved was called into
question, she made up her mind (in spite of pride--her strongest passion
next to love) to make use of it without hesitation.

When the last guests had taken their departure, Abbie went to her room,
and looked at herself in the glass, by the light of a kerosene-lamp. She
was dressed plainly, though becomingly enough, in black silk; a lace cap
rested on her gray hair; her face was worn and wrinkled, but had a fine
expression about it, that would have recalled former beauty to the
memory of any one who had known her in early life. She was deeply
excited, without being at all nervous, the excitement being so
profoundly rooted as to be really a part of herself.

"Why am I happy?" she asked herself. "No, not because I've buried all my
pride. Because I've found a reason to justify me in burying it: that's
why!"

She went, for the third time that night, to Bressant's door, and this
time turned the latch and pushed it open. He was sitting at his table,
with his head on his arms. His trunk and a large iron-bound box lay
packed and strapped beneath the window, which was thrown wide open. The
rush of air between that and the door roused the young man: he got
slowly to his feet, and came forward.

"I don't want to see you," said he, with a heavy utterance. "I warn you
to go away. You and I had better have nothing to say to each other."

"We must; the time to speak has come!" she returned. "I've come to you,
because you could not bring yourself to rely on me. It's your own want
of faith--"

"You'd better not go on," interrupted Bressant, with a strange smile. "I
had more faith than you imagine. But there are some mountains that faith
can't move."

"Why do you still keep me off?" cried Abbie, in a tone which might have
made his heart bleed, except that of late it had been stabbed so often.
"Good God! am I so repulsive to you that, for the sake of being happy
and comfortable all your life, you can't bring yourself to recognize my
existence? Don't imagine I want to buy your love or toleration with this
money of mine. I want nothing in exchange--nothing! I can't help the
knowledge that I shall have made you rich, and so put happiness in your
power; but I ask no acknowledgment--no return. Take every thing and go!
Leave me here and believe that I am dead! Is that enough?"

"A great deal too much! You'll be sorry you've said all this. If you
knew what you were talking about, you wouldn't have said a word of it."

"Oh, you are hard to please, indeed!" exclaimed Abbie, gazing at him and
shuddering. "I pray God your heart is so cold to no one else as to me!
Poor Sophie! She would die at one such word."

"Don't speak her name," said Bressant, in a tone so stern as to be
equivalent to a threat.

He held his eyes down, so that the ugly gleam in them was hidden. Abbie
had no thought of fearing him as yet, and she would have her say.

"Do you think I don't know you're going to leave her? If it's because
you don't love her, I can say no more. You are beyond any help in this
world. But if you do, let me save her, even if I must oblige you in
doing it! You know little of her love, though, if you think she can be
happier with you rich than poor. Oh! are you so cold yourself as to
believe you are acting generously to her in this? Go back to her, or she
will die!"

The old woman took fire as she spoke, and many of the signs of age were
for the time obliterated. Some of the power and brilliancy of her youth
shone again in her eyes; her form seemed to acquire a different and
statelier contour. In the earnestness of her speech, involuntary
gestures accompanied her words; free from all exaggeration, and so truly
and gracefully fitted to her meaning as to be virtually invisible. But
Bressant was not won by it: his expression grew more ugly and repellent
with every successive sentence.

"You fool!" said he, coming one heavy step nearer, and frowning down
upon her; "I warned you away; I told you to be silent. You've meddled
with what was no concern of yours; you've thrust yourself where you had
no right to come--"

"No right!" she interrupted, with an intensity of indignant emphasis
that seemed adequate to smite to the ground the towering figure that
faced her. Then, clasping her hands, and in a voice of yearning,
ineffable tenderness, she added, "Oh, I have prayed for you, and wept
for you, and loved you so! For your own sake, my darling, do not use
such words to me!" Here she held out her arms, and tears ran hot down
her faded cheeks. "Am I not your mother? Are you not my son?"

"No!" answered Bressant.

He threw so tremendous a weight of malignant energy into the utterance
of this single word, although not raising his voice higher than his
usual tone, that the moral effect upon the woman was as if he had dealt
her a furious blow on the breast. Completely stunned at first, she stood
as if dead, except that her body, upright and rigid, vibrated slightly
from side to side, like a column about to fall. So sudden, too, had been
the shock, that her arms still remained outstretched, and the track of
her tears still glistened upon her cheeks, tears shed so utterly in vain
as to acquire a trait of ghastly absurdity.

As sense and reflection began to dawn again, the first instinctive
defence she attempted was that of incredulity. It was to gain
breathing-space rather than from any hope in its efficacy. But
afterward, following the ability to hear and the capacity to comprehend,
the grim reality settled darkly down. Her life for the last twenty-five
years, then, had been a miserable blunder; her love, hopes, and fears
wasted, and turned to ridicule; her self-sacrifice, a wretched
self-deception, a throwing of all possibilities of happiness into the
bottomless pit, whence no return could ever come to her; every thought,
aspiration, and desire, which had visited her heart had been a
mockery--meaningless and empty. This was the reality to which she was
awakened. And, lest this should not be sufficient, here stood one before
whom she had abased and humbled herself, whose insolence she had borne
meekly and lovingly, whose feet she had set upon her neck. Here he
stood, insolent and unfeeling still; a false impostor, whom might God
refuse to pardon!

And who and what was he? Oh, what punishment was terrible enough for
him? Surely--surely God would not allow him to escape! What was he?

These thoughts must have written themselves in the woman's eyes, which
were now awful to behold--eager, questioning, and malevolent. Bressant
forced a harsh laugh, as men will when they find themselves opposed by
impotent rage. Certainly Abbie had no other claim to be considered an
amusing spectacle. Had not her revengeful rage upheld her, she must have
swooned. But it was a hideous kind of vitality, unwholesome to
contemplate. Bressant laughed by main strength.

"You can't solace yourself even with that," said he, shaking his head.
"Up to three days ago I was as much in ignorance as you. It was no fault
and no concern of mine; you and Professor Valeyon chose to deceive
yourselves, and me. Nobody can be more innocent than I! Nobody can
regret more, on some accounts, that our relationship is no closer!".

In this last sentence the tone of mockery he had assumed was somewhat
overstrained; a suspicion of underlying sincerity grated through it.

"Don't say you didn't know!" said Abbie, in a guttural voice, clasping
and wringing her hands, and turning her head from one side to another;
"don't dare to say it! No--no! you did--you did! You did know it, and
God will punish you--God will condemn you! He must--He will!" She could
not endure to believe that, having been defrauded in her love, she was
to be defrauded also in her hate and thirst for revenge. She could live
by either; but to be deprived of both was death!

Bressant made no reply to her uncanny petition, and a silence followed.
Abbie stood wringing her hands, waving her head, and drawing her breath
sobbingly between her teeth. Was she the same woman--stately, and almost
beautiful--who had spoken so loftily and tenderly but a few minutes
before? Are human generosity and affection founded on no securer basis?
Her appearance was now revolting. Suddenly a thought struck her.

"Ah! but she--_she_ can't escape," she broke forth, seizing upon the
idea with a grisly eagerness of exultation. "You can't get _her_ away
from me; I know her, oh! I know her, and I condemn her, I hate her--God!
how I hate her. She shall never be forgiven--never, never. You can never
cheat me out of _her_, for I know her."

Abbie pressed both hands to her head.

"You had better hold your tongue, old woman," Bressant said, in a low
voice, and a deadlier passion than anger looked from his eyes as he
fastened them upon her. "You're so hungry to send a soul to hell, take
care you don't find yourself there. Do you think your past life can save
you? Wait till I've told you what it has been. You began by blasting a
true man's life, trusting too easily, against all internal evidence, to
the lies that were told you about him. Next, you married the liar, not
loving him, but so that the other might hear it, and believe you had
forgotten him; so you acted a lie to him, and prostituted yourself
bodily and spiritually to gratify your pride and revenge. Not the sort
of thing that gets people to heaven, so far, is it?"

Abbie still pressed her hands to her head, and stared before her without
speaking.

"You were false to your marriage vows; after that, you neglected your
husband no less than he you; you never tried to make yourself lovable to
him; you were the only wronged one! you could do no wrong yourself! At
last you had a son."

She raised her eyes, which, during the last few minutes had become
bloodshot, and fixed them fearfully upon the young man's face, as he
continued:

"You loved him, as most females do love their young, and yet not so
generously as most. It was not as his father's child, but only as your
own, that he was dear to you; he was _your_ child, a part of yourself,
and you loved him only because you loved yourself.

"When he was still a baby you left your husband's house, and thereby, if
justice were done, forfeited the recognition of good women, and pure
society; but you took great credit to yourself because you left your son
and your money behind you. Was it nothing in the balance, then, the
scandal, worse than any poverty, which the recovery of your property
would have caused? Nothing but self-sacrifice, to leave a sickly child
to all the advantages that wealth could give it? Well, a month
afterward, in spite of wealth, your son died."

At this announcement, Abbie's convulsive strength, which had thus far
served to keep her erect and motionless, exhaled itself in a long groan,
and left her placid and nerveless. Seeing her about to fall, Bressant
put forth his hands and grasped her arms below the shoulder, holding her
thus while he went on. Her eyes were closed and her head fell forward on
her bosom; but, so blinded was the young man by the remorseless passion
which had gradually been working up within him, he failed to perceive
that the old woman's ears were no longer sensible to his voice, nor her
heart sensitive to his words.

"He died, and I was younger than he, but stronger, and more like my
father. I was put in his place, and was called by his name. I grew up
proud of what I thought my aristocratic birth! I resolved to become the
most famous of mankind, and I found an angel and was going to marry her.
But the evil began to come with the good: it began long ago, and in many
ways, and I tried to overcome it, or provide against it, one way or
another. You benevolent people had led me into a battle-field, unarmed,
and then left me to fight my way through; and I should have done it,
too, but at the last I had myself to fight against, and then _I_ gave
in. Why, _I_ had been dead and buried more than twenty years--why don't
you laugh at that?--and had been imposed upon all that time by this
miserable nameless outcast, myself! whose father's name was Adultery and
his mother's Sin. That was a parentage to be proud of, wasn't it? And
yet, I swear before God, I'm better contented it should be so, than to
be the son of an honest marriage, with such a woman as you for my
mother."

As he loosened the hold of one hand, to emphasize this oath, the
senseless body, which he had been upholding, swung round, and swayed,
toward the floor. He dropped the arm which remained in his grasp, and
the red flush on his cheek and forehead died away into pallor, as he
looked down at the dark heap of clothes lying at his feet. Finally he
stooped down, and lifted her on to the sofa.

"She's not dead," muttered he, after scrutinizing the woman's face for a
moment; "she has her punishment, though, like the rest of us."

He wrote an address on a couple of pieces of paper which he found in the
drawer of the table, and fastened them to the box and trunk with some
mucilage. Then he took his fur cap, and having banged on the fat Irish
servant-girl's door, and told her that her mistress was lying insensible
in his study, he left the house without delay. It wanted still an hour
to the time for the earliest morning train to New York, and, as the
young man did not care to subject himself to questions and remarks from
the officials at the village depot, he determined to walk down the
track, a distance of between four and five miles, to the station below.
Off he started accordingly, and, arriving there in ample time, was able
to eat a good breakfast of cold meat, hard-boiled eggs, and
crackers--all the solid contents of the refreshment-room--before his
train got in. He bought his ticket, stepped on board, flung himself into
a seat, and left all behind him.

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