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Bressant, a novel by Julian Hawthorne |
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Chapter 9. The Daguerrotype |
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_ CHAPTER IX. THE DAGUERROTYPE Bressant occupied two adjoining rooms at Abbie's boarding-house; one contained his bed and the other was fitted up as his study. They were on the second floor of the house, and attainable through two turns in the lower entry, a winding flight of narrow stairs, and an uncertain, darkly erratic route above. The study was some twelve feet by eight; the floor ornamented by a carpet which, to judge from the size of the pattern, must have been designed to grace some fifty-foot drawing-room. The furniture consisted of a deal table with a folding leaf, a chair, a stove--which, perhaps because it was so small, had been permitted to remain all summer--and a broad-seated lounge with squeaky springs, but quite roomy and comfortable, which monopolized a large portion of the room. The walls were papered with a bewildering diamond pattern, in blue and white. Upon the outside window-sill stood a pot of geraniums, and another of heliotrope. A good many books were stowed away in various parts of the study; piled one upon another in the corner by the stove, ranged side by side beneath the lounge, carefully disposed upon the inner window-sill, and occupying as much space as could be spared to them on the table. There were few ornaments to be seen; no landscapes or hunting-scenes--no pictures of pretty women--no fancy pieces for the mantel--no wine either, nor cigars, for Bressant neither smoked nor drank. A beautifully-finished and colored drawing of a patent derrick, in plan and side elevation, was pinned to the wall opposite the window. Above the mantel-piece hung an ingeniously-contrived card almanac, by which the day of week and month could be told for a hundred years to come. Two small globes, terrestrial and astronomical, stood upon the table; on the mantel-piece was an ordinary kerosene-lamp, with a conical shade of enamelled green paper, arabesqued in black, and ornamented with three transparencies, representing (when the lamp was lighted) bloody and fiery scenes in the late war; but in the daytime appearing to be nothing more terrible than plain pieces of white tissue-paper. For two weeks Bressant had done his studying and thinking in this room. He had enormous powers of application, naturally and by acquisition, and the first fortnight had seen them exerted to their full extent. This diligence, however, was practised not so much because the course of study marked out necessitated it, as by way of voluntary self-discipline. His first evening's experience in the Parsonage garden had given the young man a serious shock; a disturbing influence had obtained possession of him, of which he could understand no more than that it appeared to have some connection with Cornelia. It interfered, at unexpected moments, with his processes of thought; it distracted his schemes of argument; it wrote itself unintelligibly upon the page he was reading. It even followed him in his rough tramps up the hills and through the woods, and sometimes shook the hand which held the pen during his compositions. Bressant knew not how best to combat his novel difficulty. Although called into existence by an extraneous circumstance, it seemed to have struck root in every faculty of his mind, and, what was more, into the inmost core of every faculty. He was possessed, not by seven devils, but by one devil in seven different forms. He felt that the only thing to be done, if he did not intend to make an entire surrender of himself, was to take stern and rigorous measures for deliverance. The best course that suggested itself was to study his sevenfold devil down; taking every precaution, of course, to keep out of the way of all additional contamination; and this course he adopted, and had conscientiously adhered to. It was with very pardonable satisfaction that he felt his malady gradually and surely give way before his unsparing regimen, until by the first of July he considered himself entirely whole and in working order, and beyond danger of relapse. He sometimes wondered why the professor persisted in inviting him to take dinner, or stay to tea, or sit on the balcony in the evening, or go on a picnic into the woods. Why couldn't the old gentleman divine the cause of his invariable and unhesitating refusals? Leaving other considerations out of the question, would such things be likely to increase his knowledge of theology, or further the lofty schemes of his ambition? He would be glad when that daughter left the house! What was it about her that had so disturbed and beclouded the heretofore untroubled stream? Were other women like her, or was she alone in her dangerous capacity? If the first, with what assurance could he look forward to the intellectual mastery of the world! If the last, what a refinement of misfortune to have been so thrown with her! What if he should give up Professor Valeyon altogether? No, no! if he could not conquer his destiny here, he could not be sure of doing it anywhere. Let him only be self-controlled and prudent--keep carefully and systematically out of the woman's way. Or perhaps--for it was not gratifying or dignified thus to live in terror of a minister's daughter--perhaps he might ultimately learn to associate and hold intercourse with her, unharmed. That would be a triumph worth striving for! Indeed, how could he feel secure until it had been won? Again, did there at present exist any such risk as he had brought himself to imagine? Was not this first ordeal, and its effects, all that was to be apprehended? What if all his anxiety, and self-control, and prudence, had been wasting themselves upon nothing? Would it not be worth while to try the experiment? to prove whether he was still liable to this strange witchery and enchantment? even if so it should turn out, it was still well that the point should be settled once for all. Decided, then, that he should take the first opportunity to put himself to the test. Thus did the young man argue around his instinct, ignorant that the poison was at that moment circulating in his blood, and prompting the very sophistries that his brain produced. He who is cured begets a wholesome aversion toward what has harmed him; he feels no curiosity to prove whether or no he be yet open to mischief from it. Bressant's poison was in fact an elixir, whose delicious intoxication he had experienced once, and which his whole nature secretly but urgently craved to taste again. A result somewhat similar to this was doubtless what Professor Valeyon aimed at in his plan of developing the emotional and affectional elements of his pupil, albeit he was far from imagining what might be the cost and risk to every thing which he himself held most dear. Like many other men, of otherwise liberal mind and clear insight into character, he had certain convictions and principles, derived from contemplating the facts and results of his own life, which he believed must produce upon other people's mental and moral constitutions as good an effect as upon his own. And possibly, could we divest our regimen of life of all personal flavor and conformation, it might, other things being favorable, suit our friends very tolerably well. But, until we are able to throw off the fetters of our own individuality, the measure of our garments can never accurately fit anybody else. On the morning of the 1st of July, Bressant sat at his table, with his books and papers about him. He was in an excellent humor, for he had just arrived at the conclusion that he might, and would, safely encounter his bugbear Cornelia. If the professor invited him to tea, and to spend the evening, he was resolved to accept; and, at that moment, he felt a hand laid upon his shoulder, and, turning quickly round, recognized the sombre figure of the boarding-house keeper. Although he had lived with her two weeks, he had not as yet had other than the briefest communication with her. He probably thought ho had in hand many matters of more importance than the cultivation of his landlady's acquaintance; and she, whatever may have been her desire to carry out the promise she had made to the professor, had not found it possible to be other than indirectly observant of his welfare. "I knocked, Mr. Bressant, but I couldn't make you hear. I came to ask you to do me a little favor, sir." Bressant had risen to his feet, and stood leaning against the back of his chair. He nodded and smiled good-naturedly, his hand busy with his beard, and his eyes taking in, with mild curiosity, the plain and plainly-dressed woman before him. What favor could she expect him to do for her? He'd just as lief agree to any thing that wouldn't interfere in any way with his arrangements. Of course, she wouldn't ask any thing more. As long as he paid his board-bill, and created no disturbance, what obligations did he owe her? "You see, sir," proceeded Abbie, gently rattling the bunch of keys that hung at her belt, "we've been in the habit of giving a party here, three or four times a year, for the young folks to come and dance and enjoy themselves. There will be one next Thursday, the 4th of July. Will you come down, and join in?" Bressant threw back his head, with one of his brief laughs. "Come to a dance? But I don't know how to dance! I never go into society. What should I do? Thank you for asking me!" "I thought you might be interested to look on at one of our country hops," said Abbie, whose eyes observed the young man's manner, as he spoke, with a closeness that would have embarrassed most men. "There's a good deal to amuse yourself with besides dancing. The school-master will be there, and the minister that is now, and Professor Valeyon." "Professor Valeyon?" repeated Bressant, leaning forward, with his hand to his ear, and the vivid, questioning expression on his face, which was peculiar to himself. The movement appeared to produce a disproportionate effect upon Abbie. Her finger tremblingly sought her under lip; a quiver, as if from a sudden pain, passed across her forehead; there was a momentary unsteadiness in her eyes, and then they fastened, almost rigidly, upon the young man's face. So habitual was the woman's self-control, however, that these symptoms, whatever they betokened, were repressed and annulled, till none, save a particularly sharp-sighted person, would have noticed them. Bressant was thinking only of Professor Valeyon, and would scarcely have troubled himself, in any case, about the neuralgic spasms of his landlady. "The professor and Miss Valeyon will both come," said Abbie, as soon as the neuralgia, if that it were, would allow her to speak. "Excuse me, sir--may I sit down a moment?" These words were uttered hurriedly, and, at the same moment, the woman made a sudden step to the lounge, and dropped down upon it so abruptly that the venerable springs creaked again. "Beg your pardon, ma'am," said Bressant, rather awkwardly. "Must be an infirm old person," he added to himself. "She looks older, even, than when she came in!" "Well, sir," said she, with rather a constrained air, rising, from the sofa in a way that confirmed the young man's opinion about her infirmity; "well, sir, shall I expect you on Thursday evening?" "Yes; I'll come," said he, with an elastic inclination of his shoulders, and a smile. He thought himself fortunate in so good an opportunity to put his invulnerability to the proof. Abbie bowed without speaking, and moved toward the door. Having opened it, she turned round, with her hands upon the latch: "Professor Valeyon tells me you're an orphan, sir?" "My father died last month; I never knew my mother," returned Bressant, pushing his brown beard between his teeth, and biting it impatiently. He wished people would get through asking him about his deceased relatives. "Never knew your mother! it must have been--have you never felt the need of her?" "Oh, no! I was better without one," said he, quite provoked at his landlady's pertinacity. He turned about, and threw himself into his chair. The woman shrank back beyond the threshold. "Good-day, sir, and thank you," she said. But Bressant could not be expected to hear the low, timid tone in which she spoke. Seeing that he made no response, she softly closed the door. She went along the dark entry to her own room. On a little table in one corner stood an old-fashioned desk. She opened it, and, unlocking an inner drawer, took therefrom a small morocco case, lined with red velvet, and containing a daguerreotype much faded by age. She studied it long and earnestly, but seemingly without any very satisfactory result. "But how can I expect it?" murmured she. "So long ago as this was taken! so sickly and unformed as he was then! But, oh! did they think I could be blind to that face, and form, and expression! and there is none other but he, now; the father is dead. Dead! Well, may God forgive him all the evil of his life! I'm sure I do. But what will this turn out to be, I wonder--a curse or a blessing? I must wait--it isn't for me to speak; I must wait, and the end may be happy, after all." _ |
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