"A letter!" exclaimed she, resuming her apron as soon as her hand was at
liberty. "A letter from New York I'm thinking it is; and sure the
handwriting's a lady's, every bit of it; which I don't know what Miss
Sophie would be after saying if she should hear of it--nay, don't fear
me, sir, that I'd ever have the heart to be telling her of it! And it's
Abbie as fetched it, and the same bid me tell you as how she'd be after
coming up here directly; she'll be cleaning her face first, and
removing her bonnet; which she's always a right neat body, and it's
myself can testify, as has lived with her nine years, and never had
cause to complain, God bless her!"
When Bressant was alone, he sat down in the chair, with the letter
between his fingers. On such slight hinges do our destinies turn. If
Abbie had neglected to call at the post-office, or if she had been
satisfied to give the letter to the young man herself, instead of
sending it to him five minutes beforehand, or if the writing of the
letter had been delayed a few hours (how many ifs there always are in
such cases!), Bressant would have had a far different fate, and this
story would never have been written. But as it was, five fatal minutes
intervened between the delivery of the letter and Abbie's appearance,
during which time he had read it through twice--at first hurriedly, the
second time slowly and carefully--had replaced it in the envelop, and
put the envelop in his pocket. Then he sat quite quiet, leaning back in
his chair, his head thrown forward, his under eyelids drawn up, and
contracted around the piercing glance of his eves, his jaws and lips set
tight, and a straight line up his forehead from between his eyebrows. A
more unpleasant and forbidding expression one does not often meet; but,
such as it was, it grew still more stern and unpromising when the door
once more slowly opened, and Abbie appeared upon the threshold.
Nevertheless, he at once rose, and inclined forward his lofty shoulders
in a remarkably courteous bow. Abbie, who showed some traces of
discomposure, and held one finger nervously to her under lip, stepped
into the room, and they shook hands.
"I'm glad to welcome you back," said she, apparently unable to remove
her eyes from his face. "You'll not likely find this place as convenient
as the Parsonage, though."
"It's very pleasant; these flowers are delightful. I wanted to thank you
for them; it seems like home to be here."
"Like home!" repeated Abbie. Her body seemed to bend and sway toward
him, and the outer extremity of the eyebrows drooped a little, giving a
singularly soft and gentle expression to her elderly visage. But seeing
that he only colored, turning his head aside, and fumbling with his
beard, her expression changed into one of constraint, which appeared to
stiffen on her features.