The old gentleman, in dressing-gown and slippers, came thumping hastily
down-stairs, in response to Bressant's summons. The strange solemnity in
the latter's tone, no less than the ominousness of the hour, probably
gave him premonition of some disaster. He reached the threshold of the
room, and paused a moment there, settling his spectacles with trembling
fingers, and looking from one silent face to another. The room was
lighted only by the declining moon, which shone coldly through the
windows. The bed, and that which was on it, were in shadow. In an
instant or two, however, the professor's eyes made the discovery to
which none of those who stood about had had the nerve to help him. And
then the old man proved himself to be the most stout-hearted of them
all. He only said "Sophie" in a voice so profoundly indrawn as scarcely
to be audible; then walked unfalteringly across the room, bent over the
bed, and proceeded to examine whether there were yet life in his
daughter or not. Even the moonlight seemed to wait and listen.
"Bring a candle," said be, presently, breaking the awful silence.
Cornelia brought it, and the warmer light inspired a sickly flicker of
hope into the expectant faces. The little ormolu-clock on the
mantel-piece whirred, and struck half-past one. As the ring of the last
stroke faded away, Professor Valeyon raised himself, and turned his face
toward the others. So strongly did his soul inform his harsh and
deeply-lined features, that it seemed, for a moment, as if there were a
majestic angel where he stood.
"Be of good cheer," quoth the old man--for no smaller words than those
which Christ had spoken seemed adequate to clothe his thought; "she is
not dead; we shall hear her speak again."
Bressant threw up his arms, as if about to shout aloud; but only gave
utterance to a gasping breath, and, stepping backward, leaned heavily
against the wall, near the door. Cornelia, standing in the centre of the
room, broke into quivering, lingering sobs, opening and clinching her
hands, which hung at her side. Bill Reynolds, however, being overcome
with joy, at once gave intelligible manifestation of it.
"Good enough!" cried he, slapping his leg, and looking from one to
another with a giggle of relief. "Bully for her! Bless you, I knew
Sophie Valeyon warn't dead. Speak again! I believe you. She'll tell us
what's the matter, I guess."
Professor Valeyon rapidly and collectedly gave his directions as to what
steps were to be taken, and in a few minutes every thing was being done
that skill could do. Snow was brought in to encourage back the life it
had dismayed, and camphor and coffee awaited their turn to take part in
the resuscitation. Slow and reluctant it was, like dragging a dead
weight up from an unknown depth. More than another hour had passed away
before Sophie's eyelids quivered, and a slight tremor moved her lips.
By-and-by she opened her eyes, slowly and uncertainly, let them close
again, and once more opened them; and, after several inaudible efforts,
there came, like an echo from an immeasurable distance, one word, twice
repeated: "Bressant! Bressant!"