Bressant

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!"