Bressant

"After all," said the old gentleman to himself, "it's not the young

fellow's fault. If his father was a heartless scoundrel, it doesn't

follow that he knows it. Well, the man is dead--it can't be helped now,

that's certain. But what a cunningly-contrived plot it is! Shuts my

mouth by confiding to me the incognito and sending me the son to

educate; destroys the last hope of setting an old wrong right; takes

advantage, for base ends, of the deepest feelings of human hearts: not

to speak of preventing the young man himself from being party to a noble

and generous action. Did ever man carry such a load down to the grave!

"Suppose Margaret--no! it isn't likely she would know any thing about

it. He wasn't the man to make confidants of women. She gave the message

to the son, not knowing what it meant, probably. Why, he wouldn't have

dared to tell her! And then inviting Cornelia--no, no! I've had some

acquaintance with Margaret, and, with all her nonsense, I believe she's

honest. Besides, what interest could she have to be otherwise? To be

sure, she didn't give me the true reason for the incognito; but that's

nothing; she's just the woman to tell a useless fib, and reserve the

truth for important occasions only--or what she thinks such."

The professor remained a while longer at the window, abstractedly

staring at the drops which hastened after one another from the wet

eaves. Suddenly he turned around, and walked up to the table, flapping

his slipper-heels, and settling his spectacles, as he went.

"Did any one ever speak to you of your mother, sir?" demanded he in the

ear of the reading Bressant. "Confound the fellow!" passed at the same

time through his mind; "does he think I'm a chair or a table?"

"My mother?" repeated the young man, looking up, and appearing somewhat

surprised at the idea of his ever having possessed the article. "Oh,

yes! my father once told me she was dead. It was long ago. I'd almost

forgotten it."

"Told you she was dead, hey? Humph! just what I expected!" growled the

old gentleman, who seemed, however, to become additionally wrathful at

the intelligence. After a moment's scowl straight at his would-be pupil,

he shuffled up to his chair, and sat solidly down in it. Bressant (to

whom the professor had probably appeared to the full as peculiar as he

to the professor), seeing signs of an approach to business in his action

and attitude, tossed his book on the table, leaned forward with his

elbows on his knees, and fixed his eyes directly upon the old

gentleman's glasses.

"You seem to be in the habit of speaking your own mind freely, sir,"

observed the latter; "and I shall do the same, on this occasion at least

I'm going to accept you as a pupil, and shall do my best for you; but

you must understand it's by no means on your own account I do it. As far

as I have seen them, I don't like your principles, your beliefs, or your

nature. You're the last man I should pick out for a minister, or for any

other responsible position. In every respect, except intelligence and an

unlimited confidence in yourself, you seem to me unfit to be trusted. In

training you for the ministry, I shall do it with the hope--not the

expectation--of instilling into you some true and useful ideas and

elevated thoughts. If I succeed, I shall have done the work of a whole

churchful of missionaries. If I fail, I shan't recommend you to be

ordained. And never forget that you will be indebted for all this to

some one you've never known, and who, I am at present happy to say,

don't know you. Whether or not you'll ever become acquainted is known to

God alone, and I'm very glad that the matter lies entirely in His hands.

Now, sir, what have you to say?"