GREAT EXPECTATIONS.
"Sophie," said Cornelia, several days afterward, "do you know, I believe
I'll stay for that party at Abbie's, after all."
The two sisters were engaged in planning out an evening dress, and
Sophie's bed was so covered with the confusion thereof, that her quiet
little face, appearing above, looked odd by contrast.
"I'm glad," replied she, with the simplicity and lack of ornamentation
that made her words forcible; "and I'm sure Abbie will be glad, too."
"There's no reason why I shouldn't, you know," resumed the elder sister,
falling into that pleasing vein of argument wherein we consciously
express the views of our interlocutor; "a few days won't make any
difference to Aunt Margaret, and I wouldn't like to have poor old Abbie
think that I slighted her, just because I am going to enter New York
society! Besides, I think this dress will look very nice when it's
finished--don't you?"
"Yes, dear," said Sophie, smiling to herself. "Is Mr. Bressant going to
the party?"
"Oh, I don't know. No, I should suppose not. He's a great student, you
know, and is going to be a minister and every thing. That isn't the sort
of people that takes interest in parties. Besides, he couldn't hear the
music, so, of course, he couldn't dance."
"Some deaf people can hear music, and even compose it."
"Can they? But then just imagine having to talk to a deaf person in a
ballroom! it would be awfully embarrassing, don't you think so?"
Sophie, who knew her sister well, and was very shrewd besides, began to
suspect that it would not be displeasing to Cornelia to be opposed, and
even out-argued upon the question of Mr. Bressant's probable attendance
at the party, and qualifications to make himself agreeable when there.
She enjoyed the amusement, in Her demure way, and was besides interested
to hear something about her father's pupil.
"I should think," said she, in a modestly suggestive manner, keeping her
eyes busy with her work, "that it would be less embarrassing at a party
than anywhere. You know everybody expects to say and hear nothing but
nonsense, and there isn't a great deal said even of that. And you're
obliged to talk loud, at any rate, on account of the music and noise."
"Well, you may be right," admitted Cornelia, who certainly did take her
sister's opposition with admirable good-nature. "And I was thinking,
Sophie, perhaps if they are not very deaf indeed, you know they might
get so used to the sound of one's voice as to hear it even when it
wasn't so much raised."
"Why, certainly!" assented Sophie; "to some kinds of voices, at any
rate; probably to a woman's more easily than to a man's. Is Mr. Bressant
very deaf, Neelie?"
Cornelia glanced quickly at her sister, but was reassured by the grave
composure of her aspect. Nevertheless, she was deeply engrossed in her
new dress as she made reply.
"Oh! no. Well, not so very; I can hardly tell, though, I've spoken to
him so little. He's rather quick at catching your meaning, sometimes, I
think."
"Do you think he's a man who would get married?"
"Oh! I don't believe he'll ever be married," said Cornelia, and blushed,
she scarce knew why. "No woman would marry him."
"Is he so disagreeable?"
Cornelia moved her shoulders in a little shudder. "Oh, not that exactly;
but he's so cold and bright and hard. And he isn't always that way,
either. There are times when he's so strange--so different! I don't
believe he understands himself then. There seems to be a wild fire in
him, that once in a while blazes up, and scorches and frightens him as
well as other people."
Sophie was perhaps more interested in this extravaganza of Cornelia's
than if she had known the incident upon which it was mainly founded;
but, on the other hand, it is possible that less exaggerated language
would not have given her so correct an idea of Bressant's character.
Cornelia--there being nothing else to especially occupy her
thoughts--had allowed them to run a good deal upon Bressant, and upon
what happened by the fountain in the garden: perhaps she had mingled the
real things and events with the fantasies of her dreams, and thus built
up an impression and theory in regard to the young man considerably more
picturesque than was warranted by the premises at her command. All this
would have been done involuntarily; and possibly Sophie's question
elicited the first conscious perception and statement of what Cornelia's
opinion had grown to be. But unconscious judgments are often more
accurate than deliberate ones because there is more of intuition about
them.
Be that as it may, from the moment Sophie imbibed the idea that there
was something strange, fierce, and ungovernable in Bressant's nature,
she felt her sympathy and interest moved and aroused. It was the
instinctive attraction of one strong spirit toward another, the more,
because that other was so differently embodied, endowed, and
circumstanced. She was a bed-ridden invalid, but she thrilled, like
Achilles, at the first gleam and clangor of arms. The only thing that
Sophie feared, and from which she shrank, was Sin. All else attracted
her in proportion as it was powerful, stirring, or awe-inspiring.
Delicate, sensitive, and apparently meek and timid as was her nature,
her heart was firm as a Roman general's, and her soul as large and
sympathetic as an Apostle's. Did the occasion offer, this pale
minister's daughter was capable of great and immortal deeds.
"Which way do you like him best, Neelie?" demanded she at length,
removing the dilated gaze of her gray eyes from the round knot on the
top of the bed-post; "when he's cold and bright, or when he's wild and
fiery."
"Oh! I don't like him at all!" exclaimed Cornelia, shuddering again.
Lest she should be suspected of a wilful misstatement, it may be as
well to show how it might happen that she should deceive herself in the
matter. Such likes and dislikes as she had heretofore felt could one and
all have been paraphrased as a more or less agreeable state of mind,
induced by the sight or thought of such and such an individual. She had
never conceived the possibility that a vital affection could take its
origin in aversion and fear, and grow strong through turmoil, passion,
and suffering. As a matter of course, she estimated her feeling toward
Bressant by the only gauge she had, and with no reference to the fact
that it was a wholly inadequate one.
The majority of the impressions she had received of him could not
certainly be called pleasant; and that he was continually in her
thoughts; that every thing she heard or saw connected itself, in one way
or another, with him; that he bore a possible part in many of her
imaginations of the future--these were factors she did not take into
account, because ignorant of their significance. The conclusion that she
did not like him was therefore a legitimate one, according to the light
she had.
Whatever Sophie may have thought of Cornelia's answer, she said no more,
but lay in reverie, opening and shutting her scissors in an objectless
manner, until Cornelia's voice flowed forth again.
"Isn't it a pity he wasn't a nice, jolly, society fellow? it would have
been such fun this winter! As it is, I don't suppose we shall be able to
do so much even as if we were alone."
"From something papa said the other day, I think he'd like to try and
make Mr. Bressant more of a society fellow; perhaps it would wear away
that coldness and hardness you speak of."
"What I teach him the arts and pleasures of fashionable life?" exclaimed
Cornelia, laughing. "Dear me! I'd no more think of trying to teach that
great big thing any thing than--any thing!"
"But you can make him go to Abbie's party, if you are to be there
yourself, and then, if you don't want to instruct him, you can give him
to some one who isn't afraid of him, and--have Bill Reynolds all to
yourself."
Cornelia laughed and pouted, and told Sophie she was mean; but probably
felt it a relief to have poor Bill's name introduced, he being so
palpably _hors de combat_.
"It would be pretty good fun, after all--walking round on the arm of
that great, tall, broad-shouldered creature, and telling him how to
behave! I believe I _will_ try it!" and she straightened herself up with
a very valiant air.
"It will be your last chance, remember!" said Sophie, looking up with a
deep smile in her eyes. "I promised papa that when I was well I'd take
charge of Mr. Bressant myself!"
Sophie's life, as has been said, was preeminently an ideal one.
Materialism disturbed and perplexed her, and she ignored it as much as
possible. She was inspired and excited by the ideal she had conceived of
Bressant, and of her sphere of action with regard to him. But, had the
physical personality of the man been thrust upon her in the first place,
she would have very likely recoiled, her finer intuitions would have
been jarred, and their precision paralyzed. Standing aloof, however,
living and acting only in the realm of her pure maiden creeds, every
thing seemed clear and simple enough. Right should be done, and wrong be
righted; there would be no material conditions or hinderances; results
were attained immediately.
But life is not what the pure-hearted girl painted it in her ideal
dreams. The unconsidered obstacles rise into frowning and insurmountable
barriers. Those we would make our beneficiaries often fail to appreciate
their position, and turn our good into a worse evil than their own. We
may theorize about the human soul, but, to put our theories to the test,
is to assume an awful responsibility.