ONLY FOR TO-NIGHT!
On the evening of the 4th of July, Professor Valeyon and Cornelia got
into the wagon, and drove off, behind Dolly, to the boarding-house. It
was a warm, breathless night, and the stars looked brighter and more
numerous than usual.
The boarding-house was one of the largest buildings in town--an
accidental sort of structure, painted white, green-blinded, and
protected, from the two roads at whose intersection it stood, by a
white-washed board-fence, deficient in several places. The house
expanded into no less than four large bay-windows, affording an outlook
to three small rooms upon the ground-floor. The four or five other
larger apartments were forced to pass a gloomy existence behind a
loop-hole or two apiece, which could not have measured over three feet
in any direction.
The two largest rooms lay corner to corner, at right angles to one
another, and communicating by a passage-way through their point of
contact. Who the original genius was who discovered the admirable
facilities this else preposterous arrangement afforded for dances will
remain forever unknown; but the experiment once tried became an
institution as permanent as Abbie herself.
The small triangle of space between the two rooms, which to utilize had
theretofore been an unsolved problem, served admirably as a station for
the band; they could be heard in either apartment equally well. The
small boudoirs, nooks, and corners, which were scattered here and there
with lavish hand, did excellent duty as flirtation-boxes for those of
the dancers who needed that refreshment; the only drawback being that
one was never quite sure of privacy, on account of the complicated
system of doors and entries that prevailed.
But, in spite of all objections, a dance at Abbie's was the rallying-cry
of the community. All the respectable people in town put on their newest
clothes--and if they were new it did not so much matter what the style
might be--and thronged, on foot or in wagon, to the boarding-house door.
They came to have a good time, and they always succeeded in their
object. What pigeon-wings were performed! what polkas perpetrated! what
waltzes wrecked! How the long lines of the Virginia Reel, or "On the
Road to Boston," extended through the hall from end to end, and how the
couples twisted, whirled, and scooted between them! How the call-man,
with his violin under his chin, stopped playing to vociferate his
orders, or anathematize some bewildered pair! How the old folks, sitting
on chairs and benches along the walls, nodded and smiled and mumbled to
one another as the ruddy faces of their descendants passed and repassed
before them, and spoke to one another of like scenes thirty, or forty,
or fifty years ago! How happy everybody was, and what a jolly noise they
made!
As Cornelia and her papa approached the house, every window was alight,
above and below. The door was thrown hospitably open, and the lamplight
streamed forth and ran down the steps, and lay in a long rectangular
pool upon the road. Abbie stood near the entrance, directing the ladies
one way and the gentlemen another. Punctuality at an affair of this kind
being among the village virtues, the whole company was present within a
surprisingly short time of the appointed hour.
"Good-evening, Professor Valeyon; good-evening, my dear; how well-you
look! Step up-stairs--the first room on the right."
"My pupil is to be here to-night, isn't he?" inquired the professor, as
his daughter vanished.
"Yes, he said he'd be down. He doesn't seem to be used to society. Miss
Cornelia told me she thought it would do him good to begin, so I went up
the other day and asked him."
"Oh! humph!" said the old gentleman, who had vainly endeavored to catch
Abbie's eye while she was speaking. He stood silent a few moments, and
then moved off to the gentlemen's dressing-room, taking a pair of
white-kid gloves from his pocket as he went.
Cornelia, having removed her hood, put on her slippers, shaken out her
skirt, touched her hair with the tips of her gloved fingers, and settled
the ribbon at her throat, descended to the reception-room--as that part
of the entrance-hall where Abbie stood was styled--and found her papa
awaiting her. She was about to take his arm, when the hostess touched
her on the shoulder.
"Wait a moment," said she, with a peculiar grave smile; "I'll bring you
your _protégé_."
Bressant was standing in the door-way of an inner room, leaning with the
elbow of one arm in the hand of the other, as he pulled at his mustache
and twisted the beard on his chin. He looked ill at ease, and as if he
rather regretted his intrepidity in coming down. Had he been what is
called a student of human nature, he might have been interested in the
quaint people and customs which an occasion like this would bring to
light. But he believed that all the traits and elements of mankind at
large were comprised, in a superior form, within himself, and that,
knowing himself, he would virtually know the world. This somewhat
exclusive creed had, doubtless, been aided and abetted by his deafness,
which, even had he been otherwise inclined by nature, must have thrown
him back, in great measure, upon himself; or, possibly, the dogma may
have been but an outgrowth of the physical defect: he fights hard and
well, in this world, who counteracts the bias given by bodily infirmity.
In any case, however, since such was the position of his mind, he could
scarcely be expected to derive much entertainment from a social occasion
like the present. It is even uncertain whether he would not actually
have repented and taken to flight, had not Abbie come up at the critical
moment, and carried him off to Cornelia.
"I wanted to have the pleasure of presenting Mr. Bressant to you
myself," said she, with the same peculiar smile; and so left them
together.
The young man stood confronting the young woman, who, besides being
dressed with great taste, looked, owing to the whimsical circumstances
in which she was placed, every bit of beauty she had. Bressant stared
at her in astonishment.
One woman's beauty cannot be contrasted with another's; as well compare
a summer valley with the white clouds sailing over it; each is to be
enjoyed in its own way. But Cornelia's loveliness carried with it a
peculiar quality, which not only gratified the eye, but went further,
and seemed to touch a vital chord in the beholder, jarring throughout
his being with a sweet distribution of effect, and causing heart and
voice to vibrate. It made Bressant conscious in every fibre that he was
man and she woman. Whence came the influence he could not tell, and
meanwhile it gained ever stronger and deeper hold upon him. Was it from
the eyes, a-sparkle with the essence of youth and health? or from the
mouth, with its red warmth of full yet delicate curves? the gates of
what sweetness of breath! or from the crisp, dark, lustreless luxuriance
of the hair? or from the curved shadows melting on the cheeks, and
nestling beneath the chin? He could trace it to no single one of these
various elements--yet how lovely all were! Whence, then, was it? In a
bottle of wine there are many drops, alike in color, shape, flavor, and
sparkle; in which one, of all, lurks the intoxication? The only way to
make sure of the drop is to drink the bottle; and, even then, though
there will be no doubt about the intoxication, its precise origin may
still be disputed.
As Bressant bowed to Cornelia, who courtesied grandly in return, the
band struck up a waltz, which seemed to be at once reflected in her face
and manner. She was particularly sensitive to musical impressions, and
instinctively looked up to Bressant's face for sympathy, forgetting at
the moment that his infirmity would probably debar him from sharing her
enjoyment. However that might be, he was certainly not indifferent to
the silent music of her beauty; he was gazing down upon her with an
intensity which caused her to droop her eyes, and draw an uneven breath
or two. There was in him all a man's fire, strangely mingled with the
freshness of a boy.
"Take my arm," said he, offering it to her. After an instant's
hesitation, more mental, however, than physical, she laid her graceful
hand within it, and they moved toward the dancing-room.
But at the instant of contact an electric pulsation seemed to pass
through Cornelia's blood, imbuing it with a powerful ichor, alien to
herself, yet whose potency was delicious to her. She fancied, also, that
she herself went out in the same way to her companion, establishing a
magnetic interchange of personalities, so that each felt and shared the
other's thoughts and emotions.
They now stood in the principal dancing-hall, where several couples, who
had already taken the floor, were revolving with various degrees of
awkwardness. The music had flowed into Cornelia's ears until she was
full of the rhythmical harmony. She glanced up once more at her partner,
this time with a lustrous look of confidence. Was it possible that he
had become inspired through her? Certainly it seemed as if the feeling
of the tune were discernible in his face as well as hers; it was even
betokened by the lightsome pose of his figure, and a scarcely subdued
buoyancy in his step. Moment by moment did the occult sympathy between
one another and the cadence of the music grow more assured and complete;
and at length--though precisely how it came about neither Cornelia nor
Bressant could have told--they were conscious of floating through the
room, mutually supporting and leading on each other, mind and motion
pulsating with the beat of the tune, amid a bright, half-seen chaos of
lights, faces, and forms, dancing a waltz!
Neither felt any surprise at what, but a few moments before, both would
have deemed an impossibility. The easy, whirling sweep of the motion,
not ending nor beginning, seemed, to Bressant as well as to Cornelia,
the most natural thing in the world. Beautifully as she danced, he was
no whit her inferior. They moved in complete accord. Years of practice
could not have made the harmony more perfect.
The charm of dancing, although nothing is easier than to experience it,
is something that eludes statement. It is the language of the body,
graceful and significant. It has that in it which will make it live and
be loved so long as men and women exist as such. The fascination of the
motion, the magic of the music, the hour, the lights; the nearness, the
touch of hands, the leaning, the support, the starting off in fresh
bewilderments; the trilling down the gamut of the hall; the pauses and
recommencements; even the little incidents of collision and escape; the
trips, slips, and quick recoveries; the breathless words whispered in
the ear, and the laughter; the dropped handkerchief, the crushed fan,
the faithless hair-pin--these, and a thousand more such small elements,
make dancing imperishable.
Presently--and it might have been after a minute or an hour, for all
they could have told--Bressant and Cornelia awoke to a sense of four
bare walls, papered with a pattern of abominable regularity, a floor of
rough and unwaxed boards, a panting crowd of country girls and bumpkins.
The music had ceased, and nothing remained in its place save a fiddle, a
harp, and an inferior piano.
"Come out to the door!" said Bressant, "the air here is not fit for us
to breathe."
They went, Cornelia leaning on his arm, silent; their minds inactive,
conscious only of a pleasant, dreamy feeling of magnetic communion. Both
felt impelled to keep together--to be in contact; the mere thought of
separation would have made them shudder.
The door stood open, and they emerged through it on to the wooden steps.
At first their eyes, dazzled by the noisy glare of the house, could
distinguish nothing in the silent darkness without. But, by-and-by, a
singular gentle radiance began to diffuse itself through the soft night
air, as if a new moon had all at once arisen. They looked first at each
other, and then upward at the sky. Cornelia pressed her companion's arm,
and caught her breath.
From the north had uprisen a column of light, of about the apparent
breadth of the Milky Way, but far more brilliant, and defined clearly at
the edges. Higher and higher it rose, until it reached the zenith.
Pausing a moment there, it then began to slide and lengthen down the
southern slope of the sky, lower and lower, till its extreme limit
seemed to mingle with the haze on the horizon. Having thus completed its
stupendous sweep, it remained, brightening and paling by turns, for
several minutes. Finally, it slowly and imperceptibly faded away,
vanishing first at the loftiest point of all, and lingering downward on
either side, till all was gone.
"What a glorious arch!" exclaimed Cornelia.
"It was put there for us, was it not?" rejoined Bressant.
Some of the other guests had come out in time to see the latter part of
this spectacle, as it trembled athwart the heavens. They "Oh'd" and
"Ah'd" in vast astonishment and admiration; and one of them humorously
asserted that it had been engaged, at a huge expense, to celebrate the
anniversary of American Independence. So the celestial arch vanished in
the echo of a horse-laugh. But Bressant and Cornelia, as they stood
silently arm-in-arm, felt as if it were rather the presage of an
emancipation of their own selves. From, or to what, they did not ask;
nor did the old superstition, that such signs foretell ruin and
disaster, recur to their minds until long afterward.
Dancing was now recommenced, but, by an unuttered agreement, the two
refrained from participating again. The enjoyment had been too entire to
risk a repetition. They sat down in one of the small boudoirs, which,
through a demoralized corridor, commanded a view of the extremity of one
of the dancing-rooms.
From this vantage-ground they could see the distinctive features of the
assembly pass before their eyes. Girls who danced well striving to look
graceful in the arms of men who danced ill, or floundering women
bringing disgrace and misery upon embracing men. Dancers of the old
school, whose forte lay in quadrilles and contra-dances, cutting strange
capers, with faces of earnest gravity. People smiling whenever spoken
to, and without hearing what was said; and on-lookers smiling, by a sort
of photographic process, at fun in which they had no concern.
Introductions, where the lady was self-possessed and bewitching, the
gentleman monosyllabic and poker-like; others, where he was off-hand,
ogling, and facetious; she, timid, credulous, and blushing. All kinds of
costumes, from the solitary dress-coat, and low-necked ball-dress, worn
respectively by Mr. and Mrs. Van Brueck from Albany, to the mixed tweed
sack and trousers, and the checked gingham, adorning the Browne boy and
girl.
"How foolish it all seems when you're not doing it yourself!" remarked
Cornelia at last, laughing softly.
"But very wise when you are."
"How beautifully you danced! I didn't know you could."
"I never did before--I couldn't, with any one but you. As soon as we
touched each other, I felt every thing through you."
"It was very strange, wasn't it? and yet I don't wonder at it, somehow."
"It would have been stranger not to have been so."
"Why, how have you been hearing what I said?" suddenly exclaimed
Cornelia, looking at him in surprise; "I've been almost whispering all
this time!"
"Have you? It sounded loud enough to me. But I could hear you think
to-night, I believe. Will it be so to-morrow, do you suppose?"
"To-morrow!" repeated Cornelia. "Dear me! to-morrow is my last day
here."
"The last day!" echoed Bressant, in a tone of dismay. "Shall we find one
another the same as to-night when you come back?"
"Why not?" responded she, with a resumption of cheerfulness. "I sha'n't
be gone but three months."
So the conversation lingered along, until gradually the greater part of
it was supported by Bressant, while Cornelia sat quiet and listened--a
thing she had never done before. But the young man's way of expressing
himself was picturesque and piquant, keeping the attention thoroughly
awake. His ideas and topics were original. He plunged into the midst of
a subject and talked backward and forward at the same time, yet conveyed
a marvelously clear idea of his meaning. Sometimes the last word was the
key-note that rendered the whole intelligible. And he had the bearing of
a man all unaccustomed to deal with women--ignorant of the traditional
arts of entertainment which society practises upon itself. He talked to
Cornelia as he might have done to a man, and yet his manner showed a
subtle difference--a lack of assurance--a treading in a pleasant garden
with fear of trespassing--the recognition of the woman. To Cornelia it
had the effect of the most soothing and delicious flattery; had he been
as worldly-wise as other men, he could not have been so delicate.
He, for his part, gave himself wholly up to be fascinated and absorbed
by the lovely woman at his side. Did a thought of danger intrude, the
whisper, "Only for to-night, only for to-night!" sufficed to banish it.
Yet another day, and he would return to the old life once more.