"Here's your watch," said she. "I've kept it all safe, and wound it up and every thing." She had also slept with it under her pillow, and worn it all day in her bosom, but that she did not mention. She laid it down on the table as she spoke.
"Have you a watch?" asked Bressant.
"I had one, but it did not go very long. It was very small and pretty though;" this is the short and pathetic history of most ladies' watches.
"I'd like you to take something of mine with you that you can see and hear and touch: will you keep this watch?" asked he, fixing his eyes upon her. There was no time to deliberate; there was nothing she would like so much; she snatched it up without a word and stuck it into her belt.
"Good-by!" said she, holding out her hand. Bressant took it, not without difficulty.
"I wish you were going to stay," said he, gloomily, "I should be more happy to have you here, than ashamed to need your help."
Cornelia's eyes fell, and there was a tremulousness on her lips that might mean either smiles or tears. "You'll be glad to see me when I come back, then, and you are well?"
"You'll be like a beautiful morning when you come," returned he, with a touch of that picturesqueness that sounded so quaintly coming from him. All this time he had retained her hand, and now, looking her in the eyes, he drew it with painful effort toward his lips. Cornelia's heart beat so she could scarcely stand, and her mind was in a confusion, but she did not withdraw her hand. Perhaps because he was so pale and helpless; perhaps the old argument--"it's his way--he don't know it isn't customary;" perhaps--for this also must have a place--perhaps from a fear lest he should make no attempt to regain it. She felt his bearded lips press against it. At the touch, a sudden weakness, a self-pitying sensation, came over her, and the tears started to her eyes.
"No one ever did that before to me," she said, almost plaintively, for he had spoken no justifying words, and she was balancing between a remorseful timidity and a timid exultation.
"It's the first kiss I ever gave," said he, and his own voice vibrated. "Are you angry? it shall be the last if you are."
"Oh, I'm not angry," faltered poor Cornelia; and then she felt, or seemed to feel, a force drawing her down--scarcely perceptible, yet strong as death. She bent her lovely glowing face, with its tearful eyes and fragrant breath, close down to Bressant's.
At that very moment, or even an incalculable instant before, the professor's voice was heard calling loudly from without:
"Come--come! be quick! you'll be too late!"
She rose and fled from the room; but it was too late, indeed.
CHAPTER XIV.
NURSING.
After seeing Cornelia off, Professor Valeyon bethought himself of Abbie; she must be wondering what had become of her late boarder, and he resolved to stop at the house, and give her an account of the accident. He had got some distance beyond the boarding-house when the idea occurred to him. Just as he was about to head Dolly round in the opposite direction, he discerned a figure beyond, beneath an umbrella, which looked very much like the person he was seeking. He drove on, and in a few minutes overtook her.
"Going up to the Parsonage?" cried the old gentleman, getting gallantly down into the mud. "Here, jump up into-the wagon; I want to tell you about your--boarder."
"He--there's nothing the matter with him, of course?" said Abbie, with a short laugh. She was looking very pale, and as if she had not slept much of late. "No, don't drive mo to the Parsonage; take me home, if you please, Professor Valeyon. Well, about Mr. Bressant?"
"Doing very well now; he was pretty seriously hurt." And he went on to give a short account of what had happened, which Abbie did not interrupt by word or gesture; she sat with her head bent, and her lips working against each other.
"It's quite certain he'll recover?" she asked, when all was told.
"As certain," quoth the professor, non-committally, "as any thing in surgery can be."
"It wouldn't be safe to move him, of course?"
"Not till he's a good deal better; you see, the collar-bone--"
"Yes, I'll take your word for it," said Abbie, very pale. "Well, I'm glad he's in such good hands. If I had him he wouldn't be comfortable; I should be sure to do him more harm than good; it's better as it is; much better."
She spoke in an inward tone, looking vacantly out into the rain, and fumbling with the handle of her umbrella.
"But you'll come up and see him once in a while, at the Parsonage?"
Abbie shook her head. "No, no, Professor Valeyon; why should I? Do you suppose he wants to see me? do you suppose he's thought of me once since he went away? It would be a strange thing for an educated, intellectual, wealthy young man like him to do, wouldn't it?" asked Abbie, with a smile.
The professor's eyes met hers for a moment, and then she looked away. Presently she spoke again:
"I'd a great deal rather leave this world as I've lived in it, for the last twenty years and more, than run any risk of making a blunder. I don't want things to change, Professor Valeyon; but if they do, it musn't be through any act of mine, or yours either."
By this time they had arrived at the boarding-house; and the old gentleman, having seen Abbie safely in to the door, drove homeward, frowning all the way, and at intervals shaking his head slowly. When he got home, he shut himself into his study, and there paced restlessly backward and forward, and stared out of the window across the valley. That open spot on the hill-top seemed to afford little or no enlightenment or satisfaction; and when he sat down to his solitary dinner, the frown had not yet cleared away.
The next day the rain was over, and a cart was sent up to the parsonage, containing Bressant's books, and such other of his belongings as he would be likely to need during his illness; and, accompanying them, a note from Abbie, expressing her regret at his misfortune, and her hopes that he would return to his rooms at her house as soon as his health was sufficiently reestablished. The young man heard the note read, and congratulated himself, as he closed his eyes with a yawn, that he was not under his quondam landlady's ministrations.
But even the best circumstances could do little to lighten the insufferable tediousness of his confinement. Probably, however, such changes and modifications as may have been in progress in his nature, attained quicker and easier development by reason of his physical prostration. The alteration in his bodily habits and conditions paved the way for an analogous moral and mental process. The powers of a man are never annihilated; if dormant in one direction, they will be active in another; and thus Bressant's passions, naturally deep and violent, being denied legitimate outlet, had given vigor, endurance, and heat of purpose, to the prosecution of his intellectual exercises. But, as soon as these elements of his nature found their proper channels, they rushed onward with far more dash and fervor than if they had never been dammed or deflected.
The combined effect upon the young man of the companionship of a beautiful woman and his own broken bones, had been to make him feel and ponder on the nature of her power over him. The name of love was of course familiar to him, but he could hardly as yet, perhaps, grasp the full significance of the sentiment. Like other forms of knowledge, it must be approached by natural gradations. Here, if nowhere else, Bressant's life of purely intellectual activity was a disadvantage. His stand-points and views were artificial, speculative, and material. Love cannot be reduced to a formula, and then relinquished; nor is it ever safe to use, as pattern for an untried work, the plan whereby something else was accomplished. Life has need of many methods.
Nearly a week of musing and speculation had passed over the young man's head, when one day, as he was feeling unusually disconsolate, and wishing for unattainable things--Cornelia among others--he became aware, through some subtle channel