The Essential Julian Hawthorne Collection. Julian Hawthorne
of sensation, that somebody was standing in the door-way. He was lying in such a position that he could not see the door, so, after waiting a few moments, he exclaimed, with an invalid's irritability:
"Come in--or shut the door!"
"I'll come in, if you please," answered an amused voice, which, though soft and low, possessed a penetrating quality which made it easily audible to the deaf man. He had never heard it before; but either because of this quality, or for some other more occult reason, he conceived a most decided liking for it.
It's owner now became visible. She was a delicate-looking girl, with a pale, conch-shell complexion, brown hair as fine as silk, and pleasant, serene, gray eyes. She was dressed very simply in white, with a blue band across her hair, and a blue scarf and sash around throat and waist. Her face, though showing signs of quiet strength, and of a self-confidence which was the flower of maidenly modesty and innocence, was not beautiful according to any recognized standard. Bressant, from his intuitive perception of form and proportion, was aware of this. The forehead was too high, the nose irregular, the mouth lacked the perfect curve, and the teeth, though white and even, were not small enough for beauty.
Nevertheless, Bressant was at once impressed with the young girl's presence. It was as if an ethereal cloud--such as that which, shone through by white sunlight, was just floating past the window--had eddied unexpectedly into his chamber, cooling and quieting him with the freshness of its heavenly vapor. Her eyes met his with a simple directness which made his glance waver, though he was not given to humility. Something, whereof neither science nor philosophy can take cognizance, seemed to emanate from her, elevating while it humbled him.
"If I'd known who you were, I--I shouldn't have asked you to shut the door!" said he, in an apologetic tone quite new to him.
"And how do you know who I am?" inquired the vision, with a refreshing smile.
"I meant, what sort of a person you were; but you must be Miss Sophie: only I thought she was ill."
"I am Miss Sophie, but I'm not to be thought ill any more. One invalid in the house is enough. I'm going to nurse you, and, since I'm well, you may be twice as ill as ever, if you choose."
"Well!" said Bressant, quite resignedly. He was becoming a very respectable patient.
"In what way do you want to be taken care of?" resumed the nurse with a cheerful, business-like gravity which was at once becoming and piquant.
"Stay here and talk; I like to hear your voice: and you look so cool and pleasant."
Very few people could oppose this young man in any thing; he knew so well what he wanted, and demanded it so uncompromisingly. But Sophie's sense of fitness and propriety was as sound and impenetrable as adamant, and scarcely to be affected by any human will or consideration. She felt there was something not quite right in his manner and in the nature of his demand; and, being in the habit of making people conform to her ideas, rather than the reverse, she at once determined to correct him.
"If there's any thing you wish me to read to you, I'll do it. I didn't come to sit down and talk to you; but, if you like my voice, you can have more pleasure from it in that way."
"It would be no use for you to read: I couldn't understand--I couldn't attend to your voice and the book at the same time."
"We'd better wait, then," said Sophie, turning her clear, gray eyes upon him with an expression of demure satire. "By-and-by, perhaps, it won't have such a distracting effect upon you--when you come to know me better. If not, I must keep away altogether."
Bressant's forehead grew red with sudden temper. He felt reproved, but was not prepared to acknowledge that he had merited it.
"You're very generous of your voice!" exclaimed he, resentfully. "It's your fault, not mine, that it's agreeable. You're not so kind as your tone is."
"I don't mean to be unkind," said she, more gently, looking down. "You don't seem to see the difference between unkindness and--what I said."
"What is the difference?" demanded he, taking her up.
Sophie paused a few moments, compassionating this great, willful boy, and wondering what she could do for him. He had saved her father's life, thereby imperilling his own, and disabling himself, and she could not but admire and thank him for it. But his manner puzzled and annoyed her, and was an obstacle in the way of her would-be helpfulness.
"You wouldn't ask that question, I think, if you'd had sisters, or a mother," she said, at last. "I suppose you've lived only with men. But you must learn how to treat young women from your own sense of what is delicate and true."
Bressant stared and was silent: and Sophie herself was surprised at the authoritative tone she was assuming toward a bearded man whom she had never met before. But it was impossible to associate with Bressant without either yielding to him, or, at least, behaving differently from at other times, in one way or another. He was a magnet that drew from people things unsuspected by themselves.
The pause was finally broken by the young man's accepting the situation with a grace, and even docility, which was nearly too much for Sophie's gravity.
"If you'll read, I will listen and understand it: you'd better try the Bible. I have a great deal of work to do upon that, still: you'll find one on the table by the window."
She got the book, with whose contents she was considerably better acquainted than was the divinity student, and sat down to read, marveling at the oddness of the situation; while he lay apparently absorbed in the cracks on the ceiling. By degrees--for having carried her point she could not help being more gracious--she began to allow a little embroidery of conversation to weave itself about the sacred text She spoke to Bressant about such simple and ordinary matters as went to make up her life--the books she had read, the people she knew, the country round about, a few of her more inward thoughts. He listened, and said no more than enough to show he was attentive; sometimes making her laugh by the shrewdness of his questions, and the quaintness of his remarks.
But he said nothing more to bring a grave look into the eyes of his young nurse; and she, finding him so gentle and boyish, and withal manly and profound, chatted on with more confidence and freedom; and, being gifted with fineness and accuracy of observation, and a clear flow and order of language and ideas, made talking a delight and a profit.
There was nothing formal or didactic about Sophie, and her talk rippled forth as naturally and spontaneously as a brook trickles over its brown stones, or the over-hanging willows whisper in the wind. There was in it the unwearied and unweariable freshness of nature. And Sophie's vein of humor was as fine and pungent as the aroma of a lemon: it touched her words now and then, and made their flavor all the more acceptable.
So Bressant gained his end at last, though he had yielded it; and this fact was not lost upon the trained keenness of his observation. After his nurse was gone, he lay with closed eyes, and a general sensation of comfort, until he fell asleep. Quiet dreams came to him, such as children have sometimes, but grown-up people seldom. Everywhere he seemed to follow a cool, white cloud. But where was Cornelia?
CHAPTER XV.
AN UNTIMELY REMINISCENCE.
In spite of nursing and a very strong constitution, Bressant's recovery was slow. The fact was, his mind was restless and disturbed, and produced a fever in his blood. Large and powerful as he was, his physical was largely dependent on his mental well-being, as must always be the case with persons well organized throughout. He would never have been so muscular and healthy had his life not been an undisturbed and self-complacent one. These questions of the heart and emotions were not salutary to his body, however beneficial otherwise.
At the same time, no one is quite himself who is ill, and doubtless Bressant would have escaped many of his difficulties, and solved others with comparatively little trouble, if his faculties had not been untuned by illness. While he was more open