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Updated: June 8, 2025
A virtuous act stirs the soul by its own innate beauty, even when the motive is not all unselfish. It was probably the first time that precisely such a look had ever visited Bressant's face; and it was certainly a great pity that no one but a fat Irish servant-girl should have had the privilege of beholding it there. Presently, as he stood facing the door, he saw the latch lifted.
Bill gave a nod of good-will to Bressant's window for Bressant was no longer there whipped up his nag, and jingled off with his milk-cans. In another minute the fat servant-girl, after stamping the remains of the snow off her shoes upon the door-mat, opened the door, and introduced the dispatch and her own smiling physiognomy.
"Well, sir" the professor, from some subtle delicacy of feeling respecting the prospective change in their relationship, adopted this form of address in preference to that more paternal one he had been in the habit of using since Bressant's accident "well, sir, how do you find yourself now?" "Much better; I shall soon be well now.
In most cases, indeed, the attempt would have been wellnigh hopeless, but Cornelia had two exceptionally powerful allies her own supreme beauty, and Bressant's untrained and ill-regulated animal nature, which he had not yet learned to understand and provide against.
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.
Off he went, and passed his hour with Sophie, who was as lovely, as fresh, and as purely transparent as ever. But some turbid element had been stirred in Bressant's depths, which spoiled his enjoyment for that day, making him moody and silent. Such little incidents there were many of them were far too simple and natural to be the work of deliberation and forethought.
Indeed it was a mystery to her how he had ever come to care for Sophie at all; and the reason of the mystery was, that she had felt a movement of passion in him toward herself. There was certainly not much similarity between the sisters, and it was not strange that Cornelia should be inclined to doubt the validity of her rival's claim to supremacy in Bressant's heart. Her rival!
Bressant's voice, which had been growing hoarser and more rapid as he went on, abruptly sank, at this last sentence, into a whisper; yet, had any one been there to listen, the whisper would have sounded louder and more terrible than the most violent vociferation of angry passion. It breathed a sudden concentration of evil intelligence, that startled like the hiss of a serpent.
Strong forces had been laboring within her during the last few months. Love, disappointment, a passionate nature, a sense of wrong not least, her New-York experience had developed, warped, and transformed her. Bressant's homage had been the first, of any value to her, which she had ever received.
The customary hour for Bressant's visit to the Parsonage went by, and he did not appear. The professor smoked two extra pipes, and spent half an hour looking out across the valley trying to discern the open spot upon the top of the hill. Finally, the early twilight set in, and he returned to his chair, but felt no impulse to light a lamp and take up a book.
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