Some ten or twelve years after her establishment, Professor Valeyon and his family had moved into town. They had not taken up their quarters at Abbie's, though she could easily have accommodated them, as far as room went; a circumstance which caused all the more surprise in some quarters, because there seemed to have been some previous acquaintance between herself and the professor. But Abbie was even less talkative upon this than upon other subjects; and no one ventured to catechise the grave and forcible-looking man who was the only other source of possible information. After a time, he settled in the house which subsequently became the parsonage; and, since no particular relations were kept up between his family and the boarding-house keeper, curiosity and comment died a natural death, and it even came to be doubted whether they ever had met each other before, after all.
Abbie, at the present time, was a taciturn personage, neither tall nor short, stout nor thin. Her eyebrows were straight and strongly marked, and much darker than her hair, which, indeed, had begun to turn gray several years before. There was nothing especially noticeable in her other features, except that the lips were habitually compressed, and the chin so square-cut and firm as to be almost masculine. A good many little wrinkles could be traced around the mouth, and at the corners of the eyes, especially when she was much depressed; and sometimes her expression was very hard and stern. Her manners were quite undemonstrative; they seemed to be neither fastidious nor the reverse, and it would have been hard to predicate from them in what station of life she had been brought up. She certainly adapted herself well to whatever society she happened to be with; neither patricians nor plebeians found any thing to criticise; but, whether this were the result of tact, or owing merely to the adoption of a negative standard, no one could say. In language she was uniformly correct, without seeming at all scholastic; she occasionally used the idioms and dialectic peculiarities of those around her, though never with the air of being heedlessly betrayed into them.
On the whole, therefore, the boarding-house keeper remained a problem or a commonplace, according to the fancy of the observer. In any case, she had grown to be a necessity, if not a popular element, in the village society. It was in her large, rambling rooms that all the grand parties and social celebrations took place. Was a picnic or other pleasure-expedition in prospect, Abbie's experience and managing ability were depended on for its success. She it was who arranged the details of weddings; and her assistance was almost as necessary a condition of a legitimate funeral, as that of Death himself!
Professor Valeyon drove up to the door in his wagon, got down with all the care that the successful support of his burden of years demanded, and chained Dolly to the much-gnawed post which was fixed for the purpose on the edge of the sidewalk. He ascended the steps, and was met by Abbie on the threshold. He removed his hat with old-fashioned courtesy, and gave her cold hand a quiet, warm grasp.
"Good-morning, Abbie," said he, gruffly, but cheerfully, and with a very kind look out of his deep-set old eyes. "Is all well with you this morning?"
"Yes," replied she, with a faint smile, that seemed to show more of weariness than merriment. "Come into the boudoir, Professor Valeyon. You're a stranger."
"But that's going to be remedied—that's going to be remedied!" rejoined the old gentleman, seating himself, and allowing his hand to wander to the top of his head, to make sure the hair-swathe was safely in position. "Bond of union been established between us, you know."
Abbie laid her finger upon her under lip—a common act of hers when interested or absorbed—and looked at her caller inquiringly.
"That young fellow that came last night, sent his trunk up before coming himself. Saw him, didn't you?"
Abbie shook her head. "I saw his trunk, but not him. Mr. Bressant, I think. You know him?"