Cornelia was so much amused at the idea of Abbie's being a married woman with a large family that she did not observe how Aunt Margaret, awaiting her answer, was all in a tremble. If she had not been laughing, she could scarcely have helped seeing how the ear-trumpet shook as it was presented to her.
"Oh, no," said she, "she's not married, Aunt Margaret—at least not now, though I believe she's a widow, or something of that kind, you know—and she hasn't any children at all! As to her other name, I don't know it, and I believe hardly any one does. You see, she's one of that queer sort of people; she's very quiet, and always grave, and nobody knows much about her, except that she's very good, and has lived in the village for twenty years and more. I believe, though, papa has met her before, or knows something about her in some way; but he never says any thing to us on the subject."
This was all that could be got out of Cornelia upon the topic of Abbie, and Mrs. Vanderplauck was obliged to swallow whatever uneasiness, curiosity, or misgiving she may have felt. In the midst of an exhortation to her young guest to repeat her visit daily to the boudoir, and regale her auntie with anecdotes of the dear old, interesting people in the village, Abbie and all, some one of the young ladies knocked at the door, and hurried Miss Valeyon off, without her having asked, as she had intended, for an explanation of the puzzling, metaphorical allusions.
Mrs. Vanderplanck, left to herself, rocked backward and forward in her chair, with her hands clasped over her forehead, much in the way that an insane person might have done.
"Who'd have thought it! who'd have thought it! In the very village—in the very house—of all places in the world!—in the very house!—and he laid up—can't be moved—can't be taken away. Why didn't I know?—why didn't I find out?—careless—stupid—thoughtless! Curse the woman! couldn't I have imagined that she'd never be far away from her dear professor—and we sent him there—we hid him away—we disguised his name—college was too public for him—let him finish his education in the country—and then we could escape away—to Germany—France—anywhere—and carry all the money with us—all the money!—half for me, and half for him!—and what'll become of it now? Curse the woman! I knew she couldn't be dead. But she sha'n't have the money—no! she sha'n't, she sha'n't!
"Is it possible, now?—could it be that that girl was deceiving me? Did she know the woman's name, after all?—no, no! she hasn't the face for it—no hypocrite in her yet—not yet, not yet! Well, but what if it's all a mistake?—Why not a mistake? why not?—tell me that! Plenty of women called Abbie, aren't there? Why shouldn't this be one of them—one of the others? No, but the professor had known her before—oh, yes!—known her before! and there's only one Abbie that the professor knew before! Curse her—curse her!
"Well, what if she is there? how will she know him? The professor won't tell her—he can't—he dare not tell her!—for I made him promise he wouldn't, and I've got his promise, written down—written down!—Ah! that was smart—that was smart! Yes, but the boy looks like his father!—that'll betray him!—she'll know him by that—know him? well, just as bad—yes, and worse too, in the end—worse! Oh! curse her!
"Never mind. I know how to manage. If the worst comes to the worst, I know what to do! And I must write to him—not now—as soon as he's well—he must come away. Even if it should turn out all a mistake, he must come away!—I'll write to him, as soon as he's well, that he must come away. And I'll question Cornelia again—ah! she's a handsome girl!—it's well I got her up here, out of the way!—I'll find out more from her. It may be a mistake, after all—it may, it may!"
While Aunt Margaret, sitting in her boudoir, thus took doubtful and disconnected counsel with herself, Cornelia was left to manage her little difficulties as best she might. Being tolerably quick in observing, and putting things together, and unwilling to trust to intuitive judgments of what was safe or unsafe in the moral atmosphere, she set to work with all her wits, and not without some measure of success, to fathom the secrets of the tantalizing freemasonry which piqued her curiosity. By listening to all that was said, laughing when others laughed, keeping silent when she was puzzled, comparing results and drawing deductions, she presently began to understand a good deal more than she had bargained for, was considerably shocked and disgusted, and perhaps felt desirous to unlearn what she had learned.
But this was not so easy. Things she would willingly have forgotten seemed, for that very reason, to stick in her memory—nay, in some moods of mind, to appear less entirely objectionable than in others. She had little opportunity for solitude—to bethink herself where she stood, and how she came there. During the daytime, there were the young ladies, here, there, and everywhere; there could be no seclusion. In the afternoons and evenings some admiring, soft-voiced young gentleman was always at her side, offering her his arm on the faintest pretext, or attempting to put it round her waist on no pretext at all; who always found it more convenient to murmur in her ear, than to speak out from a reasonable distance; whose hands were always getting into proximity with hers, and often attempting to clasp them; whose eyes were forever expressing something earnest or arch, pleading or romantic—though precisely what, his lingering utterance scarcely tried to define; who never could "see the harm" of these and many other peculiarities of behavior; and, indeed it was not very easy to argue about them, although the young gentlemen never shrank from the dispute, and never failed to have on hand an inexhaustible assortment of syllogisms to combat any remonstrance that might be advanced withal; while at the worst they could always be surprised and hurt if their conduct were called into question. Well, they appeared to be refined and high-bred. Compare them with Bill Reynolds! And the flattery of their attention, and the preference they gave her over the other girls, were not entirely lost upon Cornelia.