Bressant

Friday, December 30th, was the day appointed for Abbie's ball, and the

morning of the 28th had already dawned. Bressant stood, with his arms

folded, at the window of his room, watching the downfall of a thickening

snow-storm which had set in the previous midnight. There had evidently

been no delay or intermission in the cold, white, silent business; to

look out-of-doors was enough to make the flesh seem thin upon the bones.

In spite of the snow, however, the little room was feverishly hot, owing

to the gigantic exertions of the small iron cylinder-stove. The round

aperture over the little door was glowing red, like an enraged eye; and

the quivering radiation of the heat from the polished black surface was

plainly perceptible to the sight. The room had lost something of the

neat and fastidious appearance which it had worn a few months before.

The colored drawing of a patent derrick, fastened to the wall by a tack

at each corner of the paper, had broken loose at one end, and was

curling over on itself like a withered leaf. The string by which the

ingenious almanac had been suspended over the mantel-piece was broken,

letting the almanac neatly down into the crevice between the wall and a

couple of fat dictionaries, which lay, one on top of the other, upon the

ledge. It was quite hidden from view, with the exception of one corner,

which was a little tilted upward, showing the hole through which the

faithless string had passed.

The terrestrial and astronomical globes bore the appearance of not

having revolved for a long time. A part of the pictured surface of the

latter had scaled off, disclosing a blank whiteness beneath. Even the

heavens, it seemed, were a sham; nothing more than a varnished painting

upon a plaster-of-Paris foundation. The flower-pots still stood in the

windows, but hot air and an irregular water-supply had made sad inroads

upon the beauty of the plants. The lower leaves were turned brown; some

of them had fallen off, and lay--poor, little unburied corpses--upon the

narrow circle of earth which, having failed to keep life green within

their cells, now denied to them the right of sepulture. A few of the

topmost sprouts still struggled to keep up a parody of verdure, and one

or two faded flowers had not yet forsaken their calices--a silly piece

of devotion on their part! Icy little blasts, squeezing in through the

crevices of the window-sash, whistled about the forlorn stalks, cutting

and venomous. The poor flowers would never see another summer; better

give up at once!

Even the books which met the eye on every side, wore a deserted air. Not

that they were dusty, for the chambermaid did her duty, if Bressant

failed in his; but there was something in the heavy, methodical manner

of their sleeping upon one another, such as they could never have

settled into had they been recently disturbed or opened. The outside of

a book is often as eloquent, in its way, as any part of the contents.