Bressant

Morning began to break dully over the sullen clouds as he resumed in

earnest his weary journey. Each yard of ground passed was now a battle

gained--every breath drawn a sobbing groan. Hills and dales rose

successively before him, clothed in the dead-white snow that had become

a nightmare to his darkening sight. He reeled sometimes as he walked,

dizzy from lack of sleep; a thousand fantastic fancies flitted through

his hot brain; a deadly lethargy began once more to creep over his

senses, but he gnawed the flesh of his lips to keep back consciousness.

And still, when will grew powerless, he felt the mysterious strain upon

his heart.

Only ten miles more! But they seemed by far the longer part of the whole

way. He was now within the range of his walks while living at the

boarding-house, and could see in his mind every slope and ascent, every

curve and angle, that lay between him and the Parsonage-door; and he

felt the weight of every hill upon his shoulders. At the risk of

falling, he stooped, snatched a handful of snow, and put it inside his

cap, so that it lay, cold and refreshing, upon his brain. Then he took a

handful in either hand, and so kept on.

The minutes grew into hours; the hours seemed to become days; but there,

at last, the well-known village lay! How reposeful and unconcerned the

houses looked, as if there were no such thing in the world as effort,

despair, or victory! As he came near, Bressant tried to nerve himself,

to walk erect and steady, to clear and concentrate his swimming sight

and confused head. He dreaded to meet the village-people, to have them

come staring and questioning about him, whispering and laughing among

themselves, and asking one another what was the matter with the man who

was engaged to the minister's daughter on this his wedding-morning.

Just then he felt a gentle pulling at his heart!

Presently he was in the village. There was a disjointed vision of faces,

some of which he knew, floating around him. Once in a while he caught

the sound of a voice through the humming in his ears. Were they offering

him assistance? warning him? calling to him? He knew not, nor cared. He

passed on, feebly but desperately. He saw the clock on the

church-steeple mark half-past eleven; still in time, thank God! but no

time to lose.

How well he knew the road, over which he was now groping his staggering

and uncertain way! In how many moods he had walked it, actuated by how

many different passions and impulses! And now he was as one dead, whose

body is dragged strangely onward by some invincibly-determined will. A

great fear suddenly seized upon him that here, upon this very last mile

of all the weary ones he had trod since the previous night-fall, he was

going to sink down, and give up his life and his attempt at the same

moment. Oh, Heaven help him to the end! O Sophie, let not the tender

strain upon his heart relax!