Bressant: A Novel

by Julian Hawthorne

And Cornelia? Of her he ventured not much to think. She was, perchance, the key whereby, for her and for himself, this dark riddle should hereafter be resolved. As Adam might labor for redemption only with his sin about his neck, so they, out of the fabric woven of their disgrace, must seek to fashion garments in which worthily to appear at heaven's gates.

As his mind rambled thus, he came to the outskirts of a long, wooded tract, which—for the map, as he had seen it at the railway-station, was clearly marked out in his memory, from the beginning to the end of his route—he knew was upward of ten miles from his starting-point; and, as near as he could judge (his watch, lying at the bottom of the fountain-basin in the Parsonage-garden, had never been replaced), it must be rather more than half-past nine o'clock. He maintained the same long, swinging trot, as unfalteringly as ever, though, perhaps, a trifle less springily than at first. The footing was deep and heavy, the thick fir-trees having kept the snow from being blown off the road, as in more exposed situations. Bressant was wet to his skin, for the temperature had risen, and the flakes melted as fast as they fell. Most of his glow and vigor remained, however, and he was no whit disheartened or doubtful. But the sky bent darkly over him, and the tall trees shut out all but a strip even of the scanty light that came thence. The moon would not rise for hours yet.

Another hour passed on over the toiling man. He had now begun to get among hills, and his course was always either up or down. This was in some degree a relief, affording change of movement to his muscles; but it probably lost him some little time, and certainly gave plenty of exercise to his lungs. Something of the superabundant warmth was leaving his body. He replaced his cap and buttoned up his jacket. What would not half a dozen biscuits have been worth to him now!

On and on. The hills opened, and in the inclosure they made lay a small village, with its white meeting-house and clustering dwellings. The windows were many of them alight: the people were sitting up for the new year. Bressant wondered whether it would dawn for any of them so strangely as for him! As he hurried along the empty street, a sign over one of the doors, barely discernible in the darkness, attracted his attention. He paused close to it, and made out the words, "West India goods and groceries;" and at once his fancy reveled in the savory eatables stored beyond his reach. What cheese and butter, what hams, biscuits, and apples; what salted codfish and strings of sausages, were there! Had the store been open, he would have been tempted to rush in, knock the salesman senseless, and make off with whatever he could carry. Strange thoughts these for a man bound on an errand of life and death! But hunger is no respecter of occasions, however inopportune, or of emotions, however incongruous. Bressant passed on. He was now twenty-five miles on his way, and as he came beneath the meeting-house clock, it struck twelve: the new year had come! To Bressant it brought only the knowledge that he was seven miles ahead of his time; and this served in some measure to counteract the depression caused by his hunger. But on—on! There were still fifty miles to go!

The village vanished, like the old year, behind him. He was now crossing a lofty plateau, over which swept the wind, strong and chilly. He began to feel the cold now, and his wet clothes, once in a while, made him shiver. His physical exhilaration had left him, and his long trot, save where a downward slope favored him, had gradually sobered into a quick walk. His shoes, soaked with snow-water, began to chafe his feet. But he knew better than to stop for rest: the only safety lay in keeping steadily on; and on he kept, his mouth set grimly, and his head a little bent forward.

From the top of the plateau was a gradual descent of some five miles; and here Bressant again fell into a run, reaching the bottom, without extraordinary exertion, in a trifle less than three-quarters of an hour. He felt the need of his watch very keenly now; it would have been a great assistance and encouragement to know just how much he was doing. He could no longer afford to waste any strength, even in making calculations; he was fully occupied in putting one foot before another.

How dark, and cold, and blankly disheartening it was! He had now completed fifty miles, though he knew it not; but it seemed to him as if he had been full a hundred. His feet, rubbed raw, and stiffened by the cold, were beginning to retard his pace alarmingly. His face and lips were pale; a sensation of emptiness and chilled vitality pervaded his body. It had come down to grim hard work; every step was a conscious effort; and yet he had no time to spare.

The storm had lightened considerably, but the young man's eyes were dull and heavy; it was a constant struggle to keep awake. He scarcely attended to the road, but plunged along, careless of where he trod. Suddenly, however, and for the first time since starting, he came to a dead halt, and, after gazing about him a moment, cried out in dismay. And well he might, for he stood in a field, with no sign anywhere of road or path! In his sleepy inattention, he had lost his way and wandered he knew not whither.

At first he was too much paralyzed by this discovery to think or act. He threw himself face downward on the snow, and lay like a log. God was against him! How could he go on? Ah, how sweet felt that cold bed! Let him lie there in peace, to move no more! Surely he had done his best; who could blame him for a failure beyond his power to avert? The darkness would pass over him, and leave him stretched there motionless; the first light of morning would mark the dark outlines of his prostrate figure, and he would not turn to greet it. Daylight would succeed, the sun would climb the sky and shine down upon him warmly; but he would be insensible as to the darkness or the cold. Twilight would settle over the field again, and night, following, would find him as she had left him, prone upon his face, with outstretched arms. For he would be dead—dead—dead—and at rest!

But the end had not yet come. Ere he had quite sunk into insensibility, he was conscious of a feeling within him, as if some one were pulling—pulling at his heart, with a force benign and loving, yet strong as death itself. He staggered to his feet, and, stumbling as he walked, set his face against the cold and cheerless sky once more. The pulling at his heart-strings seemed to draw him steadily in one certain direction; he traversed acres of field and pasture-land blind and insensible to every thing save this mysterious guide. In his weak and exhausted state his spiritual perceptions were doubtless less incumbered than when he was in full possession of his strength. So he was drawn undeviatingly on and on, until, unexpectedly, he found himself in a road again. Then he recognized that it was Sophie's spirit which had rescued him from death and failure. He had unconsciously made the short cut across the fields, which he had noticed and decided not to attempt when examining the map. He had saved five miles in distance, equal to fully an hour in time. The thought inspired him anew, and gave him further strength. With such divine encouragement, he could falter and hesitate no more.