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!
For nothing less than that can save him now! His eyes see no longer; his feet stumble in ignorance; he sleeps, and dreams of events which happened—was it long ago?—upon this road. Here he met and talked with Cornelia, that autumn day. Back there, they paused on the brow of the hill, one moonlight night, was that so long ago, too? Here, some time in the past, he had found a lifeless body in the snow, clad in a bridal dress; here, he had caught a runaway horse by the head, and—
He fell headlong to the ground. The shock partly awoke him. He struggled up to his knees—was there any one assisting him?—another struggle—he was on his feet. Right before him lay the house—the old Parsonage; there were the gate, the path, the porch. He made a final effort—it forced a deadly sweat from his forehead—and still there was a vague sense of being supported and directed by some one—he could not stop to see or question who; but, had it not been for that support, he must have failed. The gate opened, with its old creak and rattle, before him; a hand he saw not held it till he passed through.
Now, at the moment when he had fallen in the road, of the three who had all along been awaiting him within—of these three, two only were left. But, so quietly had the third departed, the others perceived not that she was gone. The features, which remained, wore an expression of angelic happiness. It was as she had wished.
At the same moment, too, through a rift in the dull sky, a little gleam of sunshine—the first of that gray day—descended, and rested upon Bressant. It accompanied him to the gate, and, still keeping close to him, slipped up the path between the trees, and even followed him on to the porch, where it brightened about him, as he put his hand to the latch. Was it a symbol of some loving spirit, newly set free from its mortal body, come to watch over him for evermore?
An old woman, who stood without clutching the palings of the gate, saw Bressant open the door and pass inward, and the sunshine entered with him. The door was left ajar—might she not enter too? Just then, a little ormolu clock, on the mantel-piece inside, gave a preliminary whirr, and hastily struck the hour of noon. As if in answer to a signal, the sun smiled broadly forth, and quite transfigured the weather-beaten old Parsonage.