Bressant | Page 3

they were wellnigh rotted away at the base. The action of this gate was assisted--or more correctly encumbered--by the contrivance of a sliding ball and chain, creating a most dismal clatter and flap as often as it was opened. The white-washed picket fence, scaled and patched by the weather, kept the posts in excellent countenance; and inclosed a moderate grass-plot, adorned with a couple of rather barren black cherry-trees, and as many firs, with low-spread branches.
Above the house and the road rose a rugged eminence, sparely clothed with patches of grass, brambles, and huckleberry-bushes, the gray knots of rock pushing up here and there between. On the summit appeared against the sky the outskirts of a sturdy forest, paradise of nuts and squirrels. The rough road ran between rude stone-fences and straggling apple-trees to the village, lying some two miles to the southeast. About two hundred yards beyond the Parsonage--so Professor Valeyon's house was called, he, in times past, having officiated as pastor of the village--it made a sharp turn to the left around a spur of the hill, bringing into view the tall white steeple of the village meeting-house, relieved against the mountainous background beyond.
They dined in the Parsonage at two o'clock. At about three the professor was wont to cross the entry to his study, take his pipe from its place on the high wooden mantel-piece, fill it from the brown earthen-ware tobacco-box on the table, and stepping through the window on to the balcony, takes his place in his chair. Here he would sit sometimes till sundown, composed in body and mind; dreaming, perhaps, over the rough pathway of his earlier life, and facilitating the process by exhaling long wreaths of thinnest smoke-layers from his mouth, and ever and anon crossing and recrossing his legs.
On the present afternoon it was really very hot. Professor Valeyon, occupying his usual position, had nearly finished his second pipe. He had thrown off the light linen duster he usually wore, and sat with his waistcoat open, displaying a somewhat rumpled, but very clean white shirt-bosom; and his sturdy old neck was swathed in the white necktie which was the only visible relic of his ministerial career. He had covered his bald head with a handkerchief, for the double purpose of keeping away the flies, and creating a cooling current of air. One of his down-trodden slippers had dropped off, and lay sole-upward on the floor. There was no symptom of a breeze in the still, warm valley, nor even on the jagged ridges of the opposing hills. The professor, with all his appliances for coolness and comfort, felt the need of one strongly.
Mellowed by the distance, the long shriek of the engine, on its way from New York, streamed upon his ears and set him thinking. A good many years since he had been to New York!--nine, positively nine--not since the year after his wife's death. It hardly seemed so long, looking back upon it. He wondered whether time had passed as silently and swiftly to his daughters as to him. At all events, they had grown in the interval from little girls into young ladies--Cornelia nineteen, and Sophie not more than a year younger. "Bless me!" murmured the professor aloud, taking the pipe from his mouth, and bringing his heavy eyebrows together in a thoughtful frown.
He would scarcely have believed, in his younger years, that he would have remained anywhere so long, without even a thought of changing the scene. But then, his society days were over long ago, and he had seen all he ever intended to see of the world. Here he had his house, and his daily newspaper, and his books, and his garden, and the love and respect of his daughters and fellow-townspeople. Was not that enough--was it not all he could desire? But here, insensibly, the professor's eyes rested upon the vacant spot at the summit of the hill opposite.
Very few people, be they never so old, or their circumstances never so good, would find it impossible to mention something which they believe they would be the happier for possessing. Perhaps Professor Valeyon was not one of the exceptions, and was haunted by the idea that, were some certain event to come to pass, life would be more pleasant and gracious to him than it was now. Doubtless, however, an ideal aspiration of some kind, even though it be never realized, is itself a kind of happiness, without which we might feel at a loss. If the professor's solitary wish had been fulfilled, and there had been no longer cause for him to say, "If I had but this, I should be satisfied," might it not still happen that in some unguarded, preoccupied moment he should start and blush to find his lips senselessly forming