Bressant | Page 3

the cracks of which
sprouted tall blades of grass, led down to the path which terminated in
the gate. This path was distinguished by an incongruous pavement of
white limestone slabs, which were always kept carefully clean. The
gate was a rattle-boned affair, hanging feebly between two
grandfatherly old posts, which hypocritically tried to maintain an air of
solidity, though perfectly aware that 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