The willow-trees started suddenly from the forward darkness, and
vanished past in a dusky twinkling. The road seemed drawn in swift,
smooth lines from beneath his feet, he moving as in a mighty treadmill.
The breeze softly smote his forehead, and whispered past his ears. Now
he rose lightly in the air over an unexpected puddle, striking the
farther side with feet together, and so on again. Twice or thrice, his
steps sounded hollowly over a plank bridging. At a distance, steadily
approaching, appeared the outlet, light against the dark willow setting.
When it was reached, ensued a rough acclivity, hard for knees and lungs,
winding upward for a considerable distance. Up the runner went, with
seemingly untired activity, and the stones and sand spurted from beneath
his ascending feet. The air became drier and warmer again as he mounted,
and the meadows slept beneath him in their clammy darkness.
Near the brow of the hill stood a farm-house, black against the sky.
Bressant marked the light through the curtained window, dimly bringing
out a transverse strip of road; the pump standing over its trough with
uplifted arm and dangling cup; the rambling shed, with the wagon half
hidden beneath it; the barn, with blank windowless front, and shingled
roof. A dog barked sharply at him, as he echoed by, but inaudibly to
Bressant's ears. Presently a raised sidewalk divided off from the road,
affording a smoother course; the outlying houses of the village slipped
past one after another; a white picket-fence twittered indistinguishably
by. The runner was nearing the end of his journey, and now leaned a
little farther forward, and his feet fell in a quicker rhythm than ever.
At the beginning of the village street stood the corner grocery; a
wooden awning in front, some men loafing at the door, who looked up as
the sound of Bressant's passing struck their ears; within, an indistinct
vision of barrels of produce, hams pendent from the dusky ceiling, some
brooms in a corner, and a big cheese upon the counter. Next succeeded
the series of adjoining shop-fronts, with their various windows, signs,
and styles; all wooden and clap-boarded, however, except the fire-engine
house, of red brick, with its wide central door and boarded slope to the
street. Bressant's steps echoed closely back from between the buildings;
once he clattered sharply over a stretch of brick sidewalk; once dodged
aside to avoid overrunning a dark-figured man. The village was left
behind; yonder stood the boarding-house, dimly white and irregular of
outline; he remembered it from the glimpse he had had in passing on his
way from the depot. In a few quick moments more he stood before the
door, glowing warm, from head to foot, drawing his deep breath easily,
his blood flowing in full, steady beats through heart and veins. He took
off his hat, passed his handkerchief over forehead and face, and then
pulled the tinkling door-bell. A fat Irish girl presently appeared, and
ushered him in with a stare and a grin, wiping her hands upon her apron.