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JOSEPH AND HIS FRIEND:
_A Story of Pennsylvania._
BY
BAYARD TAYLOR.
The better angel is a man right fair;
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
SHAKSPEARE: _Sonnets_.
NEW YORK:
G. P. PUTNAM & SONS,
FOURTH AVENUE AND TWENTY-THIRD STREET.
LONDON:
S. LOW, SON & MARSTON.
1870.
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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
BAYARD TAYLOR,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
THE NEW YORK PRINTING COMPANY,
_81, 83, and 85 Centre St._,
NEW YORK.
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⁂ To those who prefer quiet pictures of life to startling incidents, the
attempt to illustrate the development of character to the mysteries of
an elaborate plot, and the presentation of men and women in their mixed
strength and weakness to the painting of wholly virtuous ideals and
wholly evil examples: who are as interested in seeing moral and
intellectual forces at work in a simple country community as on a more
conspicuous plane of human action: who believe in the truth and
tenderness of man's love for man, as of man's love for woman: who
recognize the trouble which confused ideas of life and the lack of high
and intelligent culture bring upon a great portion of our country
population,—to all such, no explanation of this volume is necessary.
Others will not read it.
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CONTENTS.
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I. Joseph
II. Miss Blessing
III. The Place and People
IV. Miss Blessing calls on Rachel Miller
V. Elwood's Evening, and Joseph's
VI. In the Garden
VII. The Blessing Family
VIII. A Consultation
IX. Joseph and his Friend
X. Approaching Fate
XI. A City Wedding
XII. Clouds
XIII. Presentiments
XIV. The Amaranth
XV. A Dinner Party
XVI. Joseph's Trouble, and Philip's
XVII. A Storm
XVIII. On the Railroad Track
XIX. The "Wharf-rat"
XX. A Crisis
XXI. Under the Water
XXII. Kanuck
XXIII. Julia's Experiment
XXIV. Fate
XXV. The Mourners
XXVI. The Accusation
XXVII. The Labels
XXVIII. The Trial
XXIX. New Evidence
XXX. Mr. Blessing's Testimony
XXXI. Beginning another Life
XXXII. Letters—I. Joseph to Philip
XXXIII. All are Happy
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JOSEPH AND HIS FRIEND.
The better angel is a man right fair;
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
SHAKSPEARE: _Sonnets_.
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CHAPTER I.
JOSEPH.
Rachel Miller was not a little surprised when her nephew Joseph came to
the supper-table, not from the direction of the barn and through the
kitchen, as usual, but from the back room up stairs, where he slept. His
work-day dress had disappeared; he wore his best Sunday suit, put on
with unusual care, and there were faint pomatum odors in the air when he
sat down to the table.
Her face said—and she knew it—as plain as any words, "What in the world
does this mean?" Joseph, she saw, endeavored to look as though coming
down to supper in that costume were his usual habit; so she poured out
the tea in silence. Her silence, however, was eloquent; a hundred
interrogation-marks would not have expressed its import; and Dennis, the
hired man, who sat on the other side of the table, experienced very much
the same apprehension of something forthcoming, as when he had killed
her favorite speckled hen by mistake.
Before the meal was over, the tension between Joseph and his aunt had so
increased by reason of their mutual silence, that it was very awkward
and oppressive to both; yet neither knew how to break it easily. There
is always a great deal of unnecessary reticence in the intercourse of
country people, and in the case of these two it had been specially
strengthened by the want of every relationship except that of blood.
They were quite ignorant of the fence, the easy thrust and parry of
society, where talk becomes an art; silence or the bluntest utterance
were their alternatives, and now the one had neutralized the other. Both
felt this, and Dennis, in his dull way, felt it too. Although not a
party concerned, he was uncomfortable, yet also internally conscious of
a desire to laugh.
The resolution of the crisis, however, came by his aid. When the meal
was finished and Joseph betook himself to the window, awkwardly drumming
upon the pane, while his aunt gathered the plates and cups together,
delaying to remove them as was her wont, Dennis said, with his hand on
the door-knob: "Shall I saddle the horse right off?"
"I guess so," Joseph answered, after a moment's hesitation.
Rachel paused, with the two silver spoons in her hand. Joseph was still
drumming upon the window, but with very irregular taps. The door closed
upon Dennis.
"Well," said she, with singular calmness, "a body is not bound to dress
particularly fine for watching, though I would as soon show him that
much respect, if need be, as anybody else. Don't forget to ask Maria if
there's anything I can do for her."
Joseph turned around with a start, a most innocent surprise on his face.
"Why, aunt, what are you talking about?"
"You are not going to Warne's to watch? They have nearer neighbors, to
be sure, but when a man dies, everybody is free to offer their services.
He was always strong in the faith."
Joseph knew that he was caught, without suspecting her manœuvre. A
brighter color ran over his face, up to the roots of his hair. "Why,
no!" he exclaimed; "I am going to Warriner's to spend the evening.
There's to be a little company there,—a neighborly gathering. I believe
it's been talked of this long while, but I was only invited to-day. I
saw Bob, in the road-field."
Rachel endeavored to conceal from her nephew's eye the immediate
impression of his words. A constrained smile passed over her face, and
was instantly followed by a cheerful relief in his.
"Isn't it rather a strange time of year for evening parties?" she then
asked, with a touch of severity in her voice.
"They meant to have it in cherry-time, Bob said, when Anna's visitor had
come from town."
"That, indeed! I see!" Rachel exclaimed. "It's to be a sort of
celebration for—what's-her-name? Blessing, I know,—but the other? Anna
Warriner was there last Christmas, and I don't suppose the high notions
are out of her head yet. Well, I hope it'll be some time before they
take root here! Peace and quiet, peace and quiet, that's been the token
of the neighborhood; but town ways are the reverse."
"All the young people are going," Joseph mildly suggested, "and so—"
"O, I don't say you shouldn't go, _this_ time," Rachel interrupted him;
"for you ought to be able to judge for yourself what's fit and proper,
and what is not. I should be sorry, to be sure, to see you doing
anything and going anywhere that would make your mother uneasy if she
were living now. It's so hard to be conscientious, and to mind a body's
bounden duty, without seeming to interfere."
She heaved a deep sigh, and just touched the corner of her apron to her
eyes. The mention of his mother always softened Joseph, and in his
earnest desire to live so that his life might be such as to give her joy
if she could share it, a film of doubt spread itself over the smooth,
pure surface of his mind. A vague consciousness of his inability to
express himself clearly upon the question without seeming to slight her
memory affected his thoughts.
"But, remember, Aunt Rachel," he said, at last, "I was not old enough,
then, to go into society. She surely meant that I should have some
independence, when the time came. I am doing no more than all the young
men of the neighborhood."
"Ah, yes, I know," she replied, in a melancholy tone; "but they've got
used to it by degrees, and mostly in their own homes, and with sisters
to caution them; whereas you're younger according to your years, and
innocent of the ways and wiles of men, and—and girls."
Joseph painfully felt that this last assertion was true. Suppressing the
impulse to exclaim, "Why am I younger 'according to my years?' why am I
so much more 'innocent'—which is, ignorant—than others?" he blundered
out, with a little display of temper, "Well, how am I ever to learn?"
"By patience, and taking care of yourself. There's always safety in
waiting. I don't mean you shouldn't go this evening, since you've
promised it, and made yourself smart. But, mark my words, this is only
the beginning. The season makes no difference; townspeople never seem to
know that there's such things as hay-harvest and corn to be worked. They
come out for merry-makings in the busy time, and want us country folks
to give up everything for their pleasure. The tired plough-horses must
be geared up for 'em, and the cows wait an hour or two longer to be
milked while they're driving around; and the chickens killed half-grown,
and the washing and baking put off when it comes in their way. They're
mighty nice and friendly while it lasts; but go back to 'em in town, six
months afterwards, and see whether they'll so much as ask you to take a
meal's victuals!"
Joseph began to laugh. "It is not likely," he said, "that I shall ever
go to the Blessings for a meal, or that this Miss Julia—as they call
her—will ever interfere with our harvesting or milking."
"The airs they put on!" Rachel continued. "She'll very likely think that
she's doing you a favor by so much as speaking to you. When the Bishops
had boarders, two years ago, one of 'em said,—Maria told me with her own
mouth,—'Why don't all the farmers follow your example? It would be so
refining for them!' They may be very well in their place, but, for my
part, I should like them to stay there."
"There comes the horse," said Joseph. "I must be on the way. I expect to
meet Elwood Withers at the lane-end. But—about waiting, Aunt—you hardly
need—"
"O, yes, I'll wait for you, of course. Ten o'clock is not so very late
for me."
"It might be a little after," he suggested.
"Not much, I hope; but if it should be daybreak, wait I will! Your
mother couldn't expect less of me."
When Joseph whirled into the saddle, the thought of his aunt, grimly
waiting for his return, was already perched like an imp on the crupper,
and clung to his sides with claws of steel. She, looking through the
window, also felt that it was so; and, much relieved, went back to her
household duties.
He rode very slowly down the lane, with his eyes fixed on the ground.
There was a rich orange flush of sunset on the hills across the valley;
masses of burning cumuli hung, self-suspended, above the farthest woods,
and such depths of purple-gray opened beyond them as are wont to rouse
the slumbering fancies and hopes of a young man's heart; but the beauty
and fascination, and suggestiveness of the hour could not lift his
downcast, absorbed glance. At last his horse, stopping suddenly at the
gate, gave a whinny of recognition, which was answered.
Elwood Withers laughed. "Can you tell me where Joseph Asten lives?" he
cried,—"an old man, very much bowed and bent."
Joseph also laughed, with a blush, as he met the other's strong,
friendly face. "There is plenty of time," he said, leaning over his
horse's neck and lifting the latch of the gate.
"All right; but you must now wake up. You're spruce enough to make a
figure to-night."
"O, no doubt!" Joseph gravely answered; "but what kind of a figure?"
"Some people, I've heard say," said Elwood, "may look into their
looking-glass every day, and never know how they look. If you appeared
to yourself as you appear to me, you wouldn't ask such a question as
that."
"If I could only not think of myself at all, Elwood,—if I could be as
unconcerned as you are—"
"But I'm not, Joseph, my boy!" Elwood interrupted, riding nearer and
laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I tell you, it weakens my very
marrow to walk into a room full o' girls, even though I know every one
of 'em. They know it, too, and, shy and quiet as they seem, they're
un-merciful. There they sit, all looking so different, somehow,—even a
fellow's own sisters and cousins,—filling up all sides of the room,
rustling a little and whispering a little, but you feel that every one
of 'em has her eyes on you, and would be so glad to see you flustered.
There's no help for it, though; we've got to grow case-hardened to that
much, or how ever could a man get married?"
"Elwood!" Joseph asked, after a moment's silence, "were you ever in
love?"
"Well,"—and Elwood pulled up his horse in surprise,—"well, you _do_ come
out plump. You take the breath out of my body. Have I been in love? Have
I committed murder? One's about as deadly a secret as the other!"
The two looked each other in the face. Elwood's eyes answered the
question, but Joseph's,—large, shy, and utterly innocent,—could not read
the answer.
"It's easy to see _you've_ never been," said the former, dropping his
voice to a grave gentleness. "If I should say Yes, what then?"
"Then, how do you know it,—I mean, how did you first begin to find it
out? What is the difference between that and the feeling you have
towards any pleasant girl whom you like to be with?"
"All the difference in the world!" Elwood exclaimed with energy; then
paused, and knitted his brows with a perplexed air; "but I'll be shot if
I know exactly what else to say; I never thought of it before. How do I
know that I am Elwood Withers? It seems just as plain as that,—and
yet—well, for one thing, she's always in your mind, and you think and
dream of just nothing but her; and you'd rather have the hem of her
dress touch you than kiss anybody else; and you want to be near her, and
to have her all to yourself, yet it's hard work to speak a sensible word
to her when you come together,—but, what's the use? A fellow must feel
it himself, as they say of experiencing religion; he must get converted,
or he'll never know. Now, I don't suppose you've understood a word of
what I've said!"
"Yes!" Joseph answered; "indeed, I think so. It's only an increase of
what we all feel towards some persons. I have been hoping, latterly,
that it might come to me, but—but—"
"But your time will come, like every man's," said Elwood; "and, maybe,
sooner than you think. When it does, you won't need to ask anybody;
though I think you're bound to tell me of it, after pumping my own
secret out of me."
Joseph looked grave.
"Never mind; I wasn't obliged to let you have it. I know you're
close-mouthed and honest-hearted, Joseph; but I'll never ask your
confidence unless you can give it as freely as I give mine to you."
"You shall have it, Elwood, if my time ever comes. And I can't help
wishing for the time, although it may not be right. You know how lonely
it is on the farm, and yet it's not always easy for me to get away into
company. Aunt Rachel stands in mother's place to me, and maybe it's only
natural that she should be over-concerned; any way, seeing what she has
done for my sake, I am hindered from opposing her wishes too stubbornly.
Now, to-night, my going didn't seem right to her, and I shall not get it
out of my mind that she is waiting up, and perhaps fretting, on my
account."
"A young fellow of your age mustn't be so tender," Elwood said. "If you
had your own father and mother, they'd allow you more of a range. Look
at me, with mine! Why, I never as much as say 'by your leave.' Quite the
contrary; so long as the work isn't slighted, they're rather glad than
not to have me go out; and the house is twice as lively since I bring so
much fresh gossip into it. But then, I've had a rougher bringing up."
"I wish I had had!" cried Joseph. "Yet, no, when I think of mother, it
is wrong to say just that. What I mean is, I wish I could take things as
easily as you,—make my way boldly in the world, without being held back
by trifles, or getting so confused with all sorts of doubts. The more
anxious I am to do right, the more embarrassed I am to know what is the
right thing. I don't believe you have any such troubles."
"Well, for my part, I do about as other fellows; no worse, I guess, and
likely no better. You must consider, also, that I'm a bit rougher made,
besides the bringing up, and that makes a deal of difference. I don't
try to make the scales balance to a grain; if there's a handful under or
over, I think it's near enough. However, you'll be all right in a while.
When you find the right girl and marry her, it'll put a new face on to
you. There's nothing like a sharp, wide-awake wife, so they say, to set
a man straight. Don't make a mountain of anxiety out of a little
molehill of inexperience. I'd take all your doubts and more, I'm sure,
if I could get such a two-hundred-acre farm with them."
"Do you know," cried Joseph eagerly, his blue eyes flashing through the
gathering dusk, "I have often thought very nearly the same thing! If I
were to love,—if I were to marry—"
"Hush!" interrupted Elwood; "I know you don't mean others to hear you.
Here come two down the branch road."
The horsemen, neighboring farmers' sons, joined them. They rode together
up the knoll towards the Warriner mansion, the lights of which glimmered
at intervals through the trees. The gate was open, and a dozen vehicles
could be seen in the enclosure between the house and barn. Bright,
gliding forms were visible on the portico.
"Just see," whispered Elwood to Joseph; "what a lot of posy-colors! You
may be sure they're every one watching us. No flinching, mind; straight
to the charge! We'll walk up together, and it won't be half as hard for
you."
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