JOSEPH AND HIS FRIEND.
The train moved slowly along through the straggling and shabby suburbs,
increasing its speed as the city melted gradually into the country; and
Joseph, after a vain attempt to fix his mind upon one of the volumes he
had procured for his slender library at home, leaned back in his seat
and took note of his fellow-travellers. Since he began to approach the
usual destiny of men, they had a new interest for him. Hitherto he had
looked upon strange faces very much as on a strange language, without a
thought of interpreting them; but now their hieroglyphics seemed to
suggest a meaning. The figures around him were so many sitting, silent
histories, so many locked-up records of struggle, loss, gain, and all
the other forces which give shape and color to human life. Most of them
were strangers to each other, and as reticent (in their railway
conventionality) as himself; yet, he reflected, the whole range of
passion, pleasure, and suffering was probably illustrated in that
collection of existences. His own troublesome individuality grew
fainter, so much of it seemed to be merged in the common experience of
men.
There was the portly gentleman of fifty, still ruddy and full of
unwasted force. The keenness and coolness of his eyes, the few firmly
marked lines on his face, and the color and hardness of his lips,
proclaimed to everybody: "I am bold, shrewd, successful in business,
scrupulous in the performance of my religious duties (on the Sabbath),
voting with my party, and not likely to be fooled by any kind of
sentimental nonsense." The thin, not very well-dressed man beside him,
with the irregular features and uncertain expression, announced as
clearly, to any who could read: "I am weak, like others, but I never
consciously did any harm. I just manage to get along in the world, but
if I only had a chance, I might make something better of myself." The
fresh, healthy fellow, in whose lap a child was sleeping, while his wife
nursed a younger one,—the man with ample mouth, large nostrils, and the
hands of a mechanic,—also told his story: "On the whole, I find life a
comfortable thing. I don't know much about it, but I take it as it
comes, and never worry over what I can't understand."
The faces of the younger men, however, were not so easy to decipher. On
them life was only beginning its plastic task, and it required an older
eye to detect the delicate touches of awakening passions and hopes. But
Joseph consoled himself with the thought that his own secret was as
little to be discovered as any they might have. If they were still
ignorant, of the sweet experience of love, he was already their
superior; if they were sharers in it, though strangers, they were near
to him. Had he not left the foot of the class, after all?
All at once his eye was attracted by a new face, three or four seats
from his own. The stranger had shifted his position, so that he was no
longer seen in profile. He was apparently a few years older than Joseph,
but still bright with all the charm of early manhood. His fair
complexion was bronzed from exposure, and his hands, graceful without
being effeminate, were not those of the idle gentleman. His hair, golden
in tint, thrust its short locks as it pleased about a smooth, frank
forehead; the eyes were dark gray, and the mouth, partly hidden by a
mustache, at once firm and full. He was moderately handsome, yet it was
not of that which Joseph thought; he felt that there was more of
developed character and a richer past history expressed in those
features than in any other face there. He felt sure—and smiled at
himself, notwithstanding, for the impression—that at least some of his
own doubts and difficulties had found their solution in the stranger's
nature. The more he studied the face, the more he was conscious of its
attraction, and his instinct of reliance, though utterly without
grounds, justified itself to his mind in some mysterious way.
It was not long before the unknown felt his gaze, and, turning slowly in
his seat, answered it. Joseph dropped his eyes in some confusion, but
not until he had caught the full, warm, intense expression of those that
met them. He fancied that he read in them, in that momentary flash, what
he had never before found in the eyes of strangers,—a simple, human
interest, above curiosity and above mistrust. The usual reply to such a
gaze is an unconscious defiance: the unknown nature is on its guard: but
the look which seems to answer, "We are men, let us know each other!"
is, alas! too rare in this world.
While Joseph was fighting the irresistible temptation to look again,
there was a sudden thud of the car-wheels. Many of the passengers
started from their seats, only to be thrown into them again by a quick
succession of violent jolts. Joseph saw the stranger springing towards
the bell-rope; then he and all others seemed to be whirling over each
other; there was a crash, a horrible grinding and splintering sound, and
the end of all was a shock, in which his consciousness left him before
he could guess its violence.
After a while, out of some blank, haunted by a single lost, wandering
sense of existence, he began to awaken slowly to life. Flames were still
dancing in his eyeballs, and waters and whirlwinds roaring in his ears;
but it was only a passive sensation, without the will to know more. Then
he felt himself partly lifted and his head supported, and presently a
soft warmth fell upon the region of his heart. There were noises all
about him, but he did not listen to them; his effort to regain his
consciousness fixed itself on that point alone, and grew stronger as the
warmth calmed the confusion of his nerves.
"Dip this in water!" said a voice, and the hand (as he now knew it to
be) was removed from his heart.
Something cold came over his forehead, and at the same time warm drops
fell upon his cheek.
"Look out for yourself: your head is cut!" exclaimed another voice.
"Only a scratch. Take the handkerchief out of my pocket and tie it up;
but first ask yon gentleman for his flask!"
Joseph opened his eyes, knew the face that bent over his, and then
closed them again. Gentle and strong hands raised him, a flask was set
to his lips, and he drank mechanically, but a full sense of life
followed the draught. He looked wistfully in the stranger's face.
"Wait a moment," said the latter; "I must feel your bones before you try
to move. Arms and legs all right,—impossible to tell about the ribs.
There! now put your arm around my neck, and lean on me as much as you
like, while I lift you."
Joseph did as he was bidden, but he was still weak and giddy, and after
a few steps, they both sat down together upon a bank. The splintered car
lay near them upside down; the passengers had been extricated from it,
and were now busy in aiding the few who were injured. The train had
stopped and was waiting on the track above. Some were very pale and
grave, feeling that Death had touched without taking them; but the
greater part were concerned only about the delay to the train.
"How did it happen?" asked Joseph: "where was I? how did you find me?"
"The usual story,—a broken rail," said the stranger. "I had just caught
the rope when the car went over, and was swung off my feet so luckily
that I somehow escaped the hardest shock. I don't think I lost my senses
for a moment. When we came to the bottom you were lying just before me;
I thought you dead until I felt your heart. It is a severe shock, but I
hope nothing more."
"But you,—are you not badly hurt?"
The stranger pushed up the handkerchief which was tied around his head,
felt his temple, and said: "It must have been one of the splinters; I
know nothing about it. But there is no harm in a little blood-letting
except"—he added, smiling—"except the spots on your face."
By this time the other injured passengers had been conveyed to the
train; the whistle sounded a warning of departure.
"I think we can get up the embankment now," said the stranger. "You must
let me take care of you still: I am travelling alone."
When they were seated side by side, and Joseph leaned his head back on
the supporting arm, while the train moved away with them, he felt that a
new power, a new support, had come to his life. The face upon which he
looked was no longer strange; the hand which had rested on his heart was
warm with kindred blood. Involuntarily he extended his own; it was taken
and held, and the dark gray, courageous eyes turned to him with a silent
assurance which he felt needed no words.
"It is a rough introduction," he then said: "my name is Philip Held. I
was on my way to Oakland Station; but if you are going farther—"
"Why, that is my station also!" Joseph exclaimed, giving his name in
return.
"Then we should have probably met, sooner or later, in any case. I am
bound for the forge and furnace at Coventry, which is for sale. If the
company who employ me decide to buy it,—according to the report I shall
make,—the works will be placed in my charge."
"It is but six miles from my farm," said Joseph, "and the road up the
valley is the most beautiful in our neighborhood. I hope you can make a
favorable report."
"It is only too much to my own interest to do so. I have been mining and
geologizing in Nevada and the Rocky Mountains for three or four years,
and long for a quiet, ordered life. It is a good omen that I have found
a neighbor in advance of my settlement. I have often ridden fifty miles
to meet a friend who cared for something else than horse-racing or
_monte_; and your six miles,—it is but a step!"
"How much you have seen!" said Joseph. "I know very little of the world.
It must be easy for you to take your own place in life."
A shade passed over Philip Held's face. "It is only easy to a certain
class of men," he replied,—"a class to which I should not care to
belong. I begin to think that nothing is very valuable, the light to
which a man don't earn,—except human love, and that seems to come by the
grace of God."
"I am younger than you are,—not yet twenty-three," Joseph remarked. "You
will find that I am very ignorant."
"And I am twenty-eight, and just beginning to get my eyes open, like a
nine-days' kitten. If I had been frank enough to confess my ignorance,
five years ago, as you do now, it would have been better for me. But
don't let us measure ourselves or our experience against each other.
That is one good thing we learn in Rocky Mountain life; there is no high
or low, knowledge or ignorance, except what applies to the needs of men
who come together. So there are needs which most men have, and go all
their lives hungering for, because they expect them to be supplied in a
particular form. There is something," Philip concluded, "deeper than
that in human nature."
Joseph longed to open his heart to this man, every one of whose words
struck home to something in himself. But the lassitude which the shock
left behind gradually overcame him. He suffered his head to be drawn
upon Philip Held's shoulder, and slept until the train reached Oakland
Station. When the two got upon the platform, they found Dennis waiting
for Joseph, with a light country vehicle. The news of the accident had
reached the station, and his dismay was great when he saw the two bloody
faces. A physician had already been summoned from the neighboring
village, but they had little need of his services. A prescription of
quiet and sedatives for Joseph, and a strip of plaster for his
companion, were speedily furnished, and they set out together for the
Asten place.
It is unnecessary to describe Rachel Miller's agitation when the party
arrived; or the parting of the two men who had been so swiftly brought
near to each other; or Philip Held's farther journey to the forge that
evening. He resisted all entreaty to remain at the farm until morning,
on the ground of an appointment made with the present proprietor of the
forge. After his departure Joseph was sent to bed, where he remained for
a day or two, very sore and a little feverish. He had plenty of time for
thought,—not precisely of the kind which his aunt suspected, for out of
pure, honest interest in his welfare, she took a step which proved to be
of doubtful benefit. If he had not been so innocent,—if he had not been
quite as unconscious of his inner nature as he was over-conscious of his
external self,—he would have perceived that his thoughts dwelt much more
on Philip Held than on Julia Blessing. His mind seemed to run through a
swift, involuntary chain of reasoning, to account to himself for his
feeling towards her, and her inevitable share in his future; but towards
Philip his heart sprang with an instinct beyond his control. It was
impossible to imagine that the latter also would not be shot, like a
bright thread, through the web of his coming days.
On the third morning, when he had exchanged the bed for an arm-chair, a
letter from the city was brought to him. "Dearest Joseph," it ran, "what
a fright and anxiety we have had! When pa brought the paper home, last
night, and I read the report of the accident, where it said, '_J.
Asten_, severe contusions,' my heart stopped beating for a minute, and I
can only write now (as you see) with a trembling hand. My first thought
was to go directly to you; but ma said we had better wait for
intelligence. Unless our engagement were generally known, it would give
rise to remarks,—in short, I need not repeat to you all the _worldly_
reasons with which she opposed me; but, oh, how I longed for _the right_
to be at your side, and assure myself that the dreadful, dreadful danger
has passed! Pa was quite shaken with the news: he felt hardly able to go
to the Custom-House this morning. But he sides with ma about my going,
and now, when my time as a daughter with them is growing so short, I
dare not disobey. I know you will understand my position, yet, dear and
true as you are, you cannot guess the anxiety with which I await a line
from your hand, the hand that was so nearly taken from me forever!"
Joseph read the letter twice and was about to commence it for the third
time, when a visitor was announced. He had barely time to thrust the
scented sheet into his pocket; and the bright eyes and flushed face with
which he met the Rev. Mr. Chaffinch convinced both that gentleman and
his aunt, as she ushered the latter into the room, that the visit was
accepted as an honor and a joy.
On Mr. Chaffinch's face the air of authority which he had been led to
believe belonged to his calling had not quite succeeded in impressing
itself; but melancholy, the next best thing, was strongly marked. His
dark complexion and his white cravat intensified each other; and his
eyes, so long uplifted above the concerns of this world, had ceased to
vary their expression materially for the sake of any human interest. All
this had been expected of him, and he had simply done his best to meet
the requirements of the flock over which he was placed. Any of the
latter might have easily been shrewd enough to guess, in advance, very
nearly what the pastor would say, upon a given occasion; but each and
all of them would have been both disappointed and disturbed if he had
not said it.
After appropriate and sympathetic inquiries concerning Joseph's bodily
condition, he proceeded to probe him spiritually.
"It was a merciful preservation. I hope you feel that it is a solemn
thing to look Death in the face."
"I am not afraid of death," Joseph replied.
"You mean the physical pang. But death includes what comes after
it,—judgment. That is a very awful thought."
"It may be to evil men; but I have done nothing to make me fear it."
"You have never made an open profession of faith; yet it may be that
grace has reached you," said Mr. Chaffinch. "Have you found your
Saviour?"
"I believe in him with all my soul!" Joseph exclaimed; "but you mean
something else by 'finding' him. I will be candid with you, Mr.
Chaffinch. The last sermon I heard you preach, a month ago, was upon the
nullity of all good works, all Christian deeds; you called them 'rags,
dust, and ashes,' and declared that man is saved by faith alone. I
_have_ faith, but I can't accept a doctrine which denies merit to works;
and you, unless I accept it, will you admit that I have 'found' Christ?"
"There is but One Truth!" exclaimed Mr. Chaffinch, very severely.
"Yes," Joseph answered, reverently, "and that is only perfectly known to
God."
The clergyman was more deeply annoyed than he cared to exhibit. His
experience had been confined chiefly to the encouragement of ignorant
souls, willing to accept _his_ message, if they could only be made to
comprehend it, or to the conflict with downright doubt and denial. A
nature so seemingly open to the influences of the Spirit, yet inflexibly
closed to certain points of doctrine, was something of a problem to him.
He belonged to a class now happily becoming scarce, who, having been
taught to pace a reasoned theological round, can only efficiently meet
those antagonists who voluntarily come inside of their own ring.
His habit of control, however, enabled him to say, with a moderately
friendly manner, as he took leave: "We will talk again when you are
stronger. It is my duty to give spiritual help to those who seek it."
To Rachel Miller he said: "I cannot say that he is dark. His mind is
cloudy, but we find that the vanities of youth often obscure the true
light for a time."
Joseph leaned back in his arm-chair, closed his eyes, and meditated
earnestly for half an hour. Rachel Miller, uncertain whether to be
hopeful or discouraged by Mr. Chaffinch's words, stole into the room,
but went about on tiptoe, supposing him to be asleep. Joseph was fully
conscious of all her movements, and at last startled her by the sudden
question:—
"Aunt, why do you suppose I went to the city?"
"Goodness, Joseph! I thought you were sound asleep. I suppose to see
about the fall prices for grain and cattle."
"No, aunt," said he, speaking with determination, though the foolish
blood ran rosily over his face, "I went to get a wife!"
She stood pale and speechless, staring at him. But for the rosy sign on
his cheeks and temples she could not have believed his words.
"Miss Blessing?" she finally uttered, almost in a whisper.
Joseph nodded his head. She dropped into the nearest chair, drew two or
three long breaths, and in an indescribable tone ejaculated, "Well!"
"I knew you would be surprised," said he; "because it is almost a
surprise to myself. But you and she seemed to fall so easily into each
other's ways, that I hope—"
"Why, you're hardly acquainted with her!" Rachel exclaimed. "It is so
hasty! And you are so young!"
"No younger than father was when he married mother; and I have learned
to know her well in a short time. Isn't it so with you, too, aunt?—you
certainly liked her?"
"I'll not deny that, nor say the reverse now: but a farmer's wife should
be a farmer's daughter."
"But suppose, aunt, that the farmer doesn't happen to love any farmer's
daughter, and _does_ love a bright, amiable, very intelligent girl, who
is delighted with country life, eager and willing to learn, and very
fond of the farmer's aunt (who can teach her everything)?"
"Still, it seems to me a risk," said Rachel; but she was evidently
relenting.
"There is none to you," he answered, "and I am not afraid of mine. You
will be with us, for Julia couldn't do without you, if she wished. If
she were a farmer's daughter, with different ideas of housekeeping, it
might bring trouble to both of us. But now you will have the management
in your own hands until you have taught Julia, and afterwards she will
carry it on in your way."
She did not reply; but Joseph could see that she was becoming reconciled
to the prospect. After awhile she came across the room, leaned over him,
kissed him upon the forehead, and then silently went away.
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