THE UNIVERSITY AND THE WORKSHOP.
"We sail the sea of life—a 'calm' one finds,
And 'one' a tempest—and, the voyage o'er,
Death is the quiet haven of us all."
WORDSWORTH.
ONE morning in the following October—just a twelvemonth from the
commencement of our story—Joseph took a third-class ticket for London,
and stood on the platform, waiting for the train that was to hurry him
away from the familiar scenes of his birth to a new life.
It had been a hard choice to make—even for the lad, with all his
natural curiosity to see the world. To the lonely widow it had seemed
like parting with her only stay. But she had recognised that it must
be; and with many tears, she had commended him to the care of the
orphan's God, praying that He who had seen fit to deprive her boy
thus early of his earthly father, would preserve him among the many
temptations of his new venture, and bring out of this bitter trial the
sweet fruit of a noble, Christ-like life.
There was not a sadder heart that morning than that which beat in the
breast of the fatherless lad. The sight of the tears which his mother
had vainly tried to force back at parting had almost broken him down.
"You must take care of mother, and be her brave little comforter," he
said to Ruth, as he kissed her tearful face; "she will have no one but
you, now."
And he had hurried away with pale face and swimming eyes, scarcely
trusting himself to turn for the last wave of their hands as he left
the street.
The platform was empty when he arrived at the station, for he was
early. But soon the passengers began to collect, and porters hurried to
and fro, whilst he stood waiting, in a dream of sad bewilderment.
Had he been less absorbed in his thoughts, he would have observed a
well-known dog-cart drive up to the station gate, from which a young
man of fashionable appearance lightly leapt, raising his hat with
graceful gallantry to the young lady to whom he had resigned the reins,
as he gave her a last smile and ran up the steps.
It was Mina Adams in the trap, and the young exquisite was Neville,
going off to Oxford to commence his new and brilliant career. A few
minutes afterwards, he emerged from the ticket-office followed by a
porter, to whom he was giving directions about his luggage. The man
pointed down the platform, whither it had already been conveyed, and
both went to inspect it. Even then it is doubtful whether Joseph would
have perceived him, but for the fact that, in passing, his cousin
jostled him with his elbow, turned to beg his pardon, and their eyes
met.
In spite of all Neville's pettiness and pride, he was not altogether
devoid of kind-heartedness, and even in that quick glance there was
something in his cousin's face that touched his better nature. But the
train was due, and there was little time to spare, so, throwing him a
careless nod, he hurried on.
But something was missing amongst the luggage, and he came back to
search for it in the cloak-room. Presently he appeared once more, this
time preceded by the porter with the lost portmanteau. He hesitated as
he passed Joseph, looking at him with a sidelong glance, as if to read
his face; then turning back, he approached him. He could afford to be a
little kind just then.
"Going to London, Joseph?" he asked.
Joseph replied in the affirmative.
"So am I," returned Neville. "Term begins next week. You've heard I'm
going to Oxford?"
Joseph replied in a monosyllable. The question had touched a sore
place, and he was disinclined to enter into conversation for the bare
gratification of his cousin's vanity. "I am going to try my fortune,"
he added, after a few minutes' silence.
"Ah! To stay?"
"If things turn out well."
"What lines are you going upon?"
Neville looked up suddenly as he asked the question. He had been
expecting Horace Grandpont would have run down to the station to give
him a last good-speed on his journey, and the click of the signal had
just given warning that the train was in sight.
"The old lines," Joseph replied, in a tone of patient resignation. "I
have no other prospect," he added.
But Neville had scarcely heard the answer, for at that moment the
dog-cart again drove up, and young Grandpont, scarcely waiting for the
horse to stop, sprang out and rushed on to the platform, whilst Mina,
who had met him hurrying up and driven him on, sat eagerly craning her
neck to see if he would be in time.
Neville had recognised him in an instant, and started off.
"All success to the enterprise!" he called back as he went.
And the next minute, the locomotive steamed alongside.
The last Joseph saw of them was from the window of the compartment in
which he had taken his seat, as they dashed past to the first-class
carriages.
A few minutes later, the guard had answered the signal, "All right."
And the station, his old home, all he held dear in the world, was left
behind.
At first, it required a powerful effort to check the rising lump in his
throat; but there were strangers in the compartment, so turning to the
window, by which he had secured a corner, he endeavoured to interest
himself in passing objects.
His efforts availed little, however. Every station at which they
stopped, it seemed as if he must get out and return home. Then he
remembered Neville, and how unconcerned he appeared about leaving home;
and he fell to envying his cousin's many advantages and opportunities.
It was hard to recall his easy, untroubled manner and faultless toilet
without a pang of jealousy. But as he glanced down at his own homely
suit, which his mother had cleaned and bound anew with her own hands,
a better feeling took possession of him; he remembered the hero of the
book he read a year ago, and Mr. Girling's example; and his thoughts of
Neville were less bitter.
One thing had struck him particularly. Neville's former robust look
was gone. His face was thinner than it used to be, and his complexion
had a transparency more usual to a girl than to a young man close upon
twenty. There were dark circles round his eyes, too, which gave him a
haggard appearance, as if he had been indulging in late hours. Joseph
had not taken in all these details; but the general effect had not
escaped him, nor the delicate whiteness of his hand as he stood holding
his cigar between his finger and thumb. But his mind speedily reverted
to subjects nearer and dearer to his heart, and before long a certain
station which he knew from hearsay to be half-way was passed.
A singular change came over his feelings as he noted this fact. The
yearning to return seemed conquered by the knowledge that every throb
of the engine was bringing him nearer to his unknown future; and he
began to look forward.
The country through which he was passing was flat and marshy, and the
early morning mist still lay heavily upon it. A canal—beyond which all
was dense fog—ran parallel with the line at this part, and a horse was
faintly visible drawing an unseen freight along the water's surface, as
he paced slowly down the towing-path. He seemed to be walking along the
very edge of the world, and the idea entered Joseph's mind how nearly
this picture resembled his own future with its close-drawn veil.
Soon signs of approaching London were manifest—higher, dirtier houses,
crowding more closely upon each other, and a more leaden colour in the
fog. Then they crossed other lines, and neat, suburban villas took
the place of marshes and back streets. Soon these were passed, and
buildings thickened until little else but chimney-pots, sooty roofs,
and builders' yards, piled with huge stacks of timber, were visible
through the thick air. Then Bishops-gate, with its gloomy half light
and grimy archways, was reached, and finally Liverpool Street Station,
with its vast roof and deafening clash and clang.
For an instant, Joseph stood there bewildered—alone among many. Then,
as he gazed into the faces of the numberless fellow-beings who hurried
past him without a thought, a sudden strength came over him.
Firmly grasping the little portmanteau, which—together with his basket
of tools—constituted his only worldly possession, he pushed his way
through the throng and left the station—a man among men.