It was the autumn of the year, when men who do such things, shoot
pheasants, and go hunting. The leaves had fallen from the trees, and
were blown about in heaps by the chill wind; or if any hung upon the
sapless branches, it was but as the tatters of a shroud on the dry
bones of some violated tomb; the grass in the fields was brown, and
beaten down by wind and storm; the streams were flooded with yellow
torrents from the hills, and waved about in wild confusion the thick,
fleshy stems of the water weeds; and the face of earth, cold and
spiritless like that of a corpse, glared up to the sunless sky,
without one promise of the glorious resurrection of the spring. It was
night, too, dull, gray night. The raven's wing brooded over the whole
world; clouds were upon the firmament; no moonbeam warmed with sweet
prophecy the edge of the vapour; but, dim and monotonous, the black
veil quenched the starry eyes of heaven, and the shrill wind that
whistled through the creaking tree-tops, stirred not even the edges of
that dun pall so as to afford one glimpse of things beneath.
There was a dark clay-like smell in the air, too, a smell of decay;
for the vegetable world was rotting down into the earth, and the death
of the year's life made itself felt to every sense. All was dark, and
foul, and chilly as a tomb.
With a quick, strong step, firm, well-planted, unwavering, a man
walked along with a stick over his shoulder, and a bundle on the hook
of the stick. There was nothing gay or lightsome in his gait. It
betokened strength, resolution, self-dependence, but not cheerfulness.
He whistled not as he went: the wind whistled enough for the whole
world. He neither looked up nor down, but straight forward on his way;
and though the blast beat upon his breast and over his cheek, though
the thin, sleety rain dashed in his face, and poked its icy fingers in
his eyes, on he went sturdily. He never seemed to feel it. He was
either young and hardy, or had bitter things in his heart which
armoured him against the sharp tooth of the weather--perhaps both. He
seemed to know his way well too, for he paused not to consider or look
round; but on--on, for many an hour he walked, till at length a stream
stopped him, hissing along under its sedgy banks, and in some places
overtopping them with the swollen waters.
There he halted for an instant, but not longer; and then with a laugh,
short and not gay, he walked straight on, following the path. The
turbid torrent came to his knee, rose to the hip, reached his elbows.
"Deep enough!" said the night wanderer, but on he went. The stream
wrestled with, and shook him, tugged at his feet, strove to whirl him
round in its eddies, splashed up against his chest, and, like a hungry
serpent, seemed to lick the prey it was fierce to swallow up. He let
go the stick and the bundle, and swam. It was his only chance to reach
the other bank alive; but he uttered no cry, he called for no help:
perhaps he knew that it would be in vain. He could not conquer without
loss, though he gave the torrent buffet for buffet, but, like a
determined band fighting against a superior force, he smote still,
though turned from his direct course, and still made progress onward,
till catching the root of an old tree, he held firm, regained his
breath and his footing, and leaped upon the bank.
"Who are you? and what do you want here?" asked a voice the moment
after, as he paused by the tree, and drew a deep breath.
The wayfarer looked round, and saw, by what light there was a man of
apparently his own height and strength, standing by an alder near. "I
must first know where I am," he said in return, "before I can tell you
what I want."
"Come, come, that will not do," replied the other; "you must have some
sharp object, to swim across such a night as this, and must know well
enough where you were coming, and what you were coming for. Who are
you? I say--and if you do no tell, I will make you."
"That were difficult," answered the other; "but I will tell you what I
am, and why I swam the stream, if that will do. I am a man not of a
nature nor in a mood to be turned back. The river lay in my way, and
therefore I came over it; but I have lost my bundle, which is a pity;
and I am wetter than is pleasant."
"As for your bundle," said the other, "that will stick upon Winslow
wear; and as for your being wet, I could help you to dry clothes if I
knew who you were."
"Not knowing will not prevent you," rejoined the other. "Winslow
wear!--Now I know where I am. I was not aware I had walked so far by
seven good miles. Then I must be in Winslow park."
"Not far wrong," said the other man; "but you seem to be a somewhat
strange lad, and wilful withal. As you have lost your bundle, however,
and got your clothes wet, you had better come with me; for after all,
I dare say you mean no harm, and I may as well help you to a dry
jacket."
"I mean no harm to any one," was the reply; "and I think I must stop
somewhere near, for my clothes will not dry so soon to-night as they
would in the summer sunshine."
"Certainly not," answered the other, "there is more chance of
saturation than evaporation."
The swimmer of the stream turned suddenly and looked at him, in some
surprise: then fell into a fit of thought: and in the end, without
noticing his companion's fine words observed, "I am not getting any
dryer by standing here: and you are getting wetter; for the rain is
coming on more fiercely. If you have any will to give me shelter and
dry clothes, now is the time. If not, I must go and seek them
elsewhere."
"Suppose I say you shan't," inquired the other, "what would you do
then?"
"Walk away," was the answer.
"And if I stopped you?" said the other.
"Pitch you into the river, and see if you can swim it as well as I
did," rejoined the wayfarer.
"The chances would be against you, my friend," rejoined his new
companion: "we are about the same height and size, I think; and not
very different in make. Suppose us equal then in strength. You have,
however, taken a walk to-night long enough to make you lose seven
miles of your count; you have swam that river in flood, and have lost
somewhat of your strength at every mile of the way, and every yard of
the water. Your strength and mine then, being at first equal
quantities, you must inquire, whether _a_ can be equal to _b_, minus
_c_ the walk, and _d_ the stream?"
"Yes," answered the other, "for there is one thing you do not take
into account."
"What is that?" asked the arithmetician.
"Despair!" said his new-found friend; "for I tell you fairly, that if
you make me try to pitch you into the river, I do not care a straw
whether I go in with you or not."
"That is a different affair," replied his companion drily; "despair is
an unknown quantity, and I have not time to arrive at it; so come
along."
The other did not make any answer, but walked on with him, following a
path which in ordinary times communicated with that which he had
pursued on the other side of the stream, by a little wooden bridge,
which had been apparently washed away in the flood. Both the men
mused; and probably there was a good deal of similarity in the
questions which they were separately trying in their own minds. When
man first meets man, to each is presented a problem which he is bound
to solve as speedily as possible. Every man is a sphinx to his
neighbour, and propounds an enigma, which the other must answer, or
woe be to him. The riddle is, "What is within this casket of flesh
before my eyes?" and none can tell how important may be the solution.
We may be parted soon, whether the impression made by the one upon the
other be like the ripple of the wind upon the sea, or profound as the
channel which the torrent has worn in the rock; for--
"--many meet, who never yet have met,
To part too soon, but never to forget."
But on the contrary, under the most adverse circumstances, without a
probability, against all likelihood, the companion led in by the hand
of chance, is often linked with us by fate through life--bound by the
iron chain of circumstances to the same column in the prison of
destiny as ourselves, destined to work at the same day-labour, and
accomplish, with our help, the same task. None but the dull, then,
ever see another human being for five minutes, without asking, "What
is the god of the temple? what are his powers?"
There was not a word uttered by either, as they walked along. Yet each
knew that the other was not an ordinary man; but the person whom the
wayfarer had found upon the bank was much more curious in his
inquiries; for the other, though a quick and active-minded creature,
had many other thoughts in his bosom, stronger, more continuous than
those which the character of his companion had suggested, and which
the latter might cross and recross, like the thread upon the shuttle,
but did not interrupt.
Now for the first time on his long way--he had walked thirty miles
that night--he sometimes looked around him. The faint gray of dawn
aided his eyes; but the objects were not cheerful. The scenery indeed
was fine. There were hill and dale; and river and lawn; wood and
heath; fern, hawthorn, birch, oak, beech, and solemn yew, with the
broad, sturdy chestnut, and the tall, ghostlike larch. There were jays
amongst the trees, just stirring and screaming in the first light; and
herds of deer, with the thick-necked bucks lifting their heads to
snuff the morn. Nevertheless, there was a something which spoke
neglect--a keeper's house untenanted, with broken windows--long
rasping arms of bramble stretching across the paths, some trees cut
down and rotting where they lay, a Greek temple in ruins, with marble
columns, which in their own fair clime would have remained pure as the
snows of Olympus, green with the dark mould of English humidity. Ducks
were dabbling among their favourite weed, where swans had swam in the
clear water; and an infinite number of rich exotic evergreens,
untrimmed and forgotten, were mingling their low branches with the
long, rank grass. There was no mistaking it. The place had been long
neglected.
They passed quite across the park to a spot where the solid brick
wall had been carried out of the straight line, to enclose about
half-an-acre of ground beyond the exact limits. An open fence of
wood-work separated that half-acre from the actual park. The brick
wall run round without, forming three sides of a parallelogram. The
space within was neatly cultivated as a garden; and there were,
besides the long, straight rows of cabbages amongst the well-trained
trees, several beds of autumn flowers, still in bloom. They were as
stiff as all late flowers are; but still they were flowers, and it was
autumn; and they gave signs of care in the midst of neglect, of vigour
amidst decay, of life in death.
There was a little wicket-gate in the centre of the wooden fence, with
a latch, which the wayfarer's companion raised, and led the way down a
gravel walk, to a house amongst the apple-trees at the other side,
resting against the wall of the park--a small house of two
stories--built of brown brick, and covered with white and yellow
lichens. Another moment and they were within the door, which was not
locked. The room they entered had a brick floor, clean swept and
reddened. Everything was in good order, and a wood fire, which was
already lighted, had fallen into that state where glowing eyes look
out from the white ashes, like those of a lion from a bush. The walls
had two rows of shelves hanging against them, and a great old dark oak
armory or press, carved with apostles and wild beasts. Balaam and his
ass, were there too; and the old prophet and the lion. The shelves
supported, the one, crockery, the other, old books with greasy backs.
Standing in front of the books, on the same shelf, were two or three
small cups of precious old china, and an ink-glass. Amongst the
crockery, were a bullet-mould, a powder-horn, and half-a-dozen floats.
There was a neat white curtain over the window, and every one of the
tiny panes was as clear as a diamond.
The wayfarer looked around him with a faint smile, and then turned to
his host; and the two gazed upon each other in silence for a minute.
If there had been a struggle between them on the bank of the stream,
it would have been a very doubtful one; for never were two men better
matched. As they stood there, they looked like two well-chosen
carriage-horses, of an equal height within a quarter of an inch, both
broad in chest, strong in limb, thin in flank, both tanned with
exercise and exposure; both of that hardy rich brown complexion, where
the hair seems to curl from very vigour, and both in the prime of
strength and activity, though in point of years lay the principal
difference between them. The master of the house might, perhaps, be
three or four years older than his guest; but as the latter was at
least four or five and twenty, age gave the other no advantage.
The wayfarer was dressed in a dark velveteen shooting-jacket, leathern
gaiters, and strong but well-made shoes; and under the coat was a
waistcoat, with long rows of little pockets, for holding gun charges.
He had what is called a foraging cap on his head, and a good deal of
whisker and hair. His nose was straight, his eyes hazel, his teeth
fine, and his chin rounded and somewhat prominent. The other was
dressed in a fustian coat, with large pockets, thick hobnailed shoes,
and leathern gaiters, with a straw hat upon his head, and corduroy
breeches on his thighs. His features were good, and, like his guest,
he had a straight nose and a rounded chin, with eyebrows exactly like
the other's; but the eyes, instead of being hazel, were of a dark
gray, and his beard and whiskers were closely shaved, and hair cut
short. There were several points of difference between them, but more
of similarity; and the similarity depended upon feature, form, and
complexion, the difference more upon adventitious circumstances.
"You are my double," said the master of the house, after they had
gazed at each other for some time, both feeling that there was a
strong resemblance; "and as such you have as good a right to wear my
clothes as myself. They are not as good as yours; but they are dry,
which makes them better for the time."
He opened the old armory, which was full of guns and fishing rods, and
from one of two drawers at the bottom took out a very little used suit
of country-made clothes.
"There," he said, "put those on; and we will afterwards go and see if
we can find your bundle at the wear. Here, come into the back room,
and I will give you a clean shirt and stockings. I never let cotton
and wool lie together; for they might quarrel, being near akin."
The other followed, and after having fulfilled his promise as to the
shirt and the stockings, the master of the house left him, and
returned to blow the fire into a blaze.