_Scribner's Monthly, August, 1878._
Everybody in college who knew them at all was curious to see what
would come of a friendship between two persons so opposite in tastes,
habitudes and appearance as John Silverthorn and Bill Vibbard. John
was a hard reader, and Bill a lazy one. John was thin and graceful,
with something pensive yet free and vivid in his nature; Bill was
robust, prosaic and conventional. There was an air of neglect and a
prospective sense of worldly failure about Silverthorn, but you would
at once have singled out Vibbard as being well cared for, and adapted
to push his way. Their likes and dislikes even in the matter of
amusement were dissimilar; and Vibbard was easy-going and popular,
while Silverthorn was shy and had few acquaintances. Yet, as far as
possible, they were always with each other; they roomed, worked,
walked and lounged in company, and often made mutual concessions of
taste so that they might avoid being separated. It was also discovered
that though their allowances were unequal, they had put them together
and paid all expenses out of a common purse. Their very differences
made this alliance a great advantage in some respects, and it was
rendered stronger by the fact that, however incompatible outwardly,
they both agreed in acting with an earnest straightforwardness.
But perhaps I had better describe how I first saw them together. It
was on a Saturday, when a good many men were always sure to be found
disporting themselves on the ball-field. I used to exercise my own
muscles by going to look at them, on these occasions; and on that
particular day I came near being hit by a sudden ball, which was
caught by an active, darting figure just in time to save my head from
an awkward encounter. I nodded to my rescuer, and called out
cordially, "Thank you!"
"All right," said he, in a glum tone meant to be good-naturedly
modest. "Look out for your_self_ next time."
It was Bill Vibbard, then in the latter part of his freshman year; and
not far distant I discovered his comrade Silverthorn, watching Bill in
silent admiration. They continued slowly on their way toward an oak
grove, which then stood near the field. Silverthorn, a smaller figure
than Vibbard, wore a suit of uniform tint, made of sleazy gray stuff
that somehow at once gave me the idea that it was taken out of one of
his mother's discarded dresses. His face was nearly colorless without
being pallid; and the faint golden down on his cheeks and upper lip,
instead of being disagreeably juvenile, really added to the pleasant
dreaminess that hung like a haze over his mild young features. He was
slender, he carried himself rather quaintly; but his gait was buoyant
and spirited. At that season the lilacs were in bloom, and Silverthorn
held a glorious plume of the pale blossoms in his hand. What the first
touch of fire is to the woods in autumn, the blooming of the lilac is
to the new summer--a mystery, a beauty, too exquisite to last long
intact; evanescent as human breath, yet, like that, fraught with
incalculable values. All this Silverthorn must have felt to the full,
judging from the tender way in which he held the flowers, even while
absorbed in talk with his friend. His fingers seemed conscious that
they were touching the clue to a finer life. In Vibbard's warm, tough
fist, the lilacs would have faded within ten minutes. Vibbard was
stocky and muscular, and his feet went down at each step as if they
never meant to come up again. He wore stylish clothes, kept his hands
much in his coat pockets, affected high-colored neck-scarfs, and had a
red face with blunt features. When he was excited, his face wore a
fierce aspect; when he felt friendly, it became almost foolishly
sentimental; as a general thing it was morosely inert.
Being in my senior year, I did not see much of either Vibbard or
his friend; but I sometimes occupied myself with attempts to analyze
the sources of their intimacy. I remember stating to one of my
young acquaintances that Vibbard probably had a secret longing
to be feminine and ideal, and that Silverthorn felt himself at fault
in masculine toughness and hardihood, so that each sought the
companionship of the other, hoping to gain some of the qualities which
he himself lacked; and my young acquaintance offended me by replying,
as if it had all been perfectly obvious, "Of course."
After I had been graduated, and had entered the Law School,
Silverthorn and Vibbard came to my room one day, on a singular errand,
which--though I did not guess it then--was to influence their lives
for many a year afterward.
"Ferguson," began Bill, rather shyly, when they had seated themselves,
"I suppose you know enough of law, by this time, to draw up a paper."
"Yes, I suppose so; or draw it down, either," I replied. But I saw at
once that my flippancy did not suit the occasion, for the two young
fellows glanced at each other very seriously and seemed embarrassed.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
Silverthorn now spoke, in his soft light inexperienced voice, which
possessed a singular charm.
"It's all Bill's idea," said he, rather carelessly. "I would much
rather have the understanding in words, but he--"
"Yes," broke in Bill, growing suddenly red and vehement, "I'm not
going to have it a thing that can be forgotten. No one knows what
might happen."
"Well, well," said I, "if I'm to help you, you'd better fire away and
tell me what it is you're after."
"I will," returned Vibbard, with a touch of that fierceness which
marked his resolute moods. "Thorny and I have agreed to stand by each
other when we quit college. Men are always forming friendships in the
beginning of life, and then getting dragged apart by circumstances,
such as wide separation and different interests. We don't want this to
happen, and so we've made a compact that whichever one of us, Thorny
or me, shall be worth thirty thousand dollars first,--why that one is
to give the other half. That is, unless the second one is already well
enough off, so that to give him a full half would put him ahead of
whichever has the thirty thousand. D'you see?"
"The idea is to keep even as long as we can, you know," said
Silverthorn, turning from one of my books which he had begun to glance
through, and looking into my eyes with a delighted, straightforward
gaze.
"That's a very curious notion!" said I, revolving the plan with a
caution born of legal readings. "Before we go on, would you mind
telling me which one of you originated this scheme?"
I was facing Silverthorn as I spoke, but felt impelled to turn
quickly and include Vibbard in the question. They were both silent. It
was plain, after a moment, that they really didn't know which one of
them had first thought of this compact.
"Wasn't it you?" queried Silverthorn, musingly, of his comrade.
"I don't know," returned Vibbard; then, as if so much subtilty annoyed
him: "What difference does it make, anyway? Can't you draw an
agreement for us, Ferguson?"
But I was really so much interested in getting at their minds through
this channel, that I couldn't comply at once.
"Now, you two fellows, you know," said I, laughing, "are younger than
I, and I think it becomes me to know exactly what this thing means,
before proceeding any further in it. How can I tell but one of you is
trying to get an advantage over the other?"
The pair looked startled at this, but it was only, I found, because
they were so astonished at having such a construction put upon their
project.
"Don't be alarmed," I hastened to say. "I wasn't serious."
But Vibbard persisted in a dogged expression of gloom.
"It's always this way," he presently declared, in a heavy, provoked
tone. "My father, you know, is a shrewd man, and everybody is forever
accusing me of being mean and overreaching. But I never dreamed that
it could be imputed in such a move as--well, never mind!" he suddenly
exclaimed in a loud voice, and with assumed indifference, getting up
from his chair. "Of course it's all over now. I sha'n't do anything
more about it, after what Ferguson has said." He was so sulky that he
had to resort to thus putting me in the third person, although he was
not addressing these words to Silverthorn. Then he gave his thick
frame a slight shake, as if to get rid of the disagreeable feelings I
had excited, and turned toward his friend. On the instant there came
into his unmoved eyes and his matter-of-fact countenance a look of
sentiment so incongruous as to be almost laughable. "I wish I could
have done it, Thorny," said he, wistfully.
"Hold on, Vibbard," I interposed. "Don't be discouraged."
He paid no attention.
Upon this Silverthorn fired up.
"Hullo, Bill, this won't do! Do you suppose I'm going to let our pet
arrangement drop that way and leave you to be so misconstrued? Come
back here and sit down." (Vibbard was already at the door.) "As for
_your_ getting any advantage out of this, is it likely? Why, you are
well off now, to begin with; that is, your father is; and I am poor,
downright poor--Ferguson must have seen that."
Here was a surprise! The dreamy youth was proving himself much more
sensible than the beefy and practical one. Vibbard, however, seemed to
enjoy being admonished by Silverthorn, and resumed his seat quite
meekly. To me, in my balancing frame of mind, it occurred that one
might go farther than Silverthorn had done, in saying that any
advantage to Vibbard was very improbable; one might assume that it was
surely Silverthorn who would reap the profit. But I decided not to
disturb the already troubled waters any more.
Silverthorn, however, expressed this idea: "You'll be thinking," he
said to me, with a smile, "that _I_ am going to get the upper hand in
this bargain; and I know there seems a greater chance of it. But then
I have hopes--I--" The dreamy look, which I have described by the
simile of a haze, gathered and increased on his fair ingenuous young
face, and his eyes quite ignored me for a moment, being fixed on some
imaginary outlook very entrancing to him, until he recalled his
flagging voice, to add: "Well, I don't know that I can put it before
you, but there are possibilities which may make a great difference in
my fortunes within a few years."
I fancied that Vibbard gave me a quick, confidential glance, as much
as to say, "Don't disturb that idea. Let him think so." But the next
moment his features were as inert as ever.
It turned out, on inquiry, that only Vibbard was of age; his friend
being quick in study, had entered college early, and nearly two years
stood between him and his majority; so that, if their contract was to
be binding, they would have to defer it for that length of time. I
was prepared for their disappointment; but Silverthorn, after an
instant's reflection, seemed quite satisfied. As they were going, he
hurried back, leaving his friend out of ear-shot, and explained
himself,--
"You see, Vibbard has an idea that I shall never succeed in
life,--financially, that is,--and so he wants to fasten this agreement
on me, to prevent pride or anything making me back out, you know, by
and by. But I like all the better to have it left just as it is for a
while, so that if we should ever put it on paper he needn't feel that
he had hurried into the thing too rashly."
"I understand," I replied; and I pressed his hand warmly, for his
frankness and genuineness had pleased me.
When they were gone, I pondered several minutes on the novelty and
boyish naivete of the whole proceeding, and found myself a good deal
refreshed by the sincerity of the two young fellows and their fine
confidence in the perfectibility of the future. It seemed to me, the
more I thought of it, that I could hold on to this scheme of theirs as
a help to myself in retaining a healthy freshness of spirit. "At any
rate," I said, "I won't allow myself to go adrift into cynicism as
long as they keep faith with their ideal."
From time to time during the two years, I encountered the friends
casually; and I remember having a fancy that their faces--which of
course altered somewhat, as they matured--were acquiring a kind of
likeness; or, rather, were _exchanging_ expressions. Silverthorn's
grew rounder and brightened a degree in color; his glance had less
momentum in it; he looked more commonplace and contented. On the other
hand, Vibbard, through mental exertion (for he had lately been
studying hard) and the society of his junior, had modified the inertia
of his own expression. The strength of his features began to be
mingled with gentleness. But this I recalled only at a later time.
Near the end of the two years' limit, when the boon companions were on
the eve of taking their degrees, I found that another element had come
into their affairs.
Going out one evening to visit a friend who lived at some distance on
one of the large railroads, I had a glimpse of a small manufacturing
place, which the train passed with great rapidity at late twilight.
The large mill was already lighted up, and every window flashed as we
sped by. But the sunset had not quite faded, and, from the colored sky
far away behind the mill, light enough still came to show the narrow
glen with its wall of autumn foliage on either side, the black and
silent river above the dam, the sudden shining screen of falling water
at the dam itself, and again a smooth dark current below, running
toward us and under the railroad embankment. There was a small
settlement of operatives' houses near the factory, and two or three
larger homes were visible, snugly placed among the trees. We were
swept away out of sight in a moment; but there was something so
striking in that single glimpse, that a traveller in the next seat,
who had not spoken to me before, turned and asked me what place it
was. I did not know. I afterward learned that it was Stansby, a
factory village perhaps forty miles from Cambridge. Finding that the
memory of the spot clung to me, I wished to know more about it; and
one day in the following spring, when I needed a change from the city,
I actually went out there. Stansby did not prove to be a very
picturesque place; yet its gentle hills, with outcroppings of cold
granite, the deep-hued river between, and the cotton-mill near the
railroad, somehow roused a decided interest which I never have been
able wholly to account for. I enjoyed strolling about, but was
beginning to think of a train back to Boston, when a turn of the road,
a quarter of a mile from the mill, brought me face to face with a
young girl who was approaching slowly with a book in her hand, which
she read as she walked.
She was not a beautiful girl, and not at all what is understood by a
"brilliant" girl; yet at the very first look she excited my interest,
as Stansby village itself had done. In every outline and motion she
showed perfect health; her clear color was tonic to the eye; her deep
brown hair, at the same time that it gave a restful look to her
forehead, added something of fervency to her general aspect. In
sympathy with the beautiful day, she had taken off her hat (which she
carried on one arm), disclosing a spray of fresh lilacs in her hair.
She was very simply, though not poorly, dressed. All this, and more, I
was able to observe without disturbing her absorption in her book; but
just as I was trying to decide whether the firm, compressed corners of
her mouth only meant interest in the reading, or indicated some
peculiar hardness of character, she glanced up and saw my eyes bent
upon her.
Then, for an instant, there came into her own a look of eager search;
no softly inquiring gaze, such as would be natural to most women on
a casual meeting of this sort, but a full, energetic, self-reliant
scrutiny. I don't think the compression about her lips was softened
by her surprise at seeing me; but that keen level look from her
eyes brought a wonderful change over her face, so that from being
interesting it became attractive, and I was fired by a kind of
enthusiasm in beholding it. Involuntarily I took off my hat, and
paused at the side of the highway. She bent her head again,--perhaps
with some acknowledgment of my bow, but not definitely for that
purpose, because she continued reading as she passed me.
But now came the strangest part of the episode. This girl disappeared
around the bend of the road, and after her two young fellows drew near
whom I recognized as Vibbard and Silverthorn. It happened that
Silverthorn, as on the very first day I had ever seen him, carried a
sprig of lilac. Happened? No; the lilac in the girl's hair was too
strong a coincidence to be overlooked, and I was not long in guessing
that there was some tender meaning in it.
"Hullo! Ferguson."
"Did you know we were here?"
These exclamations were made with some confusion, and Silverthorn
blushed faintly.
"No," said I. "Do you come often?"
They looked at each other confidentially.
"We have, lately," Vibbard admitted.
"Then perhaps you can tell me who that girl is that I just passed."
"Oh, yes," said Silverthorn, at once. "That's Ida Winwood, the
daughter of the superintendent here at the mills."
"She is a very striking girl," I said. "You know her, of course?"
"A little."
Vibbard enlarged upon this: it was a curious habit they had fallen
into, of each waiting for the other to explain what should more
properly have been explained by himself.
"Thorny's father, you know," said Vibbard, "was a great machinist, and
so they had acquaintances around at mills in different parts of the
State. She--that is Ida, you know--is only sixteen now, but Thorny
first saw her when he was a boy and came here, once or twice, with his
father."
Silverthorn nodded his head corroboratively.
"But it seems to me," I said, addressing him, "that you treat her
rather distantly for an old acquaintance; or else she treats you
distantly. Which is it?"
They laughed, and Vibbard blurted out, with a queer, boyish grimace:
"It's _me_. She don't like me. Hey, Thorny?"
"It's nearer the truth," returned his friend, "to say that you're so
bashful you don't give her half a chance to make known what she does
think of you."
"Oh, time enough--time enough," said Vibbard, good-humoredly.
Remembering that I must hurry back to catch my train, I suddenly found
that I had been in an abstracted mood, for I was still standing with
my hat off.
"Well, let me know how you get on," I said, jocosely, as I parted from
the comrades.
Yet for the life of me I could not tell which one of them it was that
I should expect to hear from as a suitor for the girl's hand.
It was within a fortnight after this that they came to my office--for
I had been admitted to the bar--and announced that the time for
drawing up their long-pending agreement had arrived. They were still
as eager as ever about it, and I very soon had the instrument made
out, stating the mutual consideration, and duly signed and sealed.
Finding that they had been at Stansby again, I was prompted to ask
them more about Ida.
"Do you know," I said, boldly, "that I am very much puzzled as to
which of you was the more interested in her?"
They took it in good part, and Silverthorn answered:
"That's not surprising. I don't know, myself."
"I'm trying," said Vibbard, bluntly, "to make Thorny fall in love with
her. But I can't seem to succeed."
"No," said his friend, "because I insist upon it that she's just the
woman for _you_."
Vibbard turned to me with an expression of ridicule.
"Yes," he said, "Thorny is as much wrapped up in that idea as if his
own happiness depended on my marrying her."
"You're rivals then, after a new fashion," was my comment. "Don't you
see, though, how you are to settle it?"
"No."
"Why, each of you should propose in form, for the other. Then Miss
Winwood would have to take the difficulty into her own hands."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Vibbard. "That's a good idea. But suppose she don't
care for either of us?"
"Very well. I don't see that in that case she would be worse off than
yourselves, for neither of you seems to care for her."
"Oh yes, we do!" exclaimed Silverthorn, instantly.
"Yes, we care a great deal," insisted Vibbard.
They both grew so very earnest over this that I didn't dare to
continue the subject, and it was left in greater mystery than before.
At last the time of graduation came, and the two friends parted to
pursue their separate ways. Silverthorn had a widowed mother living at
a distance in the country, whose income had barely enabled her to send
him through college on a meagre allowance. He went home to visit her
for a few days, and then promptly took his place on a daily newspaper
in Boston, where he spent six months of wretched failure. He had great
hopes of achieving in a short time some prodigious triumph in writing,
but at the end of this period he gave it all up, and decided to
develop the mechanical genius which he thought he had perhaps
inherited from his father. I began to have a suspicion when I learned
that this new turn had led him to Stansby, where he procured a
position as a sort of clerk to the superintendent, Winwood.
After some months, I went out to see him there. In the evening we went
to the Winwoods', and I watched closely to discover any signs of a new
relation between Silverthorn and the daughter. Mr. Winwood himself was
a homely, perfectly commonplace man, whose face looked as if it had
been stamped with a die which was to furnish a hundred duplicate
physiognomies. Mrs. Winwood was a fat, woolly sort of woman, who
knitted, and rocked in her rocking-chair, keeping time to her needles.
A smell of tea and chops came from the adjoining room, where they
had been having supper; and there was a big, hot-colored lithograph
of Stansby Mills hung up over the fireplace, with one or two
awkward-looking engravings of famous men and their families on the
remaining wall-spaces. Yet, even with these crude and barren
surroundings, the girl Ida retained a peculiar and inspiring charm.
She talked in a full, free tone of voice, and was very sensible; but
in everything she said or did, there was a mixture, with the prosaic,
of something so sweet and fresh, that I could not help thinking she
was very remarkable. In particular, there was that strong, fine look
from the eyes which had impressed me on my first casual meeting in the
road. It had a transforming power, and seemed to speak of resolution,
aspiration, or self-sacrifice. I noticed with what enthusiasm she
glanced up at Silverthorn, when he was showing her some drawings of
machinery, executed by himself, and was dilating upon certain
improvements which he intended to make. Still, there was a reserve
between them, and a timidity on his part, which showed that no
engagement to marry had been made, as yet.
He was very silent as we walked together beside the dark river toward
the railroad, after our call. But, when we came abreast of the dam,
with its sudden burst of noise, and its continual hissing murmur, he
stopped short, with a look of passion in his face.
"Things have changed since Vibbard went away," he said. "Yes, yes;
very much. I used to think it was he who ought to love her."
"And you have found out--" I began.
He laid his hand quickly on my arm.
"Yes, I have found that it is I who love her--eternally, truly! But
don't tell any one of this; it seems to me strange that I should speak
of it, even to you. I cannot ask her to marry me yet. But there seems
to be a relief in letting you know."
I was expressing my pleasure at being of any use to him, when the
ominous sound of the approaching cars made itself heard, and I had to
hurry off. But, all the way back to the city, I could think of nothing
but Silverthorn's announcement; and suddenly there flashed upon me the
secret and the danger of the whole situation. This girl, who had so
much interested the two friends, in spite of their strong contrasts of
character, was, perhaps, the only one in the world who could have
pleased them both; for in her own person she seemed to display a
mixture of elements, much the same and quite as decided as theirs.
What, then, if Vibbard also should wake up to the knowledge of a love
for her?
The next time I saw Silverthorn, which was a full year later, I said
to him:
"Do you hear from Vibbard anything about that agreement to divide your
gains?"
"No!" he replied, avoiding my eye; "nothing about that."
"Do you expect him to keep it?"
"Yes!" he said, glancing swiftly up again, with a gleam of friendly
vindication in his eyes. "I know he will."
"But I hear hard things said of him," I persisted. "Reports have
lately come to me as to some rather close, not to say sharp, bargains
of his. He is successful; perhaps he is changing."
For the first time I saw Silverthorn angry.
"Never say a word of that sort to me again!" he cried, with a demeanor
bordering on violence.