University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
APPROACHING FATE.

Only two months intervened until the time appointed for
the marriage, and the days rolled swiftly away. A few lines
came to Joseph from Philip Held, announcing that he was
satisfied with the forge and furnace, and the sale would
doubtless be consummated in a short time. He did not,
however, expect to take charge of the works before March,
and therefore gave Joseph his address in the city, with the
hope that the latter would either visit or write to him.

On the Sunday after the accident Elwood Withers came
to the farm. He seemed to have grown older in the short
time which had elapsed since they had last met; after his first
hearty rejoicing over Joseph's escape and recovery, he relapsed
into a silent but not unfriendly mood. The two young
men climbed the long hill behind the house and seated themselves
under a noble pin-oak on the height, whence there was
a lovely view of the valley for many miles to the southward.

They talked mechanically, for a while, of the season, and
the crops, and the other usual subjects which farmers never
get to the end of discussing; but both felt the impendence
of more important themes, and, nevertheless, were slow to
approach them. At last Elwood said: “Your fate is settled
by this time, I suppose?”

“It is arranged, at least,” Joseph replied. “But I can't
yet make clear to myself that I shall be a married man in
two months from now.”

“Does the time seem long to you?”

“No,” Joseph innocently answered; “it is very short.”

Elwood turned away his head to conceal a melancholy
smile; it was a few minutes before he spoke again.

“Joseph,” he then said, “are you sure, quite sure, you
love her?”

“I am to marry her.”

“I meant nothing unfriendly,” Elwood remarked, in a
gentle tone. “My thought was this,—if you should ever
find a still stronger love growing upon you,—something that
would make the warmth you feel now seem like ice compared
to it,—how would you be able to fight it? I asked the question
of myself for you. I don't think I'm much different
from most soft-hearted men,—except that I keep the softness
so well stowed away that few persons know of it,—but if I
were in your place, within two months of marriage to the
girl I love, I should be miserable!”

Joseph turned towards him with wide, astonished eyes.

“Miserable from hope and fear,” Elwood went on; “I
should be afraid of fever, fire, murder, thunderbolts! Every
hour of the day I should dread lest something might come
between us; I should prowl around her house day after day,
to be sure that she was alive! I should lengthen out the
time into years; and all because I'm a great, disappointed,
soft-hearted fool!”

The sad, yearning expression of his eyes touched Joseph
to the heart. “Elwood,” he said, “I see that it is not in
my power to comfort you; if I give you pain unknowingly,
tell me how to avoid it! I meant to ask you to stand beside
me when I am married; but now you must consider
your own feelings in answering, not mine. Lucy is not
likely to be there.”

“That would make no difference,” Elwood answered. “Do
you suppose it is a pain for me to see her, because she seems
lost to me? No; I'm always a little encouraged when I have
a chance to measure myself with her, and to guess—sometimes
this and sometimes that—what it is that she needs to find in
me. Force of will is of no use; as to faithfulness,—why, what
it's worth can't be shown unless something turns up to try
it. But you had better not ask me to be your groomsman.
Neither Miss Blessing nor her sister would be overly
pleased.”

“Why so?” Joseph asked; “Julia and you are quite
well acquainted, and she was always friendly towards you.”

Elwood was silent and embarrassed. Then, reflecting that
silence, at that moment, might express even more than
speech, he said: “I've got the notion in my head; maybe
it's foolish, but there it is. I talked a good deal with
Miss Blessing, it's true, and yet I don't feel the least bit
acquainted. Her manner to me was very friendly, and yet
I don't think she likes me.”

“Well!” exclaimed Joseph, forcing a laugh, though he
was much annoyed, “I never gave you credit for such a
lively imagination. Why not be candid, and admit that the
dislike is on your side? I am sorry for it, since Julia will
so soon be in the house there as my wife. There is no one
else whom I can ask, unless it were Philip Held—”

“Held! To be sure, he took care of you. I was at Coventry
the day after, and saw something of him.” With
these words, Elwood turned towards Joseph and looked him
squarely in the face. “He'll have charge there in a few
months, I hear,” he then said, “and I reckon it as a piece
of good luck for you. I've found that there are men, all,
maybe, as honest and outspoken as they need be; yet two of

'em will talk at different marks and never fully understand
each other, and other two will naturally talk right straight
at the same mark and never miss. Now, Held is the sort that
can hit the thing in the mind of the man they're talking to;
it's a gift that comes o' being knocked about the world
among all classes of people. What we learn here, always
among the same folks, isn't a circumstance.”

“Then you think I might ask him?” said Joseph, not
fully comprehending all that Elwood meant to express.

“He's one of those men that you're safe in asking to do
anything. Make him spokesman of a committee to wait on
the President, arbitrator in a crooked lawsuit, overseer of a
railroad gang, leader in a prayer-meeting (if he'd consent),
or whatever else you choose, and he'll do the business as if
he was used to it! It's enough for you that I don't know
the town ways, and he does; it's considered worse, I've
heard, to make a blunder in society than to commit a real sin.”

He rose, and they loitered down the hill together. The
subject was quietly dropped, but the minds of both were
none the less busy. They felt the stir and pressure of new
experiences, which had come to one through disappointment
and to the other through success. Not three months had
passed since they rode together through the twilight to Warriner's,
and already life was opening to them,—but how differently!
Joseph endeavored to make the most kindly allowance
for his friend's mood, and to persuade himself that his
feelings were unchanged. Elwood, however, knew that a
shadow had fallen between them. It was nothing beside the
cloud of his greater trouble: he also knew the cost of his own
justification to Joseph, and prayed that it might never come.

That evening, on taking leave, he said: “I don't know
whether you meant to have the news of your engagement

circulated; but I guess Anna Warriner has heard, and that
amounts to—”

“To telling it to the whole neighborhood, doesn't it?”
Joseph answered. “Then the mischief is already done, if it
is a mischief. It is well, therefore, that the day is set: the
neighborhood will have little time for gossip.”

He smiled so frankly and cheerfully, that Elwood seized
his hand, and with tears in his eyes, said: “Don't remember
anything against me, Joseph. I've always been honestly
your friend, and mean to stay so.”

He went that evening to a homestead where he knew he
should find Lucy Henderson. She looked pale and fatigued,
he thought; possibly his presence had become a restraint. If
so, she must bear his unkindness: it was the only sacrifice
he could not make, for he felt sure that his intercourse with
her must either terminate in hate or love. The one thing of
which he was certain was, that there could be no calm, complacent
friendship between them.

It was not long before one of the family asked him whether
he had heard the news; it seemed that they had already discussed
it, and his arrival revived the flow of expression. In
spite of his determination, he found it impossible to watch
Lucy while he said, as simply as possible, that Joseph Asten
seemed very happy over the prospect of the marriage; that
he was old enough to take a wife; and if Miss Blessing could
adapt herself to country habits, they might get on very well
together. But later in the evening he took a chance of saying
to her: “In spite of what I said, Lucy, I don't feel
quite easy about Joseph's marriage. What do you think of
it?”

She smiled faintly, as she replied: “Some say that people
are attracted by mutual unlikeness. This seems to me to be

a case of the kind; but they are free choosers of their own
fates.”

“Is there no possible way of persuading him—them—to
delay?”

“No!” she exclaimed, with unusual energy; “none
whatever!”

Elwood sighed, and yet felt relieved.

Joseph lost no time in writing to Philip Held, announcing
his approaching marriage, and begging him—with many
apologies for asking such a mark of confidence on so short
an acquaintance—to act the part of nearest friend, if there
were no other private reasons to prevent him.

Four or five days later the following answer arrived:—

This letter threw Joseph into a new perplexity. Philip a
former acquaintance of the Blessings! Formerly, but not
now; and what could those mysterious “circumstances”
have been, which had so seriously interrupted their intercourse?
It was quite useless to conjecture; but he could
not resist the feeling that another shadow hung over the aspects
of his future. Perhaps he had exaggerated Elwood's
unaccountable dislike to Julia, which had only been implied,
not spoken; but here was a positive estrangement on
the part of the man who was so suddenly near and dear to
him. He never thought of suspecting Philip of blame; the
candor and cheery warmth of the letter rejoiced his heart.
There was evidently nothing better to do than to follow the
advice contained in it, and leave the question to the decision
of Julia and her parents.

Her reply did not come by the return mail, nor until
nearly a week afterwards; during which time he tormented
himself by imagining the wildest reasons for her silence.

When the letter at last arrived, he had some difficulty in
comprehending its import.

“Dearest Joseph,” she said, “you must really forgive me
this long trial of your patience. Your letter was so unexpected,—I
mean its contents,—and it seems as if ma and pa
and Clementina would never agree what was best to be done.
For that matter, I cannot say that they agree now; we had
no idea that you were an intimate friend of Mr. Held, (I
can't think how ever you should have become acquainted!)
and it seems to break open old wounds,—none of mine, fortunately,
for I have none. As Mr. Held leaves the question
in our hands, there is, you will understand, all the more necessity
that we should be careful. Ma thinks he has said
nothing to you about the unfortunate occurrence, or you
would have expressed an opinion. You never can know how
happy your fidelity makes me; but I felt that, the first moment
we met.

“Ma says that at very private (what pa calls informal)
weddings there need not be bridesmaids or groomsmen.
Miss Morrisey was married that way, not long ago; it is true
that she is not of our circle, nor strictly a first family (this
is ma's view, not mine, for I understand the hollowness of
society); but we could very well do the same. Pa would be
satisfied with a reception afterwards; he wants to ask the
Collector, and the Surveyor, and the Appraiser. Clementina
won't say anything now, but I know what she thinks, and
so does ma; however, Mr. Held has so dropped out of city
life that it is not important. I suppose everything must be
dim in his memory now; you do not write to me much that
he related. How strange that he should be your friend!
They say my dress is lovely, but I am sure I should like a
plain muslin just as well. I shall only breathe freely when

I get back to the quiet of the country, (and your—our
charming home, and dear, good Aunt Rachel!) and away
from all these conventional forms. Ma says if there is one
groomsman there ought to be two; either very simple, or
according to custom. In a matter so delicate, perhaps, Mr.
Held would be as competent to decide as we are; at least I
am quite willing to leave it to his judgment. But how trifling
is all this discussion, compared with the importance of
the day to us! It is now drawing very near, but I have no
misgivings, for I confide in you wholly and forever!”

After reading the letter with as much coolness as was
then possible to him, Joseph inferred three things: that his
acquaintance with Philip Held was not entirely agreeable to
the Blessing family; that they would prefer the simplest
style of a wedding, and this was in consonance with his own
tastes; and that Julia clung to him as a deliverer from conditions
with which her nature had little sympathy. Her
incoherence, he fancied, arose from an agitation which he
could very well understand, and his answer was intended to
soothe and encourage her. It was difficult to let Philip
know that his services would not be required, without implying
the existence of an unfriendly feeling towards
him; and Joseph, therefore, all the more readily accepted
his invitation. He was assured that the mysterious difficulty
did not concern Julia; even if it were so, he was not called
upon to do violence, without cause, to so welcome a friendship.

The September days sped by, not with the lingering, passionate
uncertainty of which Elwood Withers spoke, but
almost too swiftly. In the hurry of preparation, Joseph had
scarcely time to look beyond the coming event and estimate
its consequences. He was too ignorant of himself to doubt:
his conscience was too pure and perfect to admit the possibility

of changing the course of his destiny. Whatever the
gossip of the neighborhood might have been, he heard
nothing of it that was not agreeable. His aunt was entirely
reconciled to a wife who would not immediately, and
probably not for a long time, interfere with her authority;
and the shadows raised by the two men whom he loved best
seemed, at last, to be accidentally thrown from clouds beyond
the horizon of his life. This was the thought to which he
clung, in spite of a vague, utterly formless apprehension,
which he felt lurking somewhere in the very bottom of his
heart.

Philip met him on his arrival in the city, and after taking
him to his pleasant quarters, in a house looking on one
of the leafy squares, good-naturedly sent him to the Blessing
mansion, with a warning to return before the evening was
quite spent. The family was in a flutter of preparation,
and though he was cordially welcomed, he felt that, to all
except Julia, he was subordinate in interest to the men who
came every quarter of an hour, bringing bouquets, and silver
spoons with cards attached, and pasteboard boxes containing
frosted cakes. Even Julia's society he was only allowed to
enjoy by scanty instalments; she was perpetually summoned
by her mother or Clementina, to consult about some indescribable
figment of dress. Mr. Blessing was occupied in
the basement, with the inspection of various hampers. He
came to the drawing-room to greet Joseph, whom he shook
by both hands, with such incoherent phrases that Julia
presently interposed. “You must not forget, pa,” she said,
“that the man is waiting: Joseph will excuse you, I know.”
She followed him to the basement, and he returned no
more.

Joseph left early in the evening, cheered by Julia's words:

“We can't complain of all this confusion, when it's for our
sakes; but we'll be happier when it's over, won't we?”

He gave her an affirmative kiss, and returned to Philip's
room. That gentleman was comfortably disposed in an arm-chair,
with a book and a cigar. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “you
find that a house is more agreeable any evening than that
before the wedding?”

“There is one compensation,” said Joseph; “it gives me
two or three hours with you.”

“Then take that other arm-chair, and tell me how this came
to pass. You see I have the curiosity of a neighbor, already.”

He listened earnestly while Joseph related the story of his
love, occasionally asking a question or making a suggestive
remark, but so gently that it seemed to come as an assistance.
When all had been told, he rose and commenced walking
slowly up and down the room. Joseph longed to ask, in
turn, for an explanation of the circumstances mentioned in
Philip's letter; but a doubt checked his tongue.

As if in response to his thought, Philip stopped before
him and said: “I owe you my story, and you shall have it
after a while, when I can tell you more. I was a young fellow
of twenty when I knew the Blessings, and I don't attach
the slightest importance, now, to anything that happened.
Even if I did, Miss Julia had no share in it. I remember her
distinctly; she was then about my age, or a year or two older;
but hers is a face that would not change in a long while.”

Joseph stared at his friend in silence. He recalled the latter's
age, and was startled by the involuntary arithmetic
which revealed Julia's to him. It was unexpected, unwelcome,
yet inevitable.

“Her father had been lucky in some of his `operations,'”
Philip continued, “but I don't think he kept it long. I

hardly wonder that she should come to prefer a quiet country
life to such ups and downs as the family has known.
Generally, a woman don't adapt herself so readily to a change
of surroundings as a man: where there is love, however,
everything is possible.”

“There is! there is!” Joseph exclaimed, certifying the
fact to himself as much as to his friend. He rose and stood
beside him.

Philip looked at him with grave, tender eyes.

“What can I do?” he said.

“What should you do?” Joseph asked.

“This!” Philip exclaimed, laying his hands on Joseph's
shoulders,—“this, Joseph! I can be nearer than a brother.
I know that I am in your heart as you are in mine. There
is no faith between us that need be limited, there is no truth
too secret to be veiled. A man's perfect friendship is rarer
than a woman's love, and most hearts are content with one
or the other: not so with yours and mine! I read it in
your eyes, when you opened them on my knee: I see it in
your face now. Don't speak: let us clasp hands.”

But Joseph could not speak.