University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
ON THE RAILROAD TRACK.

Still walking, with bent head, and a brain which vainly
strove to work its way to clearness through the perplexities
of his heart, Joseph went on. When, wearied at last,
though not consciously calmer, he paused and looked about
him, it was like waking from a dream. Some instinct had
guided him on the way to Philip's forge: the old road had
been moved to accommodate the new branch railway, and a
rapid ring of hammers came up from the embankment below.
It was near the point of the hill where Lucy's schoolhouse
stood, and even as he looked she came, accompanied by her
scholars, to watch the operation of laying the track. Elwood
Withers, hale, sunburnt, full of lusty life, walked along
the sleepers directing the workmen.

“He was right,—only too right!” muttered Joseph to
himself. “Why could I not see with his eyes? `It's the
bringing up,' he would say; but that is not all. I have
been an innocent, confiding boy, and thought that years and
acres had made me a man. O, she understood me—she understands
me now; but in spite of her, God helping me, I
shall yet be a man.”

Elwood ran down the steep side of the embankment,
greeted Lucy, and helped her to the top, the children following
with whoops and cries.

“Would it have been different,” Joseph further soliloquized,
“if Lucy and I had loved and married? It is

hardly treating Elwood fairly to suppose such a thing, yet
—a year ago—I might have loved her. It is better as it is:
I should have stepped upon a true man's heart. Have they
drawn nearer? and if so, does he, with his sturdier nature,
his surer knowledge, find no flaw in her perfections?”

A morbid curiosity to watch the two suddenly came upon
him. He clambered over the fence, crossed the narrow strip
of meadow, and mounted the embankment. Elwood's back
was towards him, and he was just saying: “It all comes of
taking an interest in what your're doing. The practical
part is easy enough, when you once have the principles. I
can manage the theodolite already, but I need a little showing
when I come to the calculations. Somehow, I never
cared much about study before, but here it's all applied as
soon as you've learned it, and that fixes it, like, in your head.”

Lucy was listening with an earnest, friendly interest on
her face. She scarcely saw Joseph until he stood before her.
After the first slight surprise, her manner towards him was
quiet and composed: Elwood's eyes were bright, and there
was a fresh intelligence in his appearance. The habit of
command had already given him a certain dignity.

“How can I get knowledge which may be applied as soon
as learned?” Joseph asked, endeavoring to assume the manner
furthest from his feelings. “I'm still at the foot of the
class, Lucy,” he added, turning to her.

“How?” Elwood replied. “I should say by going around
the world alone. That would be about the same for you as
what these ten miles I'm overseeing are to me. A little
goes a great way with me, for I can only pick up one thing
at a time.”

“What kind of knowledge are you looking for, Joseph?”
Lucy gravely asked.

“Of myself,” said he, and his face grew dark.

“That's a true word!” Elwood involuntarily exclaimed.
He then caught Lucy's eye, and awkwardly added: “It's
about what we all want, I take it.”

Joseph recovered himself in a moment, and proposed looking
over the work. They walked slowly along the embankment,
listening to Elwood's account of what had been done
and what was yet to do, when the Hopeton carriage came
up the highway, near at hand. Mrs. Hopeton sat in it
alone.

“I was looking for you, Lucy,” she called. “If you are
going towards the cutting, I will join you there.”

She sent the coachman home with the carriage, and walked
with them on the track. Joseph felt her presence as a relief,
but Elwood confessed to himself that he was a little disturbed
by the steady glance of her dark eyes. He had
already overcome his regret at the interruption of his rare
and welcome chance of talking with Lucy, but then Joseph
knew his heart, while this stately lady looked as if she were
capable of detecting what she had no right to know. Nevertheless,
she was Lucy's friend, and that fact had great weight
with Elwood.

“It's rather a pity to cut into the hills and bank up the
meadows in this way, isn't it?” he asked.

“And to disturb my school with so much hammering,”
Lucy rejoined; “when the trains come I must retreat.”

“None too soon,” said Mrs. Hopeton. “You are not
strong, Lucy, and the care of a school is too much for you.”

Elwood thanked her with a look, before he knew what he
was about.

“After all,” said Joseph, “why shouldn't nature be cut
up? I suppose everything was given up to us to use, and

the more profit the better the use, seems to be the rule of
the world. `Beauty grows out of Use,' you know.”

His tone was sharp and cynical, and grated unpleasantly
on Lucy's sensitive ear.

“I believe it is a rule in art,” said Mrs. Hopeton, “that
mere ornament, for ornament's sake, is not allowed. It
must always seem to answer some purpose, to have a necessity
for its existence. But, on the other hand, what is necessary
should be beautiful, if possible.”

“A loaf of bread, for instance,” suggested Elwood.

They all laughed at this illustration, and the conversation
took a lighter turn. By this time they had entered the narrower
part of the valley, and on passing around a sharp
curve of the track found themselves face to face with Philip
and Madeline Held.

If Mrs. Hopeton's heart beat more rapidly at the unexpected
meeting, she preserved her cold, composed bearing.
Madeline, bright and joyous, was the unconscious agent of
unconstraint, in whose presence each of the others felt immediately
free.

“Two inspecting committees at once!” cried Philip. “It
is well for you, Withers, that you didn't locate the line. My
sister and I have already found several unnecessary curves
and culverts.”

“And we have found a great deal of use and no beauty,”
Lucy answered.

“Beauty!” exclaimed Madeline. “What is more beautiful
than to see one's groceries delivered at one's very door?
Or to have the opera and the picture-gallery brought within two
hours' distance? How far are we from a lemon, Philip?”

“You were a lemon, Mad, in your vegetable, pre-human
state; and you are still acid and agreeable.”

“Sweets to the sweet!” she gayly cried. “And what,
pray, was Miss Henderson?”

“Don't spare me, Mr. Held,” said Lucy, as he looked at
her with a little hesitation.

“An apple.”

“And Mrs. Hopeton?”

“A date-palm,” said Philip, fixing his eyes upon her face.

She did not look up, but an expression which he could
not interpret just touched her lips and faded.

“Now, it's your turn, Miss Held,” Elwood remarked:
“what were we men?”

“O, Philip a prickly pear, of course; and you, well, some
kind of a nut; and Mr. Asten—”

“A cabbage,” said Joseph.

“What vanity! Do you imagine that you are all head,
—or that your heart is in your head? Or that you keep the
morning dew longer than the rest of us?”

“It might well be,” Joseph answered; and Madeline felt
her arm gently pinched by Philip, from behind. She had
tact enough not to lower her pitch of gayety too suddenly,
but her manner towards Joseph became grave and gentle.
Mrs. Hopeton said but little: she looked upon the circling
hills, as if studying their summer beauty, while the one desire
in her heart was to be away from the spot,—away from
Philip's haunting eyes.

After a little while, Philip seemed to be conscious of her
feeling. He left his place on the opposite side of the track,
took Joseph's arm and led him a little aside from the group.

“Philip, I want you!” Joseph whispered; “but no, not
quite yet. There is no need of coming to you in a state of
confusion. In a day or two more I shall have settled a little.”

“You are right,” said Philip: “there is no opiate like
time, be there never so little of it. I felt the fever of your
head in your hand. Don't come to me, until you feel that
it is the one thing which must be done! I think you know
why I say so.”

“I do!” Joseph exclaimed. “I am just now more of an
ostrich than anything else; I should like to stick my head
in the sand, and imagine myself invisible. But—Philip—
here are six of us together. One other, I know, has a secret
wound, perhaps two others: is it always so in life? I
think I am selfish enough to be glad to know that I am not
specially picked out for punishment.”

Philip could not help smiling. “Upon my soul,” he said,
“I believe Madeline is the only one of the six who is not
busy with other thoughts than those we all seem to utter.
Specially picked out? There is no such thing as special picking
out, in this world! Joseph, it may seem hard and schoolmaster-like
in me again to say `wait!' yet that is the only
word I can say.”

“Good evening, all!” cried Elwood. “I must go down
to my men; but I'd be glad of such an inspection as this, a
good deal oftener.”

“I'll go that far with you,” said Joseph.

Mrs. Hopeton took Lucy's arm with a sudden, nervous
movement. “If you are not too tired, let us walk over the
hill,” she said; “I want to find the right point of view for
sketching our house.”

The company dissolved. Philip, as he walked up the
track with his sister, said to himself: “Surely she was
afraid of me. And what does her fear indicate? What, if
not that the love she once bore for me still lives in her
heart, in spite of time and separated fates? I should not,

dare not think of her; I shall never again speak a word to
her which her husband might not hear; but I cannot tear
from me the dream of what she might be, the knowledge of
what she is, false, hopeless, fatal, as it all may be!”

“Elwood,” said Joseph, when they had walked a little
distance in silence, “do you remember the night you spent
with me, a year ago?”

“I'm not likely to forget it.”

“Let me ask you one question, then. Have you come
nearer to Lucy Henderson?”

“If no further off means nearer, and it almost seems so
in my case,—yes!”

“And you see no difference in her,—no new features of
character, which you did not guess, at first?”

“Indeed, I do!” Elwood emphatically answered. “To
me she grows less and less like any other woman,—so right,
so straightforward, so honest in all her ways and thoughts!
If I am ever tempted to do anything—well, not exactly
mean, you know, but such as a man might as well leave undone,
I have only to say to myself: `If you're not thoroughly
good, my boy, you'll lose her!' and that does the business,
right away. Why, Joseph, I'm proud of myself, that I mean
to deserve her!”

“Ah!” A sigh, almost a groan, came from Joseph's lips.
“What will you think of me?” he said. “I was about to
repeat your own words,—to warn you to be cautious, and
take time, and test your feelings, and not to be too sure of
her perfection! What can a young man know about women?
He can only discover the truth after marriage, and
then—they are indifferent how it affects him—their fortunes
are made!”

“I know,” answered Elwood, turning his head away

slightly; “but there's a difference between the women you
seek, and work to get, and the women who seek, and work
to get you.”

“I understand you.”

“Forgive me for saying it!” Elwood cried, instantly repenting
his words. “I couldn't help seeing and feeling
what you know now. But what man—leastways, what
friend—could ha' said it to you with any chance of being
believed? You were like a man alone in a boat above a
waterfall; only you could bring yourself to shore. If I
stood on the bank and called, and you didn't believe me,
what then? The Lord knows, I'd give this right arm,
strong as it is, to put you back where you were a year ago.”

“I've been longing for frankness, and I ought to bear it
better,” said Joseph. “Put the whole subject out of your
thoughts, and come and see me as of old. It is quite time I
should learn to manage my own life.”

He grasped Elwood's hand convulsively, sprang down the
embankment, and took to the highway. Elwood looked
after him a minute, then slowly shook his head and walked
onward towards the men.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hopeton and Lucy had climbed the hill,
and found themselves on the brow of a rolling upland, which
fell on the other side towards the old Calvert place. The
day was hot. Mrs. Hopeton's knees trembled under her,
and she sank on the soft grass at the foot of a tree. Lucy
took a seat beside her.

“You know so much of my trouble,” said the former,
when the coolness and rest had soothed her, “and I
trust you so perfectly, that I can tell you all, Lucy. Can
you guess the man whom I loved, but must never love
again?”

“I have sometimes thought —” but here Lucy hesitated.

“Speak the name in your mind, or, let me say `Philip
Held' for you! Lucy, what am I to do? he loves me still:
he told me so, just now, where we were all together below
there!”

Lucy turned with a start, and gazed wonderingly upon
her friend's face.

“Why does he continue telling me what I must not
hear? with his eyes, Lucy! in the tones of his voice, in
common words which I am forced to interpret by his meaning!
I had learned to bear my inevitable fate, for it is not an
unhappy one; I can bear even his presence, if he were
generous enough to close his heart as I do,—either that, or
to avoid me; for I now dread to meet him again.”

“Is it not,” Lucy asked, “because the trial is new, and
takes you by surprise and unprepared? May you not be
fearing more than Mr. Held has expressed, or, at least, intended?”

“The speech that kills, or makes alive, needs no words.
What I mean is, there is no resistance in his face. I blush
for myself, I am indignant at my own pitiful weakness, but
something in his look to-day made me forget everything
that has passed since we were parted. While it lasted, I
was under a spell,— a spell which it humiliates me to remember.
Your voices sounded faint and far off; all that I
have, and hold, seemed to be slipping from me. It was only
for a moment, but, Lucy, it frightened me. My will is
strong, and I think I can depend upon it; yet what if some
influence beyond my control were to paralyze it?”

“Then you must try to win the help of a higher will; our
souls always win something of that which they wrestle and

struggle to reach. Dear Mrs. Hopeton, have you never
thought that we are still as children who cannot have all
they cry for? Now that you know what you fear, do not
dread to hold it before your mind and examine what it is:
at least, I think that would be my instinct,—to face a danger
at once when I found I could not escape it.”

“I have no doubt you are right, Lucy,” said Mrs. Hopeton;
but her tone was sad, as if she acquiesced without
clearly believing.

“It seems very hard,” Lucy continued, “when we cannot
have the one love of all others that we need, harder
still when we must put it forcibly from our hearts. But I
have always felt that, when we can bring ourselves to renounce
cheerfully, a blessing will follow. I do not know
how, but I must believe it. Might it not come at last
through the love that we have, though it now seems imperfect?”

Mrs. Hopeton lifted her head from her knees, and sat
erect. “Lucy,” she said, “I do not believe you are a
woman who would ask another to bear what is beyond your
own strength. Shall I put you to the test?”

Lucy, though her face became visibly paler, replied: “I
did not mean to compare my burden with yours; but weigh
me, if you wish. If I am found wanting, you will show me
wherein.”

“Your one love above all others is lost to you. Have
you conquered the desire for it?”

“I think I have. If some soreness remains, I try to believe
that it is the want of the love which I know to be
possible, not that of the—the person.”

“Then could you be happy with what you call an imperfect
love?”

Lucy blushed a little, in spite of herself. “I am still
free,” she answered, “and not obliged to accept it. If I
were bound, I hope I should not neglect my duty.”

“What if another's happiness depended on your accepting
it? Lucy, my eyes have been made keen by what I
have felt. I saw to-day that a man's heart follows you,
and I guess that you know it. Here is no imperfect love on
his part: were you his wife, could you learn to give him so
much that your life might become peaceful and satisfied?”

“You do, indeed, test me!” Lucy murmured. “How
can I know? What answer can I make? I have shrunk
from thinking of that, and I cannot feel that my duty lies
there. Yet, if it were so, if I were already bound, irrevocably,
surely all my present faith must be false if happiness in
some form did not come at last!”

“I believe it would, to you!” cried Mrs. Hopeton. “Why
not to me? Do you think I have ever looked for love in
my husband? It seems, now, that I have been content to
know that he was proud of me. If I seek, perhaps I may
find more than I have dreamed of; and if I find, —if indeed
and truly I find, —I shall never more lack self-possession
and will!”

She rose to her full height, and a flush came over the
pallor of her cheeks. “Yes,” she continued, “rather than
feel again the humiliation of to-day, I will trample all my
nature down to the level of an imperfect love!”

“Better,” said Lucy, rising also, — “better to bend only
for a while to the imperfect, that you may warm and purify
and elevate it, until it shall take the place of the perfect in
your heart.”

The two women kissed each other, and there were tears on
the cheeks of both.