University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
JOSEPH.

Rachel Miller was not a little surprised when her nephew
Joseph came to the supper-table, not from the direction of
the barn and through the kitchen, as usual, but from the
back room up stairs, where he slept. His work-day dress
had disappeared; he wore his best Sunday suit, put on with
unusual care, and there were faint pomatum odors in the air
when he sat down to the table.

Her face said—and she knew it—as plain as any words,
“What in the world does this mean?” Joseph, she saw,
endeavored to look as though coming down to supper in that
costume were his usual habit; so she poured out the tea in
silence. Her silence, however, was eloquent; a hundred
interrogation-marks would not have expressed its import;
and Dennis, the hired man, who sat on the other side of the
table, experienced very much the same apprehension of something
forthcoming, as when he had killed her favorite speckled
hen by mistake.

Before the meal was over, the tension between Joseph and
his aunt had so increased by reason of their mutual silence,

that it was very awkward and oppressive to both; yet
neither knew how to break it easily. There is always a great
deal of unnecessary reticence in the intercourse of country
people, and in the case of these two it had been specially
strengthened by the want of every relationship except that
of blood. They were quite ignorant of the fence, the easy
thrust and parry of society, where talk becomes an art;
silence or the bluntest utterance were their alternatives, and
now the one had neutralized the other. Both felt this, and
Dennis, in his dull way, felt it too. Although not a party
concerned, he was uncomfortable, yet also internally conscious
of a desire to laugh.

The resolution of the crisis, however, came by his aid.
When the meal was finished and Joseph betook himself to
the window, awkwardly drumming upon the pane, while his
aunt gathered the plates and cups together, delaying to remove
them as was her wont, Dennis said, with his hand on
the door-knob: “Shall I saddle the horse right off?”

“I guess so,” Joseph answered, after a moment's hesitation.

Rachel paused, with the two silver spoons in her hand.
Joseph was still drumming upon the window, but with very
irregular taps. The door closed upon Dennis.

“Well,” said she, with singular calmness, “a body is not
bound to dress particularly fine for watching, though I
would as soon show him that much respect, if need be, as
anybody else. Don't forget to ask Maria if there 's anything
I can do for her.”

Joseph turned around with a start, a most innocent surprise
on his face.

“Why, aunt, what are you talking about?”

“You are not going to Warne's to watch? They have

nearer neighbors, to be sure, but when a man dies, everybody
is free to offer their services. He was always strong in
the faith.”

Joseph knew that he was caught, without suspecting her
manœuvre. A brighter color ran over his face, up to the
roots of his hair. “Why, no!” he exclaimed; “I am going
to Warriner's to spend the evening. There's to be a little
company there,—a neighborly gathering. I believe it's
been talked of this long while, but I was only invited to-day.
I saw Bob, in the road-field.”

Rachel endeavored to conceal from her nephew's eye the
immediate impression of his words. A constrained smile
passed over her face, and was instantly followed by a cheerful
relief in his.

“Isn't it rather a strange time of year for evening parties?”
she then asked, with a touch of severity in her
voice.

“They meant to have it in cherry-time, Bob said, when
Anna's visitor had come from town.”

“That, indeed! I see!” Rachel exclaimed. “It's to be
a sort of celebration for—what's-her-name? Blessing, I
know,—but the other? Anna Warriner was there last
Christmas, and I don't suppose the high notions are out of
her head yet. Well, I hope it'll be some time before they
take root here! Peace and quiet, peace and quiet, that's
been the token of the neighborhood; but town ways are the
reverse.”

“All the young people are going,” Joseph mildly suggested,
“and so—”

“O, I don't say you shouldn't go, this time,” Rachel interrupted
him; “for you ought to be able to judge for yourself
what's fit and proper, and what is not. I should be sorry,

to be sure, to see you doing anything and going anywhere
that would make your mother uneasy if she were living now.
It's so hard to be conscientious, and to mind a body's
bounden duty, without seeming to interfere.”

She heaved a deep sigh, and just touched the corner of
her apron to her eyes. The mention of his mother always
softened Joseph, and in his earnest desire to live so that his
life might be such as to give her joy if she could share it, a
film of doubt spread itself over the smooth, pure surface of
his mind. A vague consciousness of his inability to express
himself clearly upon the question without seeming to slight
her memory affected his thoughts.

“But, remember, Aunt Rachel,” he said, at last, “I was
not old enough, then, to go into society. She surely meant
that I should have some independence, when the time came.
I am doing no more than all the young men of the neighborhood.”

“Ah, yes, I know,” she replied, in a melancholy tone;
“but they've got used to it by degrees, and mostly in their
own homes, and with sisters to caution them; whereas you're
younger according to your years, and innocent of the ways
and wiles of men, and—and girls.”

Joseph painfully felt that this last assertion was true.
Suppressing the impulse to exclaim, “Why am I younger
`according to my years?' why am I so much more `innocent'—which
is, ignorant—than others?” he blundered out,
with a little display of temper, “Well, how am I ever to
learn?”

“By patience, and taking care of yourself. There's always
safety in waiting. I don't mean you shouldn't go this
evening, since you've promised it, and made yourself smart.
But, mark my words, this is only the beginning. The season

makes no difference; townspeople never seem to know that
there's such things as hay-harvest and corn to be worked.
They come out for merry-makings in the busy time, and
want us country folks to give up everything for their pleasure.
The tired plough-horses must be geared up for 'em, and the
cows wait an hour or two longer to be milked while they're
driving around; and the chickens killed half-grown, and the
washing and baking put off when it comes in their way.
They're mighty nice and friendly while it lasts; but go back
to 'em in town, six months afterwards, and see whether
they'll so much as ask you to take a meal's victuals!”

Joseph began to laugh. “It is not likely,” he said, “that
I shall ever go to the Blessings for a meal, or that this Miss
Julia—as they call her—will ever interfere with our harvesting
or milking.”

“The airs they put on!” Rachel continued. “She'll
very likely think that she's doing you a favor by so much as
speaking to you. When the Bishops had boarders, two years
ago, one of 'em said,—Maria told me with her own mouth,
—`Why don't all the farmers follow your example? It
would be so refining for them!' They may be very well in
their place, but, for my part, I should like them to stay
there.”

“There comes the horse,” said Joseph. “I must be on
the way. I expect to meet Elwood Withers at the lane-end.
But—about waiting, Aunt—you hardly need—”

“O, yes, I'll wait for you, of course. Ten o'clock is not
so very late for me.”

“It might be a little after,” he suggested.

“Not much, I hope; but if it should be daybreak, wait
I will! Your mother couldn't expect less of me.”

When Joseph whirled into the saddle, the thought of his

aunt, grimly waiting for his return, was already perched
like an imp on the crupper, and clung to his sides with claws
of steel. She, looking through the window, also felt that it
was so; and, much relieved, went back to her household
duties.

He rode very slowly down the lane, with his eyes fixed on
the ground. There was a rich orange flush of sunset on the
hills across the valley; masses of burning cumuli hung, self-suspended,
above the farthest woods, and such depths of
purple-gray opened beyond them as are wont to rouse the
slumbering fancies and hopes of a young man's heart; but
the beauty and fascination and suggestiveness of the hour
could not lift his downcast, absorbed glance. At last his
horse, stopping suddenly at the gate, gave a whinny of recognition,
which was answered.

Elwood Withers laughed. “Can you tell me where
Joseph Asten lives?” he cried, — “an old man, very much
bowed and bent.”

Joseph also laughed, with a blush, as he met the other's
strong, friendly face. “There is plenty of time,” he said,
leaning over his horse's neck and lifting the latch of the gate.

“All right; but you must now wake up. You're spruce
enough to make a figure to-night.”

“O, no doubt!” Joseph gravely answered; “but what
kind of a figure?”

“Some people, I've heard say,” said Elwood, “may look
into their looking-glass every day, and never know how they
look. If you appeared to yourself as you appear to me, you
wouldn't ask such a question as that.”

“If I could only not think of myself at all, Elwood,—if
I could be as unconcerned as you are—”

“But I'm not, Joseph, my boy!” Elwood interrupted,

riding nearer and laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. “I
tell you, it weakens my very marrow to walk into a room
full o' girls, even though I know every one of 'em. They
know it, too, and, shy and quiet as they seem, they're unmerciful.
There they sit, all looking so different, somehow,
—even a fellow's own sisters and cousins, — filling up all
sides of the room, rustling a little and whispering a little, but
you feel that every one of 'em has her eyes on you, and
would be so glad to see you flustered. There's no help for
it, though; we've got to grow case-hardened to that much, or
how ever could a man get married?”

“Elwood!” Joseph asked, after a moment's silence, “were
you ever in love?”

“Well,”—and Elwood pulled up his horse in surprise,—
“well, you do come out plump. You take the breath out of
my body. Have I been in love? Have I committed murder?
One's about as deadly a secret as the other!”

The two looked each other in the face. Elwood's eyes
answered the question, but Joseph's,—large, shy, and utterly
innocent,—could not read the answer.

“It's easy to see you've never been,” said the former,
dropping his voice to a grave gentleness. “If I should say
Yes, what then?”

“Then, how do you know it,—I mean, how did you first
begin to find it out? What is the difference between that
and the feeling you have towards any pleasant girl whom you
like to be with?”

“All the difference in the world!” Elwood exclaimed with
energy; then paused, and knitted his brows with a perplexed
air; “but I'll be shot if I know exactly what else to
say; I never thought of it before. How do I know that I
am Elwood Withers? It seems just as plain as that,—and

yet—well, for one thing, she 's always in your mind, and you
think and dream of just nothing but her; and you'd rather
have the hem of her dress touch you than kiss anybody else;
and you want to be near her, and to have her all to yourself,
yet it's hard work to speak a sensible word to her when you
come together,—but, what's the use? A fellow must feel it
himself, as they say of experiencing religion; he must get
converted, or he'll never know. Now, I don't suppose
you've understood a word of what I've said!”

“Yes!” Joseph answered; “indeed, I think so. It's
only an increase of what we all feel towards some persons.
I have been hoping, latterly, that it might come to me, but—
but—”

“But your time will come, like every man's,” said Elwood;
“and, maybe, sooner than you think. When it does,
you won't need to ask anybody; though I think you're
bound to tell me of it, after pumping my own secret out of
me.”

Joseph looked grave.

“Never mind; I wasn't obliged to let you have it. I
know you're close-mouthed and honest-hearted, Joseph; but
I'll never ask your confidence unless you can give it as freely
as I give mine to you.”

“You shall have it, Elwood, if my time ever comes. And
I can't help wishing for the time, although it may not be
right. You know how lonely it is on the farm, and yet it's
not always easy for me to get away into company. Aunt
Rachel stands in mother's place to me, and maybe it's only
natural that she should be over-concerned; any way, seeing
what she has done for my sake, I am hindered from opposing
her wishes too stubbornly. Now, to-night, my going
didn't seem right to her, and I shall not get it out of my

mind that she is waiting up, and perhaps fretting, on my
account.”

“A young fellow of your age mustn't be so tender,” Elwood
said. “If you had your own father and mother,
they'd allow you more of a range. Look at me, with mine!
Why, I never as much as say `by your leave.' Quite the
contrary; so long as the work isn't slighted, they're rather
glad than not to have me go out; and the house is twice as
lively since I bring so much fresh gossip into it. But then,
I've had a rougher bringing up.”

“I wish I had had!” cried Joseph. “Yet, no, when I
think of mother, it is wrong to say just that. What I
mean is, I wish I could take things as easily as you,—make
my way boldly in the world, without being held back by
trifles, or getting so confused with all sorts of doubts. The
more anxious I am to do right, the more embarrassed I am to
know what is the right thing. I don't believe you have any
such troubles.”

“Well, for my part, I do about as other fellows; no
worse, I guess, and likely no better. You must consider,
also, that I'm a bit rougher made, besides the bringing up,
and that makes a deal of difference. I don't try to make
the scales balance to a grain; if there's a handful under or
over, I think it's near enough. However, you'll be all right
in a while. When you find the right girl and marry her,
it'll put a new face on to you. There's nothing like a sharp,
wide-awake wife, so they say, to set a man straight. Don't
make a mountain of anxiety out of a little molehill of inexperience.
I'd take all your doubts and more, I'm sure, if I
could get such a two-hundred-acre farm with them.”

“Do you know,” cried Joseph eagerly, his blue eyes
flashing through the gathering dusk, “I have often thought

very nearly the same thing! If I were to love,—if I were
to marry—”

“Hush!” interrupted Elwood; “I know you don't
mean others to hear you. Here come two down the
branch road.”

The horsemen, neighboring farmers' sons, joined them.
They rode together up the knoll towards the Warriner
mansion, the lights of which glimmered at intervals through
the trees. The gate was open, and a dozen vehicles could
be seen in the enclosure between the house and barn. Bright,
gliding forms were visible on the portico.

“Just see,” whispered Elwood to Joseph; “what a lot of
posy-colors! You may be sure they're every one watching
us. No flinching, mind; straight to the charge! We'll
walk up together, and it won't be half as hard for you.”