WHERE TWO ROADS MEET.
The velvet-cushioned seat on which
he sat felt very comfortable, and the great speed
at which he was being carried along was agreeable to
him. He had been busily occupied, with little
rest of any kind, and scarcely any sleep, for nearly
three days; and his mind had been all the time engrossed
by the most harrowing thoughts and experiences.
It was all over now; nothing could ever again give
him apprehension or anxiety; the past was dead and
never could live again; the future was arranged, and
it was simple enough: he, and the woman who had
given him birth, would sail together for Europe on
Monday morning, at twelve o’clock. He would
have abundant wealth all the property had
been converted into ready money, and would be taken
with them and he might live as luxuriously,
as sensually, as much like a pampered animal as he
pleased, or as he could. He would forget that
he had a mind, or a heart, or a soul; they had none
of them served him in good stead; but he had some
reliance on his body. There were few that could
compare with it in the world, and he felt convinced
that he should be able to derive a great deal of enjoyment
out of it before the time for its death and decay came
round. At all events, he was resolved that no
form of indulgence to his bodily appetites should
go unproved; and when one grew stale he would try
another. With such enormous vitality and capacity
to be and to appreciate being voluptuous, he could
hardly fail to avenge himself for the hardships he
had undergone thus far.
So he leaned back on the crimson velvet-cushion
of his seat, and felt very comfortable and composed,
thinking of nothing in particular. He became
pleasantly interested, as the daylight began to make
things visible without, in trying to count the number
of wires on the telegraph-poles. It would have
been easy enough if they had only kept along at an
invariable level; but they were always rising rising then
jumping through the pole with a snap! then
ducking suddenly sinking, crossing one
another sometimes scudding along close to
the ground, then flying up beyond the range of the
window anon scooting beneath a dark arch now
indistinguishable against a pine-wood then
rising rising jumping ducking sinking as
before. Though exerting all his faculties of
observation, it was impossible to be quite certain
how many wires there were.
He was nearly alone in the car, and
would probably continue to be for an hour or so at
least. He reversed the seat in front of him, and
put up his feet, leaving the telegraph-wires to scud
and dodge unnoticed. He fixed his eyes upon the
sweltering stove in the farther corner of the car.
There was a roaring fire within, as he could tell by
the vivid red that glowed through the draught-holes
beneath the door, and showed here and there along
the cracks. The sides of the car against which
the stove stood was protected with zinc; a number
of short sticks of wood were piled beside it, ready
to replenish the fire, and some of them were already
smoking a little, as if in anticipation. Presently
the brakeman came in, with a flurry of cold air, his
neck and head rolled up in a dirty-brown knit woolen
tippet, and clumsy gloves on his hands. He took
the poker, and opened the stove-door with it, peeped
into the red-hot interior a moment, grasped a solid
chunk of wood from the pile, and popped it in cleverly;
then he stood for a moment, patting the stove with
his gloved hands, to warm them, till, in response to
the whistle, he dashed out, slamming the doors as
only car-doors can be made to slam, and Bressant could
dimly distinguish him, through the frosted window,
working away at the brake.
They drew up, with much squeaking
and grating, at a small, snuff-colored, clap-boarded
depot, where a boy, about sixteen, with a big green
carpet-bag, kissed an elderly lady in a black hood,
who was evidently his mother, and jumped aboard with
his bag, in a great hurry, lest she should behold
the tears in his eyes. He entered the car in
which Bressant sat, and established himself and his
bag on the seat immediately in front of that upon
which the former’s feet were resting.
The snuff-colored station and the
woman in the black hood slipped away, and were seen
no more. The boy, after scratching a peep-hole
through the frost-work on his window, and taking a
last survey through it of the snow-covered fields
he was leaving, produced a large blue-spotted handkerchief
from the pocket of his trousers, and retired with it
into the privacy of his own feelings.
He was a rather delicate-looking boy,
with large gray eyes and soft brown hair, and was
evidently not much in the habit of traveling.
Perhaps this was the first time he had ever left home,
thought Bressant, in the idleness of his inactive
mind. His mother was a widow; her dark dress
and black hood, and pale, over-worked face looked like
it. Besides, if the boy had had a father, of
course he would have been down to see him off.
Probably there were sisters, too; the boy looked somehow
as if he had been brought up with sisters; but they
would not have followed him down to the station; they
kissed him good-by at the house-door, leaving it to
his mother to see the very last of him. For be
had resolved to go forth into the world and make his
fortune, not to encumber his poor mother with his
support any longer. He was going, probably, to
New York, to be a clerk or an errand-boy in some dry-goods
store, or banking-house, or insurance-office.
Once a week oftener, perhaps he
would write home to his mother, sending his love to
her and to the girls, telling them how much he wanted
to see them all again, but that he was doing pretty
well, and was working, and going to work, very hard.
He would be rich some day, and they should all come
to New York then and live in his house on Fifth Avenue!
Bressant, comfortably extended on
his two seats, with his long future of bodily case
and indulgence opening before him his freedom
from all ties to bind him to any spot, or necessities
to compel him to any labor Bressant found
that the thought of this innocent boy, going forth
into the world, with his green carpet-bag, his loving
heart, his assurance of being loved, his ambition
to establish his mother and sisters on Fifth Avenue,
was becoming quite annoying to his mental serenity.
He would think of him no more, therefore, and, to aid
himself in this resolve, he closed his eyes, so as
to avoid seeing him. Being really somewhat weary
after his manifold exertions and continued sleeplessness,
his eyes closed very naturally.
But the boy was not to be so easily
got rid of. He almost immediately turned round
in his seat, and directed a steadfast gaze out of his
gray eyes at Bressant’s reclining figure.
Presently, he pronounced, in a low voice, yet which
was distinctly audible to the deaf man’s ears,
two words, the effect of which was to make the other
start up in his seat, and stare about him in amazement
and alarm.
The boy met his glance with great
calmness and gentleness, and held out his hand as
if to grasp Bressant’s.
“Was it you?” exclaimed
the latter, bewildered. “How did you know
that name, and who are you?” As he spoke, he
mechanically took the extended hand in his own.
“Why, don’t you know me?”
answered the boy, smiling, and, at the same time,
drawing him, by a slight but decided traction, to sit
down by him. “Me your best friend?”
Something in the voice, something
in the manner, and in the expression of the eyes,
but, most of all, the smile, seemed strangely familiar
to Bressant. The touch of the hand, too, he thought
be recognized it soothed and yet controlled
him. Still, he was unable to recall exactly who
the boy was, or where he had seen him before.
“I’ve had so much to think
of lately,” murmured he, partly to himself,
partly by way of excusing his forgetfulness, passing
his hand over his forehead.
“Yes, indeed!” returned
the latter, in a tone of tender sympathy, that vibrated
gratefully along Bressant’s nerves. “But
we know each other, and we are friends that
is enough.”
“How strange that I should meet
you here, and at such a time!” said Bressant,
musingly. And he wondered at himself for feeling
glad, instead of sorry, that the encounter should
have taken place. But the boy looked up in surprise.
“Strange? No! I’m
sure it’s the most natural thing in the world.
How could it have happened otherwise? Should
I have been your friend if I had failed you now?”
“But do you know every thing?”
Bressant demanded less, however, because
he doubted that it should be so than as wishing to
receive full assurance thereof. “Do you
know all that has happened during these last six months,
and yet are willing to be with me and speak to me?”
“It has been a terrible time,
to be sure,” said the boy, sadly; “you
should have kept your promise and come to me at your
first trouble. It might have saved you from a
great deal. And yet I can see how, in the end,
it may all be for the best.”
Bressant shook his head dejectedly.
“I’ve lost what I never can regain!”
said he, “and there are three stains falsehood,
dishonor, and treachery that never can
be washed out.”
“Don’t say that!”
exclaimed the boy, earnestly and hopefully. “God
teaches us, you know, not to be in despair, because
without hope hope of becoming better we
can’t be really repentant.”
“I’m not repentant, certainly I
have no hope,” rejoined Bressant. But,
even as he spoke the words, he was conscious of that
within him which contradicted them. Either the
influence of the boy’s gentle and trustful spirit,
or a new opening of his own inward eyes, had borne
in upon him a vision of hitherto unconsidered possibilities.
The boy seemed to read his thoughts.
“You do not believe all you say,” observed
he. “Remember, it was because you repented
of your dishonest purposes toward Abbie, and felt
that you had wronged your better self with Cornelia,
that you first resolved to give up Sophie, as being
no longer worthy of her, and that proved that your
love for her at least was noble and unselfish.”
“But afterward afterward
I became worse than ever!” exclaimed Bressant,
who would not dare to entertain a hope until the full
depth of his sin had been brought forward for the
pure and clear-sighted eyes of his companion to look
upon and judge. “When I found out my shameful
secret when I learned what a thing I was,
even with no sin of my own to drag me down I
didn’t care what crime I committed! A kind
of evil intelligence seemed to come to me. I
saw that Cornelia loved me, and that I had her in
my power, so I went back to get her, to take her with
me to Europe. There was no repentance in that!”
“It would have been a terrible
sin!” said the boy, with a slight shudder.
“But God prevented you from committing it.”
“But I’m a thief still,
and a coward, for I sneaked away in the night, fearing
to meet Sophie’s eyes, and afraid to tell the
professor what I was and what I had done. I left
all the burden of my sins to be borne by women and
an infirm old man, and I am going, with a stolen fortune,
to forget I ever had a heart or a soul.”
“Are you going, and do you think
you can forget?” asked the boy, with a smile.
“Don’t you give me up
yet?” returned Bressant, trembling. “What
is left for me?”
“Why, every thing is left for
you!” exclaimed the boy, his smile brightening
in his eyes. “You seem to forget that you
haven’t gone off with any stolen money yet!
You must begin at the next station, and devote your
whole life no less will answer to
redeeming yourself. Only be sure not to delay,
and not to hesitate.”
Bressant looked at his companion,
and thought there was something divine and unearthly
almost in his manner, and especially in the light that
came from his gray eyes.
“As for the stolen money,”
the boy continued, “all you have to do about
that is, to let it alone; it is safe, and will be cared
for. But you must go straight to the Parsonage.
Your marriage-day is Sunday; be sure you are there
by noon. It may be you will not find Sophie there;
but she will leave a gift for you, at any rate, and
you must be in time to claim it.”
“But how can I ask Sophie’s
forgiveness, and the professor, and Cornelia?”
“Trust wholly in Sophie,”
returned the other, with an accent of loving reproof,
“never doubt her love and forgiveness. You
must make your peace with the professor as best you
can; but perhaps he has found that to forgive in himself
which will enable him to be more charitable to you.
As for Cornelia, she and you must recompense each other
for the evil you have mutually wrought upon each other.”
“How recompense each other?”
questioned Bressant, in surprise; “it was not
a high nor a true love that we felt for each other;
it was a love of the passions and senses.”
“Therefore let it be the work
of your lives a work of penitence and punishment to
elevate and refine your love, which has been degraded,
until it become worthy of the name of love in its highest
sense. You have lowered each other, and now each
must help to raise the other up. The work can
be delegated to no one else.”
“But Sophie,” murmured
Bressant, pressing his hand over his eyes.
“Sophie is lost to you,”
responded his companion, with a tremulous sigh.
“Perhaps if you had kept yourself pure and true
through all temptations, she might have been yours.
But you failed, and every failure must bring its loss.
The air of such a love as that is too fine for you
to breathe now; you could not be happy nor at ease;
but do not grieve for her only mourn for
your own deterioration, and strive faithfully, and
with constant effort, to make it good. Sophie she
will be happier, and better cared for, than, as your
wife, she could ever have been.”
“But I shall go back to poverty
and disgrace, and perhaps to hatred!”
“The evil you have done will
be a clog upon you; but its very weight will assure
you that your face is turned toward heaven. Life
will never be to you what you dreamed of making it
six months ago. You will find it hard and practical,
weary and monotonous; but once in a while, perhaps,
you will catch a breath of air from heaven itself,
and will be refreshed, or a ray of its light will
glimmer on your path, and show you where to tread.
The end may be a long way off, but you cannot say you
have no chance of reaching it.”
“Oh, if I only might!”
sighed he; “but I’ve been nothing but a
curse, so far, to every one I’ve known!”
“Not so, either,” returned
his companion, with a smile so celestial that Bressant
knew at last it could be no other than the spirit of
Sophie herself that had been speaking to him.
“You have shaken Professor Valeyon’s confidence
in his wisdom and judgment, and the value of his experience;
you have made him realize that the more God has to
do with education the better; you have broken down
Cornelia’s self-complacency, and shown her that
a beautiful body cannot be safe or happy without a
soul to take care of it. Abbie has learned from
you that love, and generosity, and self-sacrifice,
may all be worthless if they be founded only upon
individual grounds, to the exclusion of humanity; and
Sophie has been taught, by the love she has felt for
you, to be humble and charitable, and to see how easily
self-interest and pride may be made to look like zeal
for others, and benevolence.”
And then Bressant seemed to be conscious
that Sophie was bidding him farewell, but he could
not see her nor touch her; he was shaken with grief,
and yet was filled with a strange kind of happiness,
and a feeling of resolute power. Gradually the
influence of her presence faded away, and he seemed
alone.
Some one shook him by the shoulder.
He looked up and saw the conductor; in the background
a lady and gentleman waiting to sit down. The
car was full of people.
“Come, sir,” said the
conductor, “you’re a pretty big man, but
you didn’t pay for more than one seat, I reckon.
You’ve been sleeping-here for more than a hundred
miles; if you want to sleep any more I expect you’d
better get out and go to an hotel.”
Bressant removed his feet from the
extra seat, and, the conductor having reversed it,
the lady and gentleman took their places. As for
the boy with the green bag and the blue-spotted handkerchief,
he was nowhere to be seen; he must have left the train
at a previous station.
The train had stopped, and Bressant,
glancing out of the window, saw that they were at
some large railway-junction.
“How far are we from New York?”
he asked of the conductor, with his hand to his ear
to catch the reply.
“Be there in two hours,”
shouted back that gentleman, in reply.
“When does the next train go
through here in the opposite direction?”
“We’re just awaiting for
one to come along and give us the track and
there she is now,” returned the conductor, as
he took his departure.
The whistle screamed malevolently,
and, with a jerk and a rattle, the car began to move
off. Bressant rose suddenly from his seat, walked
quickly along the aisle to the door, passed through
to the platform, grasped the iron balustrade with
one hand, and swung himself lightly to the ground.
The whistle screamed again like a disappointed fiend.
“Guess that young man was up
late last night,” remarked the conductor to
the brakeman; “a powerful sound sleep he was
in, anyhow.”
“Off on a spree to New York,
most like,” responded the brakeman, tightening
his dirty-brown tippet around his neck, “and
thought better of it at the last minute.”