JOSEPH'S TROUBLE, AND PHILIP'S.
The bare, repulsive, inexorable truth was revealed at last. There was no
longer any foothold for doubt, any possibility of continuing his
desperate self-deceit. From that day all the joy, the trust, the hope,
seemed to fade out of Joseph's life. What had been lost was
irretrievable: the delusion of a few months had fixed his fate forever.
His sense of outrage was so strong and keen—so burned upon his
consciousness as to affect him like a dull physical pain—that a just and
temperate review of his situation was impossible. False in one thing,
false in all: that was the single, inevitable conclusion. Of course she
had never even loved him. Her coy maiden airs, her warm abandonment to
feeling, her very tears and blushes, were artfully simulated: perhaps,
indeed, she had laughed in her heart, yea, sneered, at his credulous
tenderness! Her assumption of rule, therefore, became an arrogance not
to be borne. What right had she, guilty of a crime for which there is no
name and no punishment, to reverse the secret justice of the soul, and
claim to be rewarded?
So reasoned Joseph to himself, in his solitary broodings; but the spell
was not so entirely broken as he imagined. Sternly as he might have
resolved in advance, there was a glamour in her mask of cheerfulness and
gentleness, which made his resolution seem hard and cruel. In her
presence he could not clearly remember his wrongs: the past delusion had
been a reality, nevertheless; and he could make no assertion which did
not involve his own miserable humiliation. Thus the depth and vital
force of his struggle could not be guessed by Julia. She saw only
irritable moods, the natural male resistance which she had often
remarked in her father,—perhaps, also, the annoyance of giving up
certain "romantic" fancies, which she believed to be common to all young
men, and never permanent. Even an open rupture could not have pushed
them apart so rapidly as this hollow external routine of life.
Joseph took the earliest opportunity of visiting Philip, whom he found
busy in forge and foundry. "This would be the life for you!" he said:
"we deal only with physical forces, human and elemental: we direct and
create power, yet still obey the command to put money in our purses."
"Is that one secret of your strength?" Joseph asked.
"Who told you that I had any?"
"I feel it," said Joseph; and even as he said it he remembered Julia's
unworthy suspicion.
"Come up and see Madeline a moment, and the home she has made for me. We
get on very well, for brother and sister—especially since her will is
about as stubborn as mine."
Madeline was very bright and cheerful, and Joseph, certainly, saw no
signs of a stubborn will in her fair face. She was very simply dressed,
and busy with some task of needle-work, which she did not lay aside.
"You might pass already for a member of our community," he could not
help saying.
"I think your most democratic farmers will accept me," she answered,
"when they learn that I am Philip's housekeeper. The only dispute we
have had, or are likely to have, is in relation to the salary."
"She is an inconsistent creature, Joseph," said Philip. "I was obliged
to offer her as much as she earned by her music-lessons before she would
come at all, and now she can't find work enough to balance it."
"How can I, Philip, when you tempt me every day with walks and rides,
botany, geology, and sketching from nature?"
So much frank, affectionate confidence showed itself through the playful
gossip of the two, that Joseph was at once comforted and pained. "If I
had only had a sister!" he sighed to Philip, as they walked down the
knoll.
The friends took the valley road, Joseph leading his horse by the
bridle. The stream was full to its banks, and crystal clear: shoals of
young fishes passed like drifted leaves over the pebbly ground, and the
fragrant water-beetles skimmed the surface of the eddies. Overhead the
vaults of the great elms and sycamores were filled with the green,
delicious illumination of the tender foliage. It was a scene and a
season for idle happiness.
Yet the first words Philip spoke, after a long silence, were: "May I
speak now?" There was infinite love and pity in his voice. He took
Joseph by the hand.
"Yes," the latter whispered.
"It has come," Philip continued; "you cannot hide it from yourself any
longer. My pain is that I did not dare to warn you, though at the risk
of losing your friendship. There was so little time—"
"You _did_ try to warn me, Philip! I have recalled your words, and the
trouble in your face as you spoke, a thousand times. I was a fool, a
blind, miserable fool, and my folly has ruined my life!"
"Strange," said Philip, musingly, "that only a perfectly good and pure
nature can fall into such a wretched snare. And yet 'Virtue is its own
reward,' is dinned into our ears! It is Hell for a single fault: nay,
not even a fault, an innocent mistake! But let us see what can be done:
is there no common ground whereon your natures can stand together? If
there should be a child—"
Joseph shuddered. "Once it seemed too great, too wonderful a hope," he
said, "but now, I don't dare to wish for it. Philip, I am too sorely
hurt to think clearly: there is nothing to do but to wait. It is a
miserable kind of comfort to me to have your sympathy, but I fear you
cannot help me."
Philip saw that he could bear no more: his face was pale to the lips and
his hands trembled. He led him to the bank, sat down beside him, and
laid his arm about his neck. The silence and the caress were more
soothing to Joseph than any words; he soon became calm, and remembered
an important part of his errand, which was to acquaint Philip with the
oil speculation, and to ask his advice.
They discussed the matter long and gravely. With all his questions, and
the somewhat imperfect information which Joseph was able to give, Philip
could not satisfy himself whether the scheme was a simple swindle or a
well-considered business venture. Two or three of the names were
respectable, but the chief agent, Kanuck, was unknown to him; moreover,
Mr. Blessing's apparent prominence in the undertaking did not inspire
him with much confidence.
"How much have you already paid on the stock?" he asked.
"Three instalments, which, Mr. Blessing thinks, is all that will be
called for. However, I have the money for a fourth, should it be
necessary. He writes to me that the stock has already risen a hundred
per cent. in value."
"If that is so," said Philip, "let me advise you to sell half of it, at
once. The sum received will cover your liabilities, and the half you
retain, as a venture, will give you no further anxiety."
"I had thought of that; yet I am sure that my father-in-law will oppose
such a step with all his might. You must know him, Philip; tell me,
frankly, your opinion of his character."
"Blessing belongs to a class familiar enough to me," Philip answered;
"yet I doubt whether you will comprehend it. He is a swaggering,
amiable, magnificent adventurer; never purposely dishonest, I am sure,
yet sometimes engaged in transactions that would not bear much scrutiny.
His life has been one of ups and downs. After a successful speculation,
he is luxurious, open-handed, and absurdly self-confident; his success
is soon flung away: he then good-humoredly descends to poverty, because
he never believes it can last long. He is unreliable, from his
over-sanguine temperament; and yet this very temperament gives him a
certain power and influence. Some of our best men are on familiar terms
with him. They are on their guard against his pecuniary approaches, they
laugh at his extravagant schemes, but they now and then find him useful.
I heard Gray, the editor, once speak of him as a man 'filled with
available enthusiasms,' and I guess that phrase hits both his strength
and his weakness."
On the whole, Joseph felt rather relieved than disquieted. The heart was
lighter in his breast as he mounted his horse and rode homewards.
Philip slowly walked forwards, yielding his mind to thoughts wherein
Joseph was an important but not the principal figure. Was there a
positive strength, he asked himself, in a wider practical experience of
life? Did such experience really strengthen the basis of character which
must support a man, when some unexpected moral crisis comes upon him? He
knew that he seemed strong, to Joseph; but the latter, so far, was
bearing his terrible test with a patience drawn from some source of
elemental power. Joseph had simply been ignorant: _he_ had been proud,
impatient, and—he now confessed to himself—weakly jealous. In both
cases, a mistake had passed beyond the plastic stage where life may
still be remoulded: it had hardened into an inexorable fate. What was to
be the end of it all?
A light footstep interrupted his reflections. He looked up, and almost
started, on finding himself face to face with Mrs. Hopeton.
Her face was flushed from her walk and the mellow warmth of the
afternoon. She held a bunch of wild-flowers,—pink azaleas, delicate
sigillarias, valerian, and scarlet painted-cup. She first broke the
silence by asking after Madeline.
"Busy with some important sewing,—curtains, I fancy. She is becoming an
inveterate housekeeper," Philip said.
"I am glad, for her sake, that she is here. And it must be very pleasant
for you, after all your wanderings."
"I must look on it, I suppose," Philip answered, "as the only kind of a
home I shall ever have,—while it lasts. But Madeline's life must not be
mutilated because mine happens to be."
The warm color left Mrs. Hopeton's face. She strove to make her voice
cold and steady, as she said: "I am sorry to see you growing so bitter,
Mr. Held."
"I don't think it is my proper nature, Mrs. Hopeton. But you startled me
out of a retrospect which had exhausted my capacity for self-reproach,
and was about to become self-cursing. There is no bitterness quite equal
to that of seeing how weakly one has thrown away an irrecoverable
fortune."
She stood before him, silent and disturbed. It was impossible not to
understand, yet it seemed equally impossible to answer him. She gave one
glance at his earnest, dark gray eyes, his handsome manly face, and the
sprinkled glosses of sunshine on his golden hair, and felt a chill
strike to her heart. She moved a step, as if to end the interview.
"Only one moment, Mrs. Hopeton—Emily!" Philip cried. "We may not meet
again—thus—for years. I will not needlessly recall the past. I only mean
to speak of my offence,—to acknowledge it, and exonerate you from any
share in the misunderstanding which—made us what we are. You cannot feel
the burden of an unpardoned fault; but will you not allow me to lighten
mine?"
A softer change came over her stately form. Her arm relaxed, and the
wild-flowers fell upon the ground.
"I was wrong, first," Philip went on, "in not frankly confiding to you
the knowledge of a boyish illusion and disappointment. I had been
heartlessly treated: it was a silly affair, not worth the telling now;
but the leaven of mistrust it left behind was not fully worked out of my
nature. Then, too, I had private troubles, which my pride—sore, just
then, from many a trifling prick, at which I should now laugh—led me to
conceal. I need not go over the appearances which provoked me into a
display of temper as unjust as it was unmanly,—it is enough to say that
all circumstances combined to make me impatient, suspicious, fiercely
jealous. I never paused to reflect that you could not know the series of
aggravations which preceded our misunderstanding. I did not guess how
far I was giving expression to _them_, and unconsciously transferring to
you the offences of others. Nay, I exacted a completer surrender of your
woman's pride, because a woman had already chosen to make a plaything of
my green boy-love. There is no use in speaking of any of the particulars
of our quarrel; for I confess to you that I was recklessly, miserably
wrong. But the time has come when you can afford to be generous, when
you can allow yourself to speak my forgiveness. Not for the sake of
anything I might have been to you, but as a true woman, dealing with her
brother-man, I ask your pardon!"
Mrs. Hopeton could not banish the memory of the old tenderness which
pleaded for Philip in her heart. He had spoken no word which could
offend or alarm her: they were safely divided by a gulf which might
never be bridged, and perhaps it was well that a purely human
reconciliation should now clarify what was turbid in the past, and
reunite them by a bond pure, though eternally sad. She came slowly
towards him, and gave him her hand.
"All is not only pardoned, Philip," she said, "but it is now doubly my
duty to forget it. Do not suppose, however, that I have had no other
than reproachful memories. My pride was as unyielding as yours, for it
led me to the defiance which you could not then endure. I, too, was
haughty and imperious. I recall every word I uttered, and I know that
you have not forgotten them. But let there be equal and final justice
between us: forget my words, if you can, and forgive me!"
Philip took her hand, and held it softly in his own. No power on earth
could have prevented their eyes from meeting. Out of the far-off
distance of all dead joys, over all abysses of fate, the sole power
which time and will are powerless to tame, took swift possession of
their natures. Philip's eyes were darkened and softened by a film of
gathering tears: he cried in a broken voice:—
"Yes, pardon!—but I thought pardon might be peace. Forget? Yes, it would
be easy to forget the past, if,—O Emily, we have never been parted until
now!"
She had withdrawn her hand, and covered her face. He saw, by the
convulsive tremor of her frame, that she was fiercely suppressing her
emotion. In another moment she looked up, pale, cold, and almost
defiant.
"Why should you say more?" she asked. "Mutual forgiveness is our duty,
and there the duty ends. Leave me now!"
Philip knew that he had betrayed himself. Not daring to speak another
word he bowed and walked rapidly away. Mrs. Hopeton stood, with her hand
pressed upon her bosom, until he had disappeared among the farther
trees: then she sat down, and let her withheld tears flow freely.
Presently the merry whoops and calls of children met her ear. She
gathered together the fallen flowers, rose and took her way across the
meadows towards a little stone schoolhouse, at the foot of the nearest
hill. Lucy Henderson already advanced to meet her. There was still an
hour or two of sunshine, but the mellow, languid heat of the day was
over, and the breeze winnowing down the valley brought with it the smell
of the blossoming vernal grass.
The two women felt themselves drawn towards each other, though neither
had as yet divined the source of their affectionate instinct. Now,
looking upon Lucy's pure, gently firm, and reliant face, Mrs. Hopeton,
for the second or third time in her life, yielded to a sudden, powerful
impulse, and said: "Lucy, I foresee that I shall need the love and the
trust of a true woman: where shall I find it if not in you?"
"If mine will content you," said Lucy.
"O my dear!" Mrs. Hopeton cried; "none of us can stand alone. God has
singular trials for us, sometimes, and the use and the conquest of a
trouble may both become clear in the telling of it. The heart can wear
itself out with its own bitterness. You see, I force my confidence upon
you, but I know you are strong to receive it."
"At least," Lucy answered, gravely, "I have no claim to strength unless
I am willing to have it tested."
"Then let me make the severest test at once: I shall have less courage
if I delay. Can you comprehend the nature of a woman's trial, when her
heart resists her duty?"
A deep blush overspread Lucy's face, but she forced herself to meet Mrs.
Hopeton's gaze. The two women were silent a moment; then the latter
threw her arms around Lucy's neck and kissed her.
"Let us walk!" she said. "We shall both find the words we need."
They moved away over the fragrant, shining meadows. Down the valley, at
the foot of the blue cape which wooed their eyes, and perhaps suggested
to their hearts that mysterious sense of hope which lies in landscape
distances, Elwood Withers was directing his gang of workmen. Over the
eastern hill, Joseph Asten stood among his fields, hardly recognizing
their joyous growth. The smoke of Philip's forge rose above the trees to
the northward. So many disappointed hearts, so many thwarted lives! What
strand stall be twisted out of the broken threads of these destinies,
thus drawn so near to each other? What new forces—fatal or
beneficent—shall be developed from these elements?
Mr. Hopeton, riding homewards along the highway, said to himself: "It's
a pleasant country, but what slow, humdrum lives the people lead!"
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