A CRISIS.
Joseph had made half the distance between Oakland Station and his farm,
walking leisurely, when a buggy, drawn by an aged and irreproachable
gray horse, came towards him. The driver was the Reverend Mr. Chaffinch.
He stopped as they met.
"Will you turn back, as far as that tree?" said the clergyman, after
greetings had been exchanged. "I have a message to deliver."
"Now," he continued, reining up his horse in the shade, "we can talk
without interruption. I will ask you to listen to me with the spiritual,
not the carnal ear. I must not be false to my high calling, and the
voice of my own conscience calls me to awaken yours."
Joseph said nothing, but the flush upon his face was that of anger, not
of confusion, as Mr. Chaffinch innocently supposed.
"It is hard for a young man, especially one wise in his own conceit, to
see how the snares of the Adversary are closing around him. We cannot
plead ignorance, however, when the Light is there, and we wilfully turn
our eyes from it. You are walking on a road, Joseph Asten, it may seem
smooth and fair to you, but do you know where it leads? I will tell you:
to Death and Hell!"
Still Joseph was silent.
"It is not too late! Your fault, I fear, is that you attach merit to
works, as if works could save you! You look to a cold, barren morality
for support, and imagine that to do what is called 'right' is enough for
God! You shut your eyes to the blackness of your own sinful heart, and
are too proud to acknowledge the vileness and depravity of man's nature;
but without this acknowledgment your morality (as you call it) is
corrupt, your good works (as you suppose them to be) will avail you
naught. You are outside the pale of Grace, and while you continue there,
knowing the door to be open, there is no Mercy for you!"
The flush on Joseph's face faded, and he became very pale, but he still
waited. "I hope," Mr. Chaffinch continued, after a pause, "that your
silence is the beginning of conviction. It only needs an awakening, an
opening of the eyes in them that sleep. Do you not recognize your guilt,
your miserable condition of sin?"
"No!"
Mr. Chaffinch started, and an ugly, menacing expression came into his
face.
"Before you speak again," said Joseph, "tell me one thing! Am I indebted
for this Catechism to the order—perhaps I should say the request—of my
wife?"
"I do not deny that she has expressed a Christian concern for your
state; but I do not wait for a request when I see a soul in peril. If I
care for the sheep that willingly obey the shepherd, how much more am I
commanded to look after them which stray, and which the wolves and bears
are greedy to devour!"
"Have you ever considered, Mr. Chaffinch," Joseph rejoined, lifting his
head and speaking with measured clearness, "that an intelligent man may
possibly be aware that he has an immortal soul,—that the health and
purity and growth of that soul may possibly be his first concern in
life,—that no other man can know, as he does, its imperfections its
needs, its aspirations which rise directly towards God; and that the
attempt of a stranger to examine and criticise, and perhaps blacken,
this most sacred part of his nature, may possibly be a pious
impertinence?"
"Ah, the natural depravity of the heart!" Mr. Chaffinch groaned.
"It is not the depravity, it is the only pure quality which the
hucksters of doctrine, the money-changers in God's temple of Man, cannot
touch! Shall I render a reckoning to _you_ on the day when souls are
judged? Are _you_ the infallible agent of the Divine Mercy? What
blasphemy!"
Mr. Chaffinch shuddered. "I wash my hands of you!" he cried. "I have had
to deal with many sinners in my day, but I have found no sin which came
so directly from the Devil as the pride of the mind. If you were rotten
in all your members from the sins of the flesh, I might have a little
hope. Verily, it shall go easier with the murderer and the adulterer on
that day than with such as ye!"
He gave the horse a more than saintly stroke, and the vehicle rattled
away. Joseph could not see the predominance of routine in all that Mr.
Chaffinch had said. He was too excited to remember that certain phrases
are transmitted, and used without a thought of their tremendous
character; he applied every word personally, and felt it as an outrage
in all the sensitive fibres of his soul. And who had invoked the
outrage? His wife: Mr. Chaffinch had confessed it. What representations
had she made?—he could only measure them by the character of the
clergyman's charges. He sat down on the bank, sick at heart; it was
impossible to go home and meet her in his present frame of mind.
Presently he started up, crying aloud: "I will go to Philip! He cannot
help me, I know, but I must have a word of love from a friend, or I
shall go mad!"
He retraced his steps, took the road up the valley, and walked rapidly
towards the Forge. The tumult in his blood gradually expended its force,
but it had carried him along more swiftly than he was aware. When he
reached the point where, looking across the valley, now narrowed to a
glen, he could see the smoke of the Forge near at hand, and even catch a
glimpse of the cottage on the knoll, he stopped. Up to this moment he
had felt, not reflected; and a secret instinct told him that he should
not submit his trouble to Philip's riper manhood until it was made clear
and coherent in his own mind. He must keep Philip's love, at all
hazards; and to keep it he must not seem simply a creature of moods and
sentiments, whom his friend might pity, but could not respect.
He left the road, crossed a sloping field on the left, and presently
found himself on a bank overhanging the stream. Under the wood of oaks
and hemlocks the laurel grew in rich, shining clumps; the current, at
this point deep, full, and silent, glimmered through the leaves, twenty
feet below; the opposite shore was level, and green with an herbage
which no summer could wither. He leaned against a hemlock bole, and
tried to think, but it was not easy to review the past while his future
life overhung him like a descending burden which he had not the strength
to lift. Love betrayed, trust violated, aspiration misinterpreted, were
the spiritual aspects; a divided household, entangling obligations, a
probability of serious loss, were the material evils which accompanied
them. He was so unprepared for the change that he could only rebel, not
measure, analyze, and cast about for ways of relief.
It was a miserable strait in which he found himself; and the more he
thought—or, rather, seemed to think—the less was he able to foresee any
other than an unfortunate solution. What were his better impulses, if
men persisted in finding them evil? What was life, yoked to such
treachery and selfishness? Life had been to him a hope, an inspiration,
a sound, enduring joy; now it might never be so again! Then what a
release were death!
He walked forward to the edge of the rock. A few pebbles, dislodged by
his feet, slid from the brink, and plunged with a bubble and a musical
tinkle into the dark, sliding waters. One more step, and the release
which seemed so fair might be attained. He felt a morbid sense of
delight in playing with the thought. Gathering a handful of broken
stones, he let them fall one by one, thinking, "So I hold my fate in my
hand." He leaned over and saw a shifting, quivering image of himself
projected against the reflected sky, and a fancy, almost as clear as a
voice, said: "This is your present self: what will you do with it beyond
the gulf, where only the soul superior to circumstances here receives a
nobler destiny?"
He was still gazing down at the flickering figure, when a step came upon
the dead leaves. He turned and saw Philip, moving stealthily towards
him, pale, with outstretched hand. They looked at each other for a
moment without speaking.
"I guess your thought, Philip," Joseph then said. "But the things
easiest to do are sometimes the most impossible."
"The bravest man may allow a fancy to pass through his mind, Joseph,
which only the coward will carry into effect."
"I am not a coward!" Joseph exclaimed.
Philip took his hand, drew him nearer, and flinging his arms around him,
held him to his heart.
Then they sat down, side by side.
"I was up the stream, on the other side, trolling for trout," said
Philip, "when I saw you in the road. I was welcoming your coming, in my
heart: then you stopped, stood still, and at last turned away. Something
in your movements gave me a sudden, terrible feeling of anxiety: I threw
down my rod, came around by the bridge at the Forge, and followed you
here. Do not blame me for my foolish dread."
"Dear, dear friend," Joseph cried, "I did not mean to come to you until
I seemed stronger and more rational in my own eyes. If that were a
vanity, it is gone now: I confess my weakness and ignorance. Tell me, if
you can, why this has come upon me? Tell me why nothing that I have been
taught, why no atom of the faith which I still must cling to, explains,
consoles, or remedies any wrong of my life!"
"Faiths, I suspect," Philip answered, "are, like laws, adapted to the
average character of the human race. You, in the confiding purity of
your nature, are not an average man: you are very much above the class,
and if virtue were its own reward, you would be most exceptionally
happy. Then the puzzle is, what's the particular use of virtue?"
"I don't know, Philip, but I don't like to hear you ask the question. I
find myself so often on the point of doubting all that was my Truth a
little while ago; and yet, why should my misfortunes, as an individual,
make the truth a lie? I am only one man among millions who _must_ have
faith in the efficacy of virtue. Philip, if I believed the faith to be
false, I think I should still say, 'Let it be preached!'"
Joseph related to Philip the whole of his miserable story, not sparing
himself, nor concealing the weakness which allowed him to be entangled
to such an extent. Philip's brow grew dark as he listened, but at the
close of the recital his face was calm, though stern.
"Now," said he,—"now put this aside for a little while, and give your
ear (and your heart too, Joseph) to _my_ story. Do not compare my
fortune with yours, but let us apply to both the laws which seem to
govern life, and see whether justice is possible."
Joseph had dismissed his wife's suspicion, after the dinner at
Hopeton's, so immediately from his memory, that he had really forgotten
it; and he was not only startled, but also a little shocked, by Philip's
confession. Still, he saw that it was only the reverse form of his own
experience, not more strange, perhaps not more to be condemned, yet
equally inevitable.
"Is there no way out of this labyrinth of wrong?" Philip exclaimed. "Two
natures, as far apart as Truth and Falsehood, monstrously held together
in the most intimate, the holiest of bonds,—two natures destined for
each other monstrously kept apart by the same bonds! Is life to be so
sacrificed to habit and prejudice? I said that Faith, like Law, was
fashioned for the average man: then there must be a loftier faith, a
juster law, for the men—and the women—who cannot shape themselves
according to the common-place pattern of society,—who were born with
instincts, needs, knowledge, and rights—ay, _rights_!—of their own!"
"But, Philip," said Joseph, "we were both to blame: you through too
little trust, I through too much. We have both been rash and impatient:
I cannot forget that; and how are we to know that the punishment,
terrible as it seems, is disproportioned to the offence?"
"We know this, Joseph,—and who can know it and be patient?—that the
power which controls our lives is pitiless, unrelenting! There is the
same punishment for an innocent mistake as for a conscious crime. A
certain Nemesis follows ignorance, regardless how good and pure may be
the individual nature. Had you even guessed your wife's true character
just before marriage, your very integrity, your conscience, and the
conscience of the world, would have compelled the union, and Nature
would not have mitigated her selfishness to reward you with a tolerable
life. O no! You would still have suffered as now. Shall a man with a
heart feel this horrible injustice, and not rebel? Grant that I am
rightly punished for my impatience, my pride, my jealousy, how have
_you_ been rewarded for your stainless youth, your innocent trust, your
almost miraculous goodness? Had you known the world better, even though
a part of your knowledge might have been evil, you would have escaped
this fatal marriage. Nothing can be more certain; and will you simply
groan and bear? What compensating fortune have you, or can you ever
expect to find?"
Joseph was silent at first; but Philip could see, from the trembling of
his hands, and his quick breathing, that he was profoundly agitated.
"There is something within me," he said, at last, "which accepts
everything you say; and yet, it alarms me. I feel a mighty temptation in
your words: they could lead me to snap my chains, break violently away
from my past and present life, and surrender myself to will and
appetite. O Philip, if we could make our lives wholly our own! If we
could find a spot—"
"I know such a spot!" Philip cried, interrupting him,—"a great valley,
bounded by a hundred miles of snowy peaks; lakes in its bed; enormous
hillsides, dotted with groves of ilex and pine; orchards of orange and
olive; a perfect climate, where it is bliss enough just to breathe, and
freedom from the distorted laws of men, for none are near enough to
enforce them! If there is no legal way of escape for you, here, at
least, there is no force which can drag you back, once you are there: I
will go with you, and perhaps—perhaps—"
Philip's face glowed, and the vague alarm in Joseph's heart took a
definite form. He guessed what words had been left unspoken.
"If we could be sure!" he said.
"Sure of what? Have I exaggerated the wrong in your case? Say we should
be outlaws there, in our freedom!—here we are fettered outlaws."
"I have been trying, Philip, to discover a law superior to that under
which we suffer, and I think I have found it. If it be true that
ignorance is equally punished with guilt; if causes and consequences, in
which there is neither pity nor justice, govern our lives,—then what
keeps our souls from despair but the infinite pity and perfect justice
of God? Yes, here is the difference between human and divine law! This
makes obedience safer than rebellion. If you and I, Philip, stand above
the level of common natures, feeling higher needs and claiming other
rights, let us shape them according to the law which is above, not that
which is below us!"
Philip grew pale. "Then you mean to endure in patience, and expect me to
do the same?" he asked.
"If I can. The old foundations upon which my life rested are broken up,
and I am too bewildered to venture on a random path. Give me time; nay,
let us both strive to wait a little. I see nothing clearly but this:
there is a Divine government, on which I lean now as never before. Yes,
I say again, the very wrong that has come upon us makes God necessary!"
It was Philip's turn to be agitated. There was a simple, solemn
conviction in Joseph's voice which struck to his heart. He had spoken
from the heat of his passion, it is true, but he had the courage to
disregard the judgment of men, and make his protest a reality. Both
natures shared the desire, and were enticed by the daring of his dream;
but out of Joseph's deeper conscience came a whisper, against which the
cry of passion was powerless.
"Yes, we will wait," said Philip, after a long pause. "You came to me,
Joseph, as you said, in weakness and confusion: I have been talking of
your innocence and ignorance. Let us not measure ourselves in this way.
It is not experience alone which creates manhood. What will become of us
I cannot tell, but I will not, I dare not, say you are wrong!"
They took each other's hands. The day was fading, the landscape was
silent, and only the twitter of nesting birds was heard in the boughs
above them. Each gave way to the impulse of his manly love, rarer, alas!
but as tender and true as the love of woman, and they drew nearer and
kissed each other. As they walked back and parted on the highway, each
felt that life was not wholly unkind, and that happiness was not yet
impossible.
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