BEGINNING ANOTHER LIFE.
It was hard for the company of rejoicing friends, at the hotel in
Magnolia, to part from each other. Mr. Blessing had tact enough to
decline Joseph's invitation, but he was sorely tempted by Philip's, in
which Madeline heartily joined. Nevertheless, he only wavered for a
moment; a mysterious resolution strengthened him, and taking Philip to
one side, he whispered:—
"Will you allow me to postpone, not relinquish, the pleasure? Thanks! A
grave duty beckons,—a task, in short, without which the triumph of
to-day would be dramatically incomplete. I must speak in riddles,
because this is a case in which a whisper might start the overhanging
avalanche; but I am sure you will trust me."
"Of course I will!" Philip cried, offering his hand.
"_Foi de Belsain!_" was Mr. Blessing's proud answer, as he hurried away
to reach the train for the city.
Joseph looked at Philip, as the horses were brought from the stable, and
then at Rachel Miller, who, wrapped in her great crape shawl, was
quietly waiting for him.
"We must not separate all at once," said Philip, stepping forward. "Miss
Miller, will you invite my sister and myself to take tea with you this
evening?"
Philip had become one of Rachel's heroes; she was sure that Mr.
Blessing's testimony and Joseph's triumphant acquittal were owing to his
exertions. The Asten farm could produce nothing good enough for his
entertainment,—that was her only trouble.
"Do tell me the time o' day," she said to Joseph, as he drove out of
town, closely followed by Philip's light carriage. "It's three days in
one to me, and a deal more like day after to-morrow morning than this
afternoon. Now, a telegraph would be a convenience; I could send word
and have chickens killed and picked, against we got there."
Joseph answered her by driving as rapidly as the rough country roads
permitted, without endangering horse and vehicle. It was impossible for
him to think coherently, impossible to thrust back the single
overwhelming prospect of relief and release which had burst upon his
life. He dared to admit the fortune which had come to him through death,
now that his own innocence of any indirect incitement thereto had been
established. The future was again clear before him; and even the
miserable discord of the past year began to recede and form only an
indistinct background to the infinite pity of the death-scene. Mr.
Blessing's testimony enabled him to look back and truly interpret the
last appealing looks, the last broken words; his heart banished the
remembrance of its accusations, and retained only—so long as it should
beat among living men—a deep and tender commiseration. As for the danger
he had escaped, the slander which had been heaped upon him, his thoughts
were above the level of life which they touched. He was nearer than he
suspected to that only true independence of soul which releases a man
from the yoke of circumstances.
Rachel Miller humored his silence as long as she thought proper, and
then suddenly and awkwardly interrupted it. "Yes," she exclaimed;
"there's a little of the old currant wine in the cellar-closet!
Town's-folks generally like it, and we used to think it good to stay a
body's stomach for a late meal,—as it'll be apt to be. But I've not
asked you how you relished the supper, though Elwood, to be sure,
allowed that all was tolerable nice. And I see the Lord's hand in it, as
I hope you do, Joseph; for the righteous is never forsaken. We can't
help rejoice, where we ought to be humbly returning thanks, and owning
our unworthiness; but Philip Held is a friend, if there ever was one;
and the white hen's brood, though they are new-fashioned fowls, are
plump enough by this time. I disremember whether I asked Elwood to
stop—"
"There he is!" Joseph interrupted; "turning the corner of the wood
before us! Lucy is with him,—and they must both come!"
He drove on rapidly, and soon overtook Elwood's lagging team. The horse,
indeed, had had his own way, and the sound of approaching wheels awoke
Elwood from a trance of incredible happiness. Before answering Joseph,
he whispered to Lucy:—
"What shall we say? It'll be the heaviest favor I've ever been called
upon to do a friend."
"Do it, then!" she said: "the day is too blessed to be kept for
ourselves alone."
How fair the valley shone, as they came into it out of the long glen
between the hills! What cheer there was, even in the fading leaves; what
happy promise in the mellow autumn sky! The gate to the lane stood open;
Dennis, with a glowing face, waited for the horse. He wanted to say
something, but not knowing how, shook hands with Joseph, and then
pretended to be concerned with the harness. Rachel, on entering the
kitchen, found her neighbor, Mrs. Bishop, embarked on a full tide of
preparation. Two plump fowls, scalded and plucked, lay upon the table!
This was too much for Rachel Miller. She had borne up bravely through
the trying days, concealing her anxiety lest it might be misinterpreted,
hiding even her grateful emotion, to make her faith in Joseph's
innocence seem the stronger; and now Mrs. Bishop's thoughtfulness was
the slight touch under which she gave way. She sat down and cried.
Mrs. Bishop, with a stew-pan in one hand, while she wiped her
sympathetic eyes with the other, explained that her husband had come
home an hour before, with the news; and that she just guessed help would
be wanted, or leastways company, and so she had made bold to begin; for,
though the truth had been made manifest, and the right had been proved,
as anybody might know it would be, still it was a trial, and people
needed to eat more and better under trials than at any other time. "You
may not feel inclined for victuals; but there's the danger! A body's
body must be supported, whether or no."
Meanwhile, Joseph and his guests sat on the veranda, in the still, mild
air. He drew his chair near to Philip's, their hands closed upon each
other, and they were entirely happy in the tender and perfect manly love
which united them. Madeline sat in front, with a nimbus of sunshine
around her hair, feeling also the embarrassment of speech at such a
moment, yet bravely endeavoring to gossip with Lucy on other matters.
But Elwood's face, so bright that it became almost beautiful, caught her
eye: she glanced at Philip, who answered with a smile; then at Lucy,
whose cheek bloomed with the loveliest color; and, rising without a
word, she went to the latter and embraced her.
Then, stretching her hand to Elwood, she said: "Forgive me, both of you,
for showing how glad I am!"
"Philip!" Joseph cried, as the truth flashed upon him; "life is not
always unjust! It is we who are impatient."
They both arose and gave hands of congratulation; and Elwood, though so
deeply moved that he scarcely trusted himself to speak, was so frankly
proud and happy,—so purely and honestly _man_ in such a sacred
moment,—that Lucy's heart swelled with an equally proud recognition of
his feeling. Their eyes met, and no memory of a mistaken Past could ever
again come like a cloud across the light of their mutual faith.
"The day was blessed already," said Philip; "but this makes it perfect."
No one knew how the time went by, or could afterwards recall much that
was said. Rachel Miller, with many apologies, summoned them to a
sumptuous meal; and when the moon hung chill and clear above the
creeping mists of the valley, they parted.
The next evening, Joseph went to Philip at the Forge. It was well that
he should breathe another atmosphere, and dwell, for a little while,
within walls where no ghosts of his former life wandered. Madeline, the
most hospitably observant of hostesses, seemed to have planned the
arrangements solely for his and Philip's intercourse. The short evening
of the country was not half over, before she sent them to Philip's room,
where a genial wood-fire prattled and flickered on the hearth, with two
easy-chairs before it.
Philip lighted a pipe and they sat down. "Now, Joseph," said he, "I'll
answer 'Yes!' to the question in your mind."
"You have been talking with Bishop, Philip?"
"No; but I won't mystify you. As I rode up the valley, I saw you two
standing on the hill, and could easily guess the rest. A large estate in
this country is only an imaginary fortune. You are not so much of a
farmer, Joseph, that it will cut you to the heart and make you dream of
ruin to part with a few fields; if you were, I should say get that
weakness out of you at once! A man should _possess_ his property, not be
possessed by it."
"You are right," Joseph answered; "I have been fighting against an
inherited feeling."
"The only question is, will the sale of those fifty acres relieve you of
all present embarrassments?"
"So far, Philip, that a new mortgage of about half the amount will cover
what remains."
"Bravo!" cried Philip. "This is better than I thought. Mr. Hopeton is
looking for sure, steady investments, and will furnish whatever you
need. So there is no danger of foreclosure."
"Things seem to shape themselves almost too easily now," Joseph
answered. "I see the old, mechanical routine of my life coming back: it
should be enough for me, but it is not; can you tell me why, Philip?"
"Yes: it never was enough. The most of our neighbors are cases of
arrested development. Their intellectual nature only takes so many
marks, like a horse's teeth; there is a point early in their lives,
where its form becomes fixed. There is neither the external influence,
nor the inward necessity, to drive them a step further. They find the
Sphinx dangerous, and keep out of her way. Of course, as soon as they
passively begin, to accept _what is_, all that was fluent or plastic in
them soon hardens into the old moulds. Now, I am not very wise, but this
appears to me to be truth; that life is a grand centrifugal force,
forever growing from a wider circle towards one that is still wider.
Your stationary men may be necessary, and even serviceable; but to
me—and to you, Joseph—there is neither joy nor peace except in some kind
of growth."
"If we could be always sure of the direction!" Joseph sighed.
"That's the point!" Philip eagerly continued. "If we stop to consider
danger in advance, we should never venture a step. A movement is always
clear after it has been made, not often before. It is enough to test
one's intention; unless we are tolerably bad, something guides us, and
adjusts the consequences of our acts. Why, we are like spiders, in the
midst of a million gossamer threads, which we are all the time spinning
without knowing it! Who are to measure our lives for us? Not other men
with other necessities! and so we come back to the same point again,
where I started. Looking back now, can you see no gain in your mistake?"
"Yes, a gain I can never lose. I begin to think that haste and weakness
also are vices, and deserve to be punished. It was a dainty, effeminate
soul you found, Philip,—a moral and spiritual Sybarite, I should say
now. I must have expected to lie on rose-leaves, and it was right that I
should find thorns."
"I think," said Philip, "the world needs a new code of ethics. We must
cure the unfortunate tendencies of some qualities that seem good, and
extract the good from others that seem evil. But it would need more than
a Luther for such a Reformation. I confess I am puzzled, when I attempt
to study moral causes and consequences in men's lives. It is nothing but
a tangle, when I take them collectively. What if each of us were, as I
half suspect, as independent as a planet, yet all held together in one
immense system? Then the central force must be our close dependence on
God, as I have learned to feel it through you."
"Through me!" Joseph exclaimed.
"Do you suppose we can be so near each other without giving and taking?
Let us not try to get upon a common ground of faith or action: it is a
thousand times more delightful to discover that we now and then reach
the same point by different paths. This reminds me, Joseph, that our
paths ought to separate now, for a while. It is you who should
leave,—but only to come back again, 'in the fulness of time.' Heaven
knows, I am merciless to myself in recommending it."
"You are right to try me. It is time that I should know something of the
world. But to leave, now—so immediately—"
"It will make no difference," said Philip. "Whether you go or stay,
there will be stories afloat. The bolder plan is the better."
The subject was renewed the next morning at breakfast. Madeline heartily
seconded Philip's counsel, and took a lively part in the discussion.
"We were in Europe as children," she said to Joseph, "and I have very
clear and delightful memories of the travel."
"I was not thinking especially of Europe," he answered. "I am hardly
prepared for such a journey. What I should wish is, not to look idly at
sights and shows, but to have some active interest or employment, which
would bring me into contact with men. Philip knows my purpose."
"Then," said Madeline, "why not hunt on Philip's trail? I have no doubt
you can track him from Texas to the Pacific by the traditions of his
wild pranks and adventures! How I should enjoy getting hold of a few
chapters of his history!"
"Madeline, you are a genius!" Philip cried. "How could I have forgotten
Wilder's letter, a fortnight ago, you remember? One need not be a
practical geologist to make the business report he wants; but Joseph has
read enough to take hold, with the aid of the books I can give him! If
it is not too late!"
"I was not thinking of that, Philip," Madeline answered. "Did you not
say that the place was—"
She hesitated. "Dangerous?" said Philip. "Yes. But if Joseph goes there,
he will come back to us again."
"O, don't invoke misfortune in that way!"
"Neither do I," he gravely replied; "but I can see the shadow of
Joseph's life thrown ahead, as I can see my own."
"I think I should like to be _sent_ into danger," said Joseph.
Philip smiled: "As if you had not just escaped the greatest! Well,—it
was Madeline's guess which most helped to avert it, and now it is her
chance word which will probably send you into another one."
Joseph looked up in astonishment. "I don't understand you, Philip," he
said.
"O Philip!" cried Madeline.
"I had really forgotten," he answered, "that you knew nothing of the
course by which we reached your defence. Madeline first suggested to me
that the poison was sometimes used as a cosmetic, and on this hint, with
Mr. Blessing's help, the truth was discovered."
"And I did not know how much I owe to you!" Joseph, exclaimed, turning
towards her.
"Do not thank me," she said, "for Philip thinks the fortunate guess may
be balanced by an evil one."
"No, no!" Joseph protested, noticing the slight tremble in her voice; "I
will take it as a good omen. Now I know that danger will pass me by, if
it comes!"
"If your experience should be anything like mine," said Philip, "you
will only recognize the danger when you can turn and look back at it.
But, come! Madeline has less superstition in her nature than she would
have us believe. Wilder's offer is just the thing; I have his letter on
file, and will write to him at once. Let us go down to my office at the
Forge!"
The letter was from a capitalist who had an interest in several mines in
Arizona and Nevada. He was not satisfied with the returns, and wished to
send a private, confidential agent to those regions, to examine the
prospects and operations of the companies and report thereupon. With the
aid of a map the probable course of travel was marked out, and Joseph
rejoiced at the broad field of activity and adventure which it opened to
him.
He stayed with Philip a day or two longer, and every evening the fire
made a cheery accompaniment to the deepest and sweetest confidences of
their hearts, now pausing as if to listen, now rapidly murmuring some
happy, inarticulate secret of its own. As each gradually acquired full
possession of the other's past, the circles of their lives, as Philip
said, were reciprocally widened; but as the horizon spread, it seemed to
meet a clearer sky. Their eyes were no longer fixed on the single point
of time wherein they breathed. Whatever pain remained, melted before
them and behind them into atmospheres of resignation and wiser patience.
One gave his courage and experience, the other his pure instinct, his
faith and aspiration; and a new harmony came from the closer interfusion
of sweetness and strength.
When Joseph returned home, he at once set about putting his affairs in
order, and making arrangements for an absence of a year or more. It was
necessary that he should come in contact with most of his neighbors, and
he was made aware of their good will without knowing that it was, in
many cases, a reaction from suspicion and slanderous gossip. Mr.
Chaffinch had even preached a sermon, in which no name was mentioned,
but everybody understood the allusion. This was considered to be
perfectly right, so long as the prejudices of the people were with him,
and Julia was supposed to be the pious and innocent victim of a crime.
When, however, the truth had been established, many who had kept silent
now denounced the sermon, and another on the deceitfulness of
appearances, which Mr. Chaffinch gave on the following Sabbath, was
accepted as the nearest approach to an apology consistent with his
clerical dignity.
Joseph was really ignorant of these proceedings, and the quiet,
self-possessed, neighborly way in which he met the people gave them a
new impression of his character. Moreover, he spoke of his
circumstances, when it was necessary, with a frankness unusual among
them; and the natural result was that his credit was soon established on
as sound a basis as ever. When, through Philip's persistence, the
mission to the Pacific coast was secured, but little further time was
needed to complete the arrangements. By the sacrifice of one-fourth of
his land, the rest was saved, and intrusted to good hands during his
absence. Philip, in the mean time, had fortified him with as many hints
and instructions as possible, and he was ready, with a light heart and a
full head, to set out upon the long and uncertain journey.
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