University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
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. Chaflinch 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.