University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
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 is 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.