How sweetly could I lay my head
Within the cold grave's silent breast,
Where sorrow's tears no more are shed,
No more the ills of life molest.
MOORE
Mr. Armstrong escaped, to all appearance, with a cold, from the
accident. But although this seemed the only effect produced upon his
bodily health, his mind had suffered a severe shock which was not
equally obvious. Fancies, each gloomier than the preceding, took,
henceforth, more and more possession of his imagination. He seemed the
harbinger of misfortune to all connected with him. Frequently rose up
the image of his dead brother, mingling with his dreams and obtruding
itself even into his waking thoughts, at one time dripping with
water as when taken from the pond--ghastly pale--livid--with scarcely
distinguishable lineaments; at another wrapped in the dress of the
tomb, and pointing with bony finger to a new-made grave. Then his wife
would appear, holding their little son by the hand, and standing on
the opposite side of a river that rolled between, beckoning him to
cross. But whenever he made the attempt the waves would close over his
head, and he awoke with a sense of suffocation and gasping for breath.
At another time the scene of the drowning fisherman would be repeated,
but with innumerable variations. Sometimes, in some way or other,
Holden would be mixed up with it, sometimes Faith, and sometimes, most
horrible of all, he himself would be desperately struggling to hold
Sill under water, till finally the yielding body sunk, sunk into
depths no eye could fathom. But never till the face turned and
transfixed him with the despairing glare of those dreadful eyes.
But we are anticipating and rather describing the condition into
which his mind gradually fell, than its state immediately after his
interview with the Solitary. It took some time longer before the idea
that by an inexorable decree he was doomed to entail destruction
on all connected with him, became fixed. For awhile it floated
uncertainly and impalpably before him, and only slowly, like
an approaching spectre, took upon itself shape and presence. A
conversation between himself and his daughter on the second day after
the accident, and his conduct immediately thereafter, may give us some
apprehension of the current of his thoughts and feelings then.
"My dearest father," said Faith, throwing her arms around his neck,
and repeating what she had said more than once before, "oh, how
thankful ought I to be for the saving of your precious life!"
"We are often thankful in our ignorance," said her father, "for the
greatest misfortunes."
"Do you call it a misfortune to me," she cried, "that I am not left
alone in the world? Oh, father, what should I do without you?" And
in spite of her exertions to suppress them, the tears burst from her
eyes.
"Come to me, my child," said Armstrong, and he took the weeping girl
into his arms, and leaned her head gently upon his bosom. "Compose
yourself. Believe me, there are trials harder to be borne than the
loss of parents."
"None, none to me," sobbed Faith. "If it were right I would pray that
I might die the same moment with you."
"It is well for one like me to think often of death," said her father,
"nor should the young forget they are mortal. But many happy days, I
trust, are reserved for my darling."
"Happy, if you are to share them with me, father. But why do I weep,"
she said, raising up her head and smiling through her tears, "at
thinking of the possibility of a misfortune to myself, when my heart
is swelling with thankfulness for your preservation?" She arose from
her father's lap, drew a chair to his side, and as her custom was,
took one of his hands in both of hers.
"Such are the dispensations of Providence," said Armstrong. "The old
man, with white hair and bent body, creeps to his grave, while the
infant that has just learned to smile in its mother's face, is hurried
from her arms. Why was it that Sill, so strong, so happy, so young,
with a wife and children dependant on him for support, should be taken
and I left?"
"Why should we curiously inquire?" replied Faith. "If we could look
behind the curtain, no doubt we should see sufficient reasons for the
choice."
"When I look back upon my life," continued Armstrong, more distinctly
revealing the thought lurking in his mind, "it seems as if I were born
to be the cause of misfortune to others. Had any one else been in
the boat, the accident would not have happened, or certainly not
terminated fatally."
"Do not say so, dear father. Can you regulate the winds and waves?"
"No, Faith. Yet unmanly as it is, let me lament the fate that makes me
the instrument to execute the decrees of Heaven. I am a rod to
attract the fires that consume, while itself rises unscathed amid the
destruction."
It seemed to Faith natural that her father should be affected by the
death of the fisherman, who, after saving his life, had perished in
the attempt to bring rescue, although she thought his expressions
exaggerated. She felt pained at his self-reproaches, but doubted not
that soon the keenness of regret would lose its edge. In order the
sooner, therefore, to produce this result, she attempted to divert his
thoughts into another channel.
"You are unjust to yourself, father," she said. "How many are there to
bless you for charities known only to themselves and you?"
"Mention them not, Faith, crumbs from my superfluity, like those that
fell from the other rich man's table. Besides, of what avail will
any charities, as you call them, of mine be? They will serve only to
convey the curse that attaches itself to me. I tremble to think you
are my daughter."
"And I," said Faith, "can never be thankful enough for having such
a father. Ah, how happy we might be, if you would only banish these
fancies from your mind!"
"Thus it is," said Armstrong. "Did I not say right? Like an evil
spirit I scatter only gloom around one. I will remove a presence that
blasts whatever it meets."
So saying he rose, and in spite of the tearful entreaties of his
daughter, walked into the hall, and taking his great coat from the
hook that held it, put it on and passed into the street.
Faith, upon his departure, sunk into a chair, and allowed free
course to her tears. They brought relief, and after a few moments she
recovered composure. "This is very foolish," she said to herself, "to
cry like a child. My dear father is nervous, and I do not wonder, that
shocking accident agitates him. I am glad he is gone, for it is
better he should seek the society of his friends, than sit here making
himself melancholy with me. I must be cheerful to receive him when he
returns. At least, he shall see no trace of tears."
Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong walked down the street, but shunning
the sight of others, he turned at the first opportunity into an
unfrequented road. It led towards the Severn, and hardly knowing how
it happened, he crossed a bridge, and soon found himself in the woods
that skirt the left bank of that river. Unconsciously, and as if
attracted by some spell, he was directing his course towards the scene
of the late disaster. The walk and the solemn silence of the woods,
in which no sound was heard except the cawing of a watchful crow,
some sentinel placed to give notice of approaching danger to his
companions, gradually subdued the excitement of his feelings. His
pace, at first rapid, relaxed, the light began to play upon the clouds
that brooded on his spirits, and he wondered at his fancies and his
conduct.
"How could I," thought he, "be so cruel to my own Faith! Her life
ought to be all sunshine and gladness, and would be but for me, and I
must sadden and darken it with the baleful imaginings of a distempered
mind. I must struggle harder and pray oftener and more fervently to
be preserved from myself. And now my soul feels the need of communing
with the Infinite Spirit. What fitter place for adoration than the
stillness of these old woods? Here worldly interruptions cannot come,
and the veil between Him and His creature is withdrawn."
He stopped. He looked up into the sky, and watched the clouds floating
in the blue. He glanced at the sun flaming in golden magnificence. His
eyes fell on the hoary stems of the giants of the forest. He saw
the trailing arbutus, the delicious herald of warmer suns and softer
winds, creeping to his feet, and raised his hands to heaven and
repeated the lines of Milton--
These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above the heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works: yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought and power divine.
He stooped down and picked a few bunches of the arbutus, and put them
in his bosom. "Faith loves flowers," he said, "and the sweetness and
whiteness of these are types of herself."
He was now quite calm, and realized fully where he was. It is strange,
he thought, how I came hither. I am like Philip, whom the Spirit
caught away.
He continued his walk, striving to drive away the gloomy ideas, which,
in spite of his resistance, threatened again to master him. With his
eyes bent upon the ground, he proceeded some distance, when a slight
noise attracted his attention. He raised his eyes, and discovered
the cause. Five or six men were approaching, bearing, between them,
something on some boards. Mr. Armstrong stopped, and, as they came
near, perceived, it was the body of the drowned fisherman.
"Fate," he murmured between his teeth, "has driven me here. It was
meet that the murderer should be confronted by his victim."
The men, when they had surmounted the steep river bank, tired with the
weight, put down the corpse near where Armstrong stood. He walked up
to it, and gazed upon the face. The men, solemnized by the mournful
task, and respecting the feelings of Armstrong, whom they all knew,
preserved silence.
There was no expression of pain upon the features. They wore the calm,
impassive look of marble. The eyes and mouth were wide open--efforts
to close them had been in vain--but, there was no speculation in the
former, and the soul played no more around the latter. The long brown
hair, from which the water dripped, hung in disorder over the forehead
and down the neck. Armstrong knelt on the withered leaves, by the side
of the corpse, and parted the hair with his fingers.
"The agony," he said, as if addressing the drowned man, "is over. The
curtain is lifted. The terrible secret is disclosed. You have heard
the summons we must all hear. You have trod the path we must all
tread. You know your doom. Poor fellow! how gladly would I give my
life for yours."
The bystanders were moved. Thus to behold the rich and prosperous
Mr. Armstrong, whose reserve was mistaken by some for haughtiness,
kneeling on the ground and lamenting over the obscure fisherman, was
something they had not expected.
"Sill was a good fellow and a ginerous," said Tom Gladding, wiping
away a tear, with the rough sleeve of his coat.
"He was a clever fellow, was Sill," added another.
"I've known him more than once," said Tom, "give half his fish away to
a poor family. Josiah tried to make everybody comfortable."
"When I was sick, a year ago," said one of the men, "and the neighbors
thought I was going to die, Josiah set up many a night with me, when
he had to work all the next day for his wife and children. I had no
notion, then, he'd have to go afore me."
"It's true what the primer says," said another--
"Xerxes the great must die,
And so must you and I."
"It don't need the primer or Xerxes either to tell us that," said Tom.
"Now, it looks kind o' hard to have a young man like Josiah go; but,
seeing as how he must die, sometime or other, I guess it don't much
consarn him whether it's to-day or to-morrow, when you think of
etarnity. Howsoever, it's no use standing here sniveling; so, let's
get on. Miss Sill will be glad the body's found, though it will 'most
kill her to see it."
Thereupon, Tom and his friends took up the corpse, and pursued their
way to the village.
Armstrong stood still, and looked after them till they were out of
sight. He then turned, descended the bank, and sat upon a rock on the
edge of the water.
He reviewed the events of the day before the yesterday. He had
repeatedly endeavored to divert his mind from such thoughts; but, in
spite of his wishes, they would force themselves back. Finding all
resistance vain, he had, finally, abandoned himself to their control.
They passed confusedly through his mind. It was difficult to arrange
them in the order of their succession. He began to be uncertain
whether his visit to Holden was made before or after the drowning of
Sill. He tried to recollect the purpose of his visit to the Solitary,
but could fix upon nothing definite. He seemed to remember that he had
made a confession of some sort, and that Holden had charged him with
the murder of his brother; and, at the same time, commended him for
removing George from the evil to come. His thoughts then reverted to
the upsetting of the boat. He knew that Sill had saved his life; but
why, when in safety on the boat, had he left it? He had a notion of
some conversation between them, and strove, till his brain burned, to
remember it. Had he not urged the unfortunate man to swim ashore? Was
it not most probable he had done so? Was not that most consistent with
his usual treatment of others? Was not that the means adopted by the
stern angel of fate, to accomplish the decree?
Such was the nature of the thoughts of the unhappy Armstrong. Do
what he might, he could not exclude them. They would give place to no
others. They were at home. They had a right to rule and to torture.
They were a foretaste of a never-ending punishment. His will did not
consent; but, a mightier will commanded, and the weaker must obey.
The sport of an irresistible necessity--with no power of choice--the
blind, unwilling instrument of a controlling force, he was,
notwithstanding, justly chargeable with every misfortune, and, like a
malefactor, must endure the consequences.
Long he sat thus absorbed in these wretched reflections. He stared
upon the water, but saw nothing: the tide rose and wet his feet, but
he felt it not; the wind blew chill, but he was not cold. He got up
at last from his seat, and was recalled to life. He felt stiff from
having been in one posture so long. He took out his watch, and found
it was twelve o'clock. He looked at the sun, and perceived it did not
contradict the watch, and turned his steps homeward.
The crow from the topmost bough of a withered tree eyed him as he
passed along quite near, and croaked once, but did not leave his
perch. Armstrong heard him not. Nor did he heed the blue-bird singing
in the noonday sun to the arbutus blossoms crushed by his unwitting
feet, or notice the petulant squirrel flinging down the shells of his
nuts, as if in mockery at the passing stranger. He was met by Primus
in the village street, who took off his cap, but to the salutation
of the negro he paid no regard. The General stopped as he passed, and
turned round, with a sorrowful surprise, to look after him, and shook
his head. It was the first time Mr. Armstrong had passed him without
notice and a kind word. The negroes are very superstitious, and great
observers of signs. He remarked that Mr. Armstrong's hat was pulled
over his eyes, in the same manner he wore it at the funeral of his
wife, and augured some impending calamity.
Mr. Armstrong entered his house, and threw himself into a seat, but
he sat only a moment. Something seemed to be wanting. A restless
impatience possessed him. He took up the tongs and begun to alter
the disposition of the sticks of wood. He could not suit himself, and
finally abandoned the fire to itself, after having filled the room
with smoke. He went to the bookcase, and took down a book, and
commenced reading. But presently his eyes wandered off, and fastened
themselves on the rug. He threw down the book, and rung the bell
violently. Felix instantly answered the summons.
"It seems to me you are very negligent in attending to the bell this
morning," said he. "It is unpleasant to be obliged to ring so often."
"You ring only once, Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, opening his eyes
wide with astonishment. "I in the kitchen at the time, and come
immediumtly. The tongue still jingle."
"You may well say your tongue jingles," said Mr. Armstrong, sharply.
"Let me trouble you not to contradict me. Where is Miss Faith?"
"Miss Faith went out an hour ago. I guess she is calling on some
ladies."
"Go, and find her, and request her to come home."
Felix retreated hastily into the kitchen, and seized his cap. But
before going out he thought it necessary to speak to Rosa.
"O, Rosa!" he said, "take care o' the boss while I'm gone. Something
dreadful is happened to him, and I'm 'fraid of the consequence. If you
hear the bell, Rosa, run for your life."
"How can I leave the dinner? It all spoil, Felix," said Rosa. "I send
Katy."
"Never mind two dinners," cried Felix. "Better burn the roast beef
than make _him_ feel worse. I never know him cross afore."
Felix was not obliged to go far. He had hardly got outside of the
gate, when he saw his young mistress coming down the street. Walking
rapidly, he soon met her, and communicated his errand. Faith quickened
her steps, and in a few moments stood by the side of her father.
She found him contemplating the sprigs of arbutus he had picked for
her. The sight and scent of the lovely flowers had carried him back to
the moment when he plucked them, and restored, in a measure, the
tone of mind that prevailed then. It was, therefore, with his usual
sweetness he addressed her, though there was something in his voice
that made the words drop like so many tears upon her heart.
"I have brought you some flowers, my darling," he said. "They are the
first nurslings of spring. Beautiful things! looking up all night and
day, with their starry eyes, to heaven, and drinking the dew of God's
grace. Happy things! they know no sin nor sorrow, and are remembered
only for their perfume and beauty. Take them, Faith. Sweets to
the sweet. Like these flowers, your soul exhales an atmosphere of
fragrance, and they belong to you."
The mutations of Mr. Armstrong's mind were like the changes of an
April day. The softer mood was now prevailing, and as Faith kissed the
flowers, before she put them in her bosom, she felt less unhappy than
in the morning.