The enterprise was more difficult than any Manabozho had undertaken. When the river was low, it poured almost perpendicularly down, a height of twenty feet, on rocks, thrusting sharp points into the air, then bounded in sinuous windings through rifts and basins, made by the constant beating of the water, and the attrition of stones, whirled round in the cavities, to dash over a declivity of yet other rocks, before it reached its calm welcome below. When swollen by rains the rocks were all hidden, the perpendicular fall disappeared, it was as if the Great Salt Lake were pouring down the side of the mountain, and from top to bottom was all one vast mass of foam, lashing the huge rock at the throat, around which the torrent turned with a sudden bend. No canoe could live on such a cataract. It must be overturned and engulfed long before reaching the bottom, or if those perils were, by any wonderful chance, escaped, inevitable destruction awaited the presumptuous adventurer, dashed against the rock at the bottom.
The lovers of Leelinau gazed at the Fall, but the more they considered the less inclination they felt to encounter the danger. In a low stage of the water the canoe would be overturned, and pierced by the sharp rocks, while mangled limbs certainly, if not death, must be the doom of the rash aspirant, and who would dare to brave the terrors of the swollen river?
The eyes of Leelinau were bright, and her smile sweet, but there were other maidens with bright eyes and sweet smiles, and less difficult to please.
But not thus felt Magisaunikwa. The absorbing passion swallowed up all considerations of prudence, and he resolved to undertake the adventure. If he perished, the Great Spirit would be pleased with his courage, and what was life without Leelinau? While thoughts like these passed through his mind, he remembered Manabozho. He had assisted him once, although in vain, why not a second time? He sought once more the recesses of the forest, where he had met him, and called upon his name, but no answer was returned. He kindled a fire and threw upon it the fragrant tobacco, and called again, "Ho! Manabozho!" and the majestic figure stood before him, but there was anger on his brow. To his stern demand the hunter made known what had happened, and begged his assistance. But the Manito showed no disposition to grant it. In fact, the task was beyond his powers, but he was unwilling that it should be known.
"Fool!" he said, "is a scornful squaw worth the hazard of death and the shame that attends defeat? Seek thy lodge and blow away these thoughts as the wind disperses the winged seeds of the stinging nettle." It was evident Manabozho had never been in love, for then he would not have thrown away his advice. He stayed not for a reply, but with a gesture of disdain disappeared.
Wampum-hair sought his wigwam, melancholy but not discouraged. It was, indeed, impossible to follow the counsel of the friendly Manito. Sleeping or waking the image of Leelinau swam before his eyes, and sometimes smiled as if to incite him to the enterprise.
He resolved to undertake a solemn fast. He therefore sought a retired place and built a pointed lodge.
Six days and nights he fasted, lying on the ground, and on the seventh day, at the rising of the sun, his guardian spirit, the child with the white beaver, slowly descended from the sky. His face was kind and gentle as at the first, but not as before did he lay his hand on the heart of Wampum-hair. Now he pressed his palm upon the forehead of the hunter, and strange thoughts and determinations, like rising storms, passed through his mind: slowly, then, up through the pointed roof, which opened for his passage, mounted the child till he disappeared in the blue field.
Magisaunikwa arose from the ground, and a frown was upon his brow. He ate and was refreshed, and returned to his lodge.
It was the last month of snows, and great rains had fallen, and the torrents were shouting from the mountains, and the Yaupáae pouring out a mightier flood than had ever been seen rushing through between the cleft rocks. It was then Wampum-hair announced his intention to undertake the adventure of the Falls, and invited the tribe to gather together to witness its performance. It is said that the heart of Leelinau, touched by so much constancy, was inclined to relent and excuse her lover the terrible ordeal, but this is probably the dream of some soft-hearted girl, and only indicates what she would have done in like circumstances.
On the day selected, the tribe was collected at the outpouring of the waters, to witness the achievement of Magisaunikwa, and lament his death. In great numbers they lined the banks of the stream, seeking those positions from which the best views could be obtained, while his friends watched at the foot of the cataract in canoes to rescue the body should it be thrown up by the raging water. Leelinau, too, was there, unyielding, yet proud of a devotion unheard of in the annals of her nation. She looked haughtily as on a spectacle devised in her honor, of which she should be celebrated as the heroine, long after her feet should have travelled the path that leads to the Spirit-land. No regret for the destruction to which her lover was doomed appeared to touch her heart, nor did pity moisten her eyes as she looked upon the preparations for the sacrifice.
At length Magisaunikwa appeared, and never before had he attracted such admiration. He moved like one returning from victory. No war paint, such as warriors are accustomed to use when upon the war-path in order to strike terror into the foe, or when commencing an enterprise of great peril, stained his person. His dress was the conaus of panther scalps, and he walked amid a company of young men of his own age, above the tallest of whom he rose by a head.
Before commencing the adventure, he performed the customary ceremony to propitiate the Great Spirit, pointing to the heavens, the earth, and the four winds, and invoking with a loud voice the Master of Life to smile upon the undertaking. This being done, he cast his eyes over the assembled crowd, till they fell upon Leelinau. Long he gazed, as if he desired to carry her image with him to the Spirit-land, nor after that last look did he allow his glance to rest upon another human being. Then, at a little distance above the head of the cataract, he entered the canoe and grasped the paddle.
The motion of the frail bark was at first gentle, but only for a short time: every moment its speed became accelerated, until, even before it reached the plunge, it seemed to fly like the swallow. Calmly guiding its fearful course sat the young man, his eyes fixed upon the narrow opening between the rocks. And now the canoe is at the brink of the Falls—it leaps like the salmon when he journeys up the stream—it is gone!—the raging waters have devoured it—no, I see it again—the arm of Magisaunikwa is strong, and the paddle unbroken. Help, Manito! he is dashed against the rock at the throat—no, the canoe is whirled round and darts away, and I behold it gliding with the youth over the quiet water. The Great Spirit hath protected him.
A shout, rivalling the roar of the Falls, went up from the assembled multitude, and they rose with songs such as welcome returned warriors to greet the successful hero.
But Wampum-hair received their congratulations and their praises with indifference. With eyes fixed on the ground, he suffered himself to be borne in triumph to the spot, where, on a platform of rock, stood the beautiful Leelinau. What were the thoughts that passed through her mind? Was she proud of being the object of a love so true and daring, or did she lament the necessity of accepting a lord? Wampum-hair approached, and before his calm, sorrowing eyes, her own sunk to the ground. Searching was his look, as if to descry the secrets of her soul, and at last he spoke.
"Leelinau," he said, "the Great Spirit created thee loveliest among the daughters of women; wherefore gave he thee not a heart?
"Leelinau, Wampum-hair will sigh no more for thee. Henceforth, thou art to him only a flower or a painted bird.
"Leelinau, the waters of the Yaupáae have extinguished the fire that burned here," and he laid his hand on his heart. He turned upon his heel and left the assemblage.
Astonishment at the address of Magisaunikwa at first held all mute, but presently a cry for revenge arose among the kinsmen of the slighted maiden. But the commanding voice of the wise Aishkwagon-ai-bee stilled the tumult.
"The blood of the mighty Ojeeg," he said, "cannot mingle with water. The Great Spirit hath taken this way to release Leelinau from a promise which He is displeased that she made."
Whatever might have been the vindictive feelings of the relations of Leelinau, their resentment was never visited on the head of the young hunter. Once, it is said, two brothers of the rejected maiden lay in ambush to take his life; but as he passed unconsciously near them, and the fatal arrows were drawn to the head against his bosom, Manabozho appeared and forbade the deed.
Magisaunikwa continued to cherish through a long life his love of peace. He obtained a great influence over his own and the neighboring tribes, and succeeded in spreading widely his pacific views. At the time of his death, which happened at an advanced age, the calumet of peace was everywhere smoked among the northern tribes, and their numbers had greatly increased. Wampum-hair was universally honored, and regarded as the cause of this felicity. But no wife ever cooked the venison in his lodge. With the dream of his youth vanished all predilection for the softer sex. He had loved and been disappointed. Where he expected to meet gentleness he had found pride. He looked for the yielding willow, and behold the inflexible oak!
But in Leelinau also a revolution had been effected. Her whole being was transformed. What devoted love that anticipated every wish was incapable of accomplishing, indifference achieved. Her soul from that moment flew on the wings of desire after Magisaunikwa. At first she thought his conduct caused by some temporary pique or resentment, and trusted to the power of her fascinations to restore him to her nets. As time, however, wore on, her hopes became fainter, until the terrible conviction settled like a night upon her soul, that she had trifled with the noblest heart of her nation and driven it for ever away. Then it was she felt the desolation no language can express. A settled melancholy took possession of her. Her eyes lost their fire, her lip its smile, and her voice the song. She would wander alone, far away into the recesses of the forest, speaking to herself in low tones, and weeping at the remembrance of happy days. Her health declined rapidly until she became too weak to leave without assistance the couch, where day after day reclined her fading form. One soft summer morning she begged two of her mates to support her to the rock, whence she beheld the exploit of Wampum-hair. She sank down, and removing, with her wasted hand, the long hair that had fallen over her eyes, gazed sadly on the foaming river. With a wistful look she followed the course of the cataract from top to bottom, probably recalling at the moment her lover's danger for her sake and her own repented scorn, then heavily sighed, and leaning her head on the bosom of one of her companions, expired.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Wide o'er the brim with many a torrent swelled,
And the mixed ruin of its banks o'erspread,
At last the roused up river pours along:
Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes
From the rude mountain and the mossy wild.
THOMSON'S SEASONS.
The company expressed their acknowledgments to Bernard for the entertainment he had furnished, although they all seemed to consider the conduct of Wampum-hair inconsistent with his amiable character, and to pity the fate of Leelinau.
"The writer must have had some suspicion of the inconsistency himself," said Bernard, "to judge from his attempt to obviate the difficulty, by ascribing a magic change in his hero, to the application of the child's hand to the head, instead of as before, to the heart. This part of the tale is slightly and unskillfully developed."
"I cannot agree with you," said Faith, "and think you do your friend injustice. The idea is, that the guardian genius exercised a controlling influence over the destiny of the young man; and I see no reason why if we concede the power to the genius to soften his nature, we may not grant also the ability to harden it."
"Especially," observed Pownal, "as the object of the protecting spirit would have been frustrated, had the lovers been united."
All looked inquiringly towards him for an explanation.
"I mean," said he, "that with such a fierce little squaw for a wife, the gentleman with the unpronounceable name, would not have continued a man of peace long. There certainly would have been war within the wigwam, however dense the puffs of smoke from the calumet of peace outside."
All laughed at the sally, but Anne intimated that she would have preferred a different termination.
"At least," said Mr. Armstrong, who had listened in silence to the criticisms of the young people, "it teaches a profitable lesson to you girls."
"What is that, Mr. Armstrong?" inquired Anne.
"That young ladies should know their own minds."
"A most unreasonable expectation!" exclaimed Anne. "We should become as stupid—as stupid as reasonable people."
"Besides," said Faith, coming to her friend's assistance, "the story was intended for the benefit of Indian girls, and not for those who read Shakspeare."
"I suspect," said Bernard, "that the writer was better acquainted with the Shakspearean ladies, than with Indian girls."
"Why do you think so?" asked Faith.
"Do you not observe," answered Bernard, "that he confines himself to generalities? Not a word does he venture to say about the toilette of the beauty. A description of the dress of the heroine, has always been considered indispensable in every tale."
"Poh, William!" said Anne, "what a savage critic you are. But, probably, there was so little to describe, the author did not think it worth his while."
"And," said Pownal, "is anything admissible in a picture which distracts the attention and withdraws it from the principal figure? Good taste excludes ear-rings and gold chains from portraits."
"Well," said Bernard, "I dare say you are right. It may be, too, that the dress was indescribable."
"Who is this Manabozho, who comes in so opportunely, yet, without effecting much after all?" inquired Anne. "I am charmed with his appearance; particularly, his big eyes."
"He is a sort of Indian Hercules," replied Bernard, "who plays a conspicuous part in many legends. He is a compound of wisdom and folly, of benevolence and mischief, of strength and weakness, partly Manitou and partly man, and is privileged to do anything, however absurd and impossible, at one moment, while, at the next, he may be shorn of his power, so as to be incapable of taking care of himself."
"A very convenient person indeed," said Anne.
"Loosing the knot of a difficulty by the intervention of such a Power, shows but little ingenuity, I confess," said Bernard.
"There is classical authority for it, though," said Mr. Armstrong. "Homer, himself, condescends to introduce a God, when he cannot extricate himself from embarrassment without his help."
"Aye," said Bernard, "but the rule of Horace must not be forgotten, nec Deus," &c.
"True," said Mr. Armstrong; "but how would you have accomplished the feat, like one of the labors of Hercules, without some such means?"
"I do not pretend to be able to do it," answered Bernard, modestly; "but, doubtless, one possessed of more imagination could have accomplished it."
"You are but a cold advocate for your friend," said Faith. "You do not allow him half the merit he deserves"
"He would not complain were he to hear me," said Bernard. "No one can be more sensible than himself, of the defects of his work."
"And I say," said Anne, "that I like his story exceedingly; only, he knows nothing about our sex. It may be all very well for a man to praise that hard-hearted Wampum-head, and make poor Leelinau pine away for his precious sake, but, I do not believe she was so silly as to care much about him."
"If the truth were known," said Pownal, "I have no doubt that the girl rejected him, because she liked some one else better."
"And her ungallant beau," said Anne, "made up the story, to cover his confusion."
"I am satisfied with it as it is," said Faith. "We pity and love Leelinau, now; her haughtiness and pride are forgotten in her misfortunes, and we remember her as one faithful unto death."
"Your tale reminds me," said Pownal, addressing Bernard, "that there is a tremendous freshet in the Wootúppocut, and that the waters are increasing. Suppose, if the ladies consent, we make up a party, to view it, to-morrow?"
The proposition was received with approbation by all, and it was agreed, that they would meet at the house of Mr. Armstrong, as the starting-point, on the afternoon of the next day. The evening being now considerably advanced, Faith's friends took their leave.
The nine o'clock bell was ringing, as the young people passed through the quiet streets. The custom of ringing a bell, at that hour, is one which has fallen into desuetude, although, once, almost universal in New England, and may be said to bear some relation to the vesper-bell, in Roman Catholic countries. Its avowed object, indeed, was not, as in the case of the latter, to call the people to prayers, but, its effect, perhaps, was the same; for, it marked the hour at which the population of the village were in the habit of retiring to rest; and, in those days of simple faith, many were the families whose members united together, before seeking their pillows, to return thanks for the blessings of the day, and ask for protection during the defenceless hours of the night. Luxury and dissipation have since crept in, and parties assemble, now, at an hour when they formerly broke up. We call ourselves more refined, but, it may admit of a doubt, whether all our show and parade are not purchased at too dear a rate, at the price of substantial comfort and happiness.
The shore was lined with spectators, when the little party approached the scene of the freshet. We do not know that we have succeeded in conveying a clear idea of the river we have attempted to describe. It may be recollected, that it was spoken of as one of the tributaries of the Severn, coming in from the East, and sweeping round that side of the town. The banks, on the side opposite, were high and precipitous; but, on the hither side—with the exception of the narrow passage through which the river poured itself into the Severn, and for a short distance above—the ground rose gently from the stream before it reached the foot of the hill, interposing a piece of comparatively level land. The road that ran on this flat spot, and connected the eastern portion (which, from the extempore character of its buildings, as well as from other causes we do not choose to mention, was called Hasty-Pudding), with the rest of the town, was, usually, in very high floods, overflowed. Such was the fact in the present instance, and boats were busily engaged in transporting persons over the submerged road. As you stood near the mouth of the river, and looked up the current, a scene of considerable interest, and, even grandeur, presented itself. At that time, the innumerable dams higher up the stream, that have been since constructed, had not been built, nor had the rocks, at the throat, been blasted to make a wider egress. The ice, which then rushed down, as it were by agreement, simultaneously and in huge blocks—but, now-a-days, at intervals, and broken up by falling over the dams—unable to escape in the eager rivalry of the cakes to pass each other, was jammed in the throat, and piled up high in the air, looking like ice-bergs that had floated from the North Pole. You saw the stream, at all times, rapid, and now, swollen vastly beyond its ordinary proportions, rushing with ten-fold force, and hurrying, in its channel, with hoarse sounds, the ice-cakes, which, in the emulous race, grated against, and, sometimes, mutually destroyed one another, to drive some under the icy barrier, thence to glide away to the ocean, and to toss others high above the foaming torrent on the collected masses, more gradually to find their way to the same bourne. Looking away from the channel, one saw the cakes caught in the eddies, whirled up against the banks, and, in some instances, forced into smoother and shoaler water, where they grounded, or were floated into little creeks and bays formed by the irregularities of the shores. These quiet places were, of course, on the side nearest the town, the opposite bank being too abrupt and the water too deep, for there was the channel, and there the water tore along with the greatest violence.
In one of these placid bays a party of school-boys were amusing themselves with getting upon the loose blocks and pushing them about like boats. The amusement appeared to be unattended with danger, the place being so far from the current, and the water but two or three feet deep. The children, therefore, were but little noticed, especially as they were at quite a distance from where the multitude of spectators was assembled, being considerably higher up and near the flat-land, bearing the undignified name which only historical accuracy compels us to introduce. After a time a cake, on which one of the boys was standing, began slowly to slip away from the shore. So gradually was this done that it was unobserved by the boys themselves until it had quite separated itself from the neighborhood of the other cakes, so that no assistance could be rendered, when one of his companions cried out to the little fellow upon it, to push for the shore. This he had already been attempting to do, but in spite of all exertions he was unable to come nearer. On the contrary, it was evident he was receding. The water had now become so deep that his pole could no longer reach the bottom. The current had drawn in the cake, and was sweeping it with its precious freight to destruction. The children set up a cry of alarm, which was heard by the spectators below, and first attracted their attention.
A thrill of horror ran through the crowd. Men drew in their breath hard, and women shrieked, unable to turn away their eyes, fastened by a terrible fascination on the peril. Horrid apprehensions invaded the mind of many a parent. The doomed boy might be his own son. Despairing glances were cast around in every direction for help. In vain: none could be given. There was time for nothing: with every second the child was swept more rapidly to destruction.
Meanwhile the brave little fellow, planted firmly on the centre of the cake, was balancing himself with the pole, and intrepidly confronting the danger he could not avoid. Not a cry escaped, nor did his self-possession desert him. As the vexed and whirling water raised up the one side or the other of his frail bark, he would incline his body in this or that direction to preserve the equilibrium, now standing upright and now cowering close to the surface of the uncertain footing. And now the block approached the throat, where the torrent ran the swiftest and was most turbulent. The child seemed to have escaped thus far by miracle, but now it appeared impossible he would be able to maintain his place. His head must become dizzy, his courage fail in the awful confusion of so many threatening dangers; the tormented waves must upset the block, or another must strike against it and cast the boy into the water. And now the cake has reached the icy barrier stretched across the stream. It strikes; it is sucked in below and disappears.
The spell-bound spectators, their eyes fastened upon the danger of the boy, had not noticed the figure of a man, who, descending the opposite bank, and clambering at considerable risk over the masses of heaped up ice, stood waiting for the approach of the child. So truly had he judged the sweep of the current, that he had planted himself upon the edge of the ice at the precise spot where the block struck. Reaching out his arm at the moment when it slipped beneath, he seized the boy by the collar of his jacket and drew him to the place on which he stood. As soon as the crowd caught sight of the man, they saw that it was Holden.
The position of the two was still one of danger. A false step, the separating of the ice, the yielding of a cake might precipitate both into the torrent. But the heart of the man had never felt the emotion of fear. He cast his eyes deliberately round, and with a prompt decision took his course. Raising the rescued child in his arms, he started in the direction of the wharf, built just below the narrow opening. Springing with great agility and strength over the blocks, selecting for footing those cakes which seemed thickest and fastened in firmest, he made his way over the barrier and bounded safely on the land. The spectators, seeing the direction he was taking, had run down, many of them, to the place, and were waiting to receive them.
"I vow," said our friend, Tom Gladding, who was among the first to welcome Holden, "if it ain't little Jim Davenport. Why, Jim, you come pretty nigh gitting a ducking."
"Yes," said the boy, carelessly, as if he had been engaged in a frolic, "I wet my shoes some, and the lower part of my trousers."
Here a man came hastening through the crowd, for whom all made way. It was Mr. Davenport. He had been, like the rest, a witness of the danger and the rescue, but knew not that it was his own son who had made the perilous passage. But a report, running as if by magic from one to another, had reached his ears, and he was now hurrying to discover its truth. It was, indeed, his son, and Holden was his preserver. He advanced to the boy, and examined him from head to foot, as if to assure himself of his safety before he spoke a word. Shaking with agitation, he then turned to Holden, and grasping his hand, wrung it convulsively.
"May God forget me, Mr. Holden," he stammered, in a broken voice, "if I forget this service," and taking the boy by the hand he led him home.
"Well," said Gladding, who had been looking on, "Jim don't mind it much, but I guess it'll do old Davenport good."
Holden, according to his custom, seemed indisposed to enter into conversation with those around him, or to accept the civilities tendered, and started off as soon as possible, upon his solitary way. As he emerged from the crowd, he caught sight of the advancing figures of Faith and of her companions, who had more leisurely approached, and stopped to greet them. From them he seemed to receive with pleasure the congratulations showered upon him, though he disclaimed all merit for himself.
"Be the praise," he said, devoutly, "given to Him who, according to the purpose of his own will, maketh and destroyeth. The insensible block of ice and I were only instruments in His hands." He turned away, and walking rapidly was soon out of sight.
Constable Basset, who was present, had just sense enough to understand that this was no occasion for his interference, and although he followed the retreating figure of the Solitary with longing eyes, while his hands clutched at the writ, ventured on no attempt to exercise his authority.
CHAPTER XXIV.
We talk of love and pleasure—but 'tis all
A tale of falsehood. Life's made up of gloom:
The fairest scenes are clad in ruin's pall,
The loveliest pathway leads but to the tomb.
PERCIVAL.
After the event just recorded, it may well be supposed that all further legal proceedings against the Recluse were abandoned. They had been commenced only to gratify the wounded pride of Davenport, and since the preservation of the life of his son by Holden, the community would have cried shame on him had the matter been pursued further. But no such public sentiment was needed in order to induce Davenport to give the justice and Basset a hint to do nothing more. He was really grateful, though feeling no compunction for his conduct, easily persuading himself that it had been prompted by a love of justice, and a desire to protect the interests of religion.
Holden could, therefore, without fear of the consequences, resume openly his usual visits to the village. Of late they had been more than usually frequent at the house of Mr. Armstrong, by whom he seemed almost as much attracted as by Faith. With the former the conversation usually turned upon points of theology that every day appeared to assume with Armstrong deeper importance, with the latter on the effects produced by the teachings of Holden among the Indians. For since his exile at the Patmos of the Indian village, a new subject had engaged the attention of the Solitary, to which with characteristic energy he had devoted the powers of his soul—the conversion of the poor wretches who had kindly harbored and protected him. To his sanguine expectations, expressed in the impassioned language of Scripture he loved to use, the enthusiastic girl would listen, with the warmest interest. Accustomed to assign every event to an overruling Providence, she thought she now saw clearly the hand of a superior Power in the occurrences which had compelled Holden, in the first instance, to take up his temporary residence among them. Temporary residence, we say, because the Solitary had since returned to his hut, which was at the distance of only two or three miles from the cabins of his former protectors. Solitude he found was necessary in order to enable him the better to perform his new duties, and the distance was too slight to interpose any serious obstacle, or even inconvenience.
Such was the state of things, when some weeks after the freshet, Mr. Armstrong acquainted his daughter, at the breakfast-table, with his intention to visit Holden that day.
"It is a long time," he said (four days had elapsed), "since we have seen him, and there are things upon my mind I would gladly speak about."
A few months before, such a declaration from her father would have suprised Faith, but now she regarded it as quite natural. The intimacy between the family and the Recluse had become such, and the commanding character of the latter had acquired so great an influence over both its members, that neither of them saw anything strange in the deference paid him. She, therefore, acquiesced with some common-place remark in the proposal, begging to be remembered to the old man.
Accordingly, after breakfast, Mr. Armstrong walked down to the wharf, thinking it probable he might find some boat going down the river, by which he might be left at the island, intending, should he not find the Solitary there, to go to the Indian settlement. Nor was he disappointed. He found a fisherman making preparations to cast off his boat, who cheerfully consented to convey him to the place of destination. Mr. Armstrong jumped into the boat, and, the wind favoring, they rapidly scudded down the stream.
The fisherman, a fine, frank fellow, of some thirty years of age, to whom Mr. Armstrong was well known, at least, by reputation, although the recognition was not mutual, endeavored to engage him in conversation, but without effect. Although answering politely any questions, he made no remarks in return, and the conversation soon languished for want of material to support it. Poor Josiah Sill, finding his social qualities not appreciated, soon himself relapsed into silence, wondering what could induce his companion to seek Holden, and connecting his reserve in some mysterious way with the visit. Finding the silence not altogether agreeable, Josiah finally burst out with "Yankee Doodle," which he amused himself with whistling together with some other favorite tunes, until they reached the island. As they approached they caught a glimpse of Holden entering the house, and Josiah landed his passenger, promising to call for him on his return in the afternoon, though Armstrong expressed a doubt whether he should remain so long.
"If you ain't here, there won't be no harm done," said the good-natured fellow, "and it won't take a minute to stop."
Mr. Armstrong having thanked him and wished him success, advanced to the cabin.
He found Holden in the outer room, engaged in his usual employment, when at home, of weaving baskets. A large quantity of prepared saplings, split very thin, lay scattered around him, while bundles of walnut poles, the crude material of his manufacture, were piled up in the corners ready for use. With a quick and dexterous hand the Solitary wove in the ribbon-like pieces, showing great familiarity with the work. Without desisting from his labor, he expressed pleasure at the visit of his friend, and requested him to be seated.
"I am honored," he said, "this day. To what shall I ascribe the notice of the wealthy Mr. Armstrong?"
There was a slight tone of irony in the words. It probably was observed by Mr. Armstrong, for, with some feeling, he replied:
"Speak to me not so coldly. And yet," he added, dejectedly, "I deserve that all the world should reject me. Neither the happy nor the miserable feel sympathy for me."
The wayward humor of Holden was evidently softened by the sadness of the sweet, low voice.
"Each heart," he said, "knoweth best its own bitterness, and I repent me of my rudeness. But when I saw thee here I could not but remember that I had dwelt long years in this dwelling, and"—he hesitated, and Armstrong finished the sentence:
"And you would say this is the first time I have darkened your door. Well may it be called darkness where my unhappy shadow falls. But forgive me: it is only lately that I learned to know you."
"Thou errest, James Armstrong," returned Holden, "if thou thinkest thou knowest me, or will ever know me. Yet, after all," he added in a gentler manner, "thou art right. Yes, know me as a fellow sinner, journeying with thee to eternity."
"As my friend," replied Armstrong; "as the guide whose deeper experience in heavenly things shall teach me the way to heaven, unless by some inscrutable decree I am excluded."
"How has my heart been open, how has it longed for years to meet thine! How gladly would I have poured out my grief into thy bosom as into that of a brother!" cried Holden, his voice choked with emotion.
The countenance of Mr. Armstrong betrayed astonishment. "How is this?" he said. "I never knew it. You have always been to me as a common acquaintance."
A shade fell on the face of Holden. He misunderstood the meaning of the other. He supposed the phrase applicable to the feelings of Armstrong towards himself, and not as descriptive of his own conduct to Armstrong. "For the sake of the little Faith," he said coldly, "who is now a lovely woman, have I highly regarded thee."
"It is even so," said Armstrong, in a melancholy tone. "There are none left to love me for my own sake. Yet why should I quarrel with my own daughter? Let me rather be grateful that she has been the means of attracting one being towards me. How can I show my friendship? How can I make you my friend?"
"I am thy friend," cried Holden, grasping his hand with another revulsion of feeling. "Put me to any proof. I will not fail."
"If money could avail with a man like you," continued Armstrong, "it should not be wanting. If ease or luxury could tempt—but you have trampled them under foot, and what are they to one whose conversation is in heaven?"
Holden, while he was speaking, had risen from his seat and strode twice or thrice across the room. When Armstrong had finished speaking he again approached him.
"It is not for naught," he exclaimed, "that the Lord hath conducted thee this day unto me. Speak what he shall put into thy mouth to say."
"I would have your confidence," said Armstrong. "As the sick beast or the hurt bird knows by an infallible instinct what herb or plant will best promote its cure, so it seems to me does Providence direct me to you. Repulse me not, but be my kind physician."
"How can the physician prescribe, if he knoweth not the complaint."
"You shall know if you have patience to listen. But I must go back years to make myself intelligible."
"Speak, my brother," said Holden, gently, "not a word shall fall in vain."
"Then listen," said Armstrong, "and learn what sorrows the outward shows of prosperity may gild."
Holden resumed his seat, and Armstrong began his relation.
"My parents," he said, "had but two children, myself and my brother, who was younger by two years. The tenderest affection existed between us, and we were never separated until I went to college, where, after a couple of years, I was joined by him, and where we remained together until the close of my collegiate course. I then returned home, in order to take my place in the mercantile business, in which our father was engaged. My brother George was destined for one of the professions. During the last year of his stay at college, his letters to me were full of the praises of a young lady whose acquaintance he had made, and in vacations he was never weary of talking of her beauty and amiable qualities. I was present when he took his degree, and at a party, given during my stay, in the town, he introduced me to her. Alas! that introduction was the cause of the happiness and the wretchedness of my life. It found me a wife, and lost me a brother. I cannot describe the impression which the first sight of Frances made upon me. Nor did she seem averse to my attentions. I offered myself, and was accepted."
"And didst thou nothing to alienate her affections from thy brother?" inquired Holden, in a hoarse voice.
"She never regarded him with more than a passing liking," returned Armstrong, "nor do I believe she had an idea of the fervor of his affection. God be my witness, I never spoke a word in his disparagement. We were married, and shortly after George began to exhibit indications of insanity. By the advice of physicians he was taken to an asylum for the insane, where it was hoped, under proper treatment, his reason might be restored. May God pardon me, who am the cause of the horrid tragedy, but, by some negligence of his keeper, he was permitted to escape—his body was found, after some days, in a neighboring pond." Here Armstrong paused and covered his face with both hands.
"The body was recognized as thy brother's?" inquired Holden.
"It had been in the water too long to be perfectly recognized, but the height, and age, and color of the hair, and what there was left to make it distinguishable, were sufficient to identify it as George's."
"There is no certainty then. Thy brother may be yet alive."
"There can be no doubt of his death. Thirty years have elapsed, and were he in existence he must have been heard of. Twelve years afterwards my Frances died, leaving me two children, a son and infant daughter. God saw fit, in his providence, to take my boy, but left me Faith, to lay my grey hairs in the grave. It will not be long before she will do me that service."
Mr. Armstrong ceased speaking, and silence succeeded, which was at last broken by the Solitary. He bent his brows with a keen, searching glance upon his guest, and said:
"Thou wert false to thy brother."
"Yes, and his blood cries against me. Whither shall I turn to hide my guilt?"
"Thou dost repent, then, of thy treachery?" inquired Holden, who seemed determined to probe the wound to the bottom.
"Alas! restore to me the morning of life; place me in the same circumstances, and I should fall again. I should be irresistibly attracted by a heart that seemed made for mine."
"In her arms thou didst forget the brother, whom thy cruelty had doomed to the maniac's cell and chain?" said Holden.
"Never! his image is graven on my heart. I have never ceased to think of him."
"Thou wouldst know him should he stand before thee?"
"Know him! aye, amidst ten thousand. No years could make such changes as to hide him from me. But he is in his grave, while his murderer lives."
"Thou didst find compensation for lamentation over the dead, in the caresses of the living?"
"True, too true. While Frances lived, she was my heaven. It was necessary that this idol should be torn from me. My son, too. Oh, James, my son! my son!"
Holden, during the conversation, had been unable to keep his seat, but with the restlessness of his nature had been walking across the room, stopping occasionally before Armstrong. The last expression of feeling evidently affected him. The rapidity of his steps diminished; his motions became less abrupt; and presently he laid his hand upon the shoulder of Mr. Armstrong.
"Thy tale," he said, "is one of sorrow and suffering. Thou didst violate thy duty, and art punished. No wrong shall escape the avenger. As it is written, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' But it is also written, 'He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness, and repenteth him of the evil.' Thou art after all but an instrument in the hand of One mighty to do. Even out of crime He works out the purposes of his will. Thou knowest not from what sin and sorrow an early death may be the refuge. Commit thyself to the hands of the Lord, nor grieve as one without hope. Thy brother liveth, and thou shalt yet behold him."
"I know he lives, and at the Judgment shall I behold him," said
Armstrong, shuddering, "to upbraid me with his murder."
"Not to upbraid, but to forgive, and to imprint upon thy brow the seal of reconciliation, as I now, by this token, vow to thee an everlasting love." So saying, Holden bent down, and his lips touched the forehead of Armstrong.
We do not know that we ought to be surprised at anything in the conduct of this extraordinary man. The principles by which he regulated himself, if he had any that were fixed and determinate, and was not impelled to his actions by the impulse of the moment, were so different from those of other men, that it is difficult to reduce them to the same standard, or, indeed, to assign them to any standard. Be it as it may, so accustomed was Mr. Armstrong to his ways, that so singular a thing did not impress him as strange. He only looked up with eyes dimmed with tears, and, in broken accents, thanked the Solitary.
The rest of the time spent by Armstrong on the island, was passed in conversation of very much the same description. It would seem from his self-reproaches and confessions, that during the lives of his wife and son, the melancholy death of his brother had made no great impression upon him. Happy in a woman he adored, and who returned his affection; with a blooming family around him; immersed in thoughts of business; and in the enjoyment of a large fortune, there seemed nothing wanting to complete his felicity. He remembered, too, that there had been an instance of insanity in his family, some years before the birth of himself, which had terminated fatally, the cause of which could not be traced, and felt disposed, therefore, with the natural tendency to self-exculpation of the happy, to find the reason for the tragical end of his brother in hereditary infirmity, rather than attach any serious blame to himself for securing the affections of a lady, whom he was assured had never loved another. But when after a few years of unclouded bliss, first his wife, and then his son, was taken away, all things assumed an altered aspect. He found himself the last male of his family, his name about to become extinct and forgotten, with only one other being in the world in whose veins ran his blood, and for whose life his paternal solicitude almost daily trembled. His mind brooded day by day more and more over his misfortunes, which gradually began to wear the form of judgments, the object and result of which must be to erase his hated name from the earth. As Faith grew up, his anxieties on her account diminished, but that only left him the wider scope to dwell upon wild imaginations and make himself more the subject of his thoughts. Of a grave and reflective cast of mind, he had even from his early years respected the duties of religion, and now he turned to it for consolation. But the very sources whence he should have derived comfort and peace were fountains of disquiet. His diseased mind seemed incapable of appropriating to itself the gentle promises of pardon and acceptance, but trembled at the denunciations of punishment. The universal Father came not to him with open arms, as to welcome a returned prodigal, but frowned with the severity of a Judge about to pronounce sentence. Whithersoever the unhappy man turned, he saw no ray of light to gild the darkness, and he himself sometimes feared lest reason should desert her throne. But his friends felt no apprehensions of the kind. In their presence, though grave, he was always reasonable and on his guard—for he shrunk with the sensitiveness of a delicate mind from exposing its wounds—nor with the exception of the minister, and now Holden, was there one who suspected his condition, and they probably did not realize it fully. These remarks may serve to abate, if not to remove entirely the reader's surprise, that one with the education, and in the position of Armstrong, should have sought counsel from Holden. But it may be, that the condition of mind to which Armstrong was approaching—similar in some respects to that of the Solitary—established a sort of relation or elective affinity between them, operating like the influence of the magnet, to attract one to the other. We have seen how fond Holden was of visiting the house of Mr. Armstrong. Could it be that this mysterious influence, all unconsciously to himself, led his steps thither, and that afar off he dimly espied the talisman that should establish a full community between them? Or was not this community already established? How else account for the visit of Armstrong, the strange conversation, the confessions, concluded by an act, tender, and perhaps graceful, but only such as was to be expected from a deranged man?
Josiah Sill, true to his promise, arrived while the two men were still talking, heedless of the passage of time. Mr. Armstrong stepped on board, and the boat resumed her course. The wind was drawing down the river, remaining nearly in the same point from which it had blown in the morning, and they were obliged in consequence to pursue a zig-zag course, tackling from one shore to the other. It blew fresh, and the little vessel, gunwale down, with the water sometimes pouring over the lee side, flew like a bird. They had run two-thirds of the distance, nor was the sun yet set, when the wind, which, till then, had blown pretty steadily, began to intermit and come in flaws or puffs, now driving the small craft with great rapidity, and now urging her gently on. At an instant, when she was about to tack, having hardly head-way sufficient to prevent missing stays, a sudden and violent puff, from a gorge in the hills, struck the sail. Had it come at any other moment, the catastrophe that followed could not have happened; but the boat lying almost motionless, received all the force of the wind, and instantly upset. Mr. Armstrong, unable to swim, and encumbered by his clothes, sank, but was caught by the strong arm of Sill, and pulled upon the keel. In a state of great discomfort, though of safety, there both remained for some time, waiting for assistance. None arriving, Sill, at last, became impatient, and as he was an excellent swimmer, proposed to throw off the heavier part of his clothing, and swim to land to hasten succor. As Mr. Armstrong made no objection, and the danger appeared less than what was likely to proceed from a long continuance on the boat, exposed in their wet clothes to the wind, the shore being but a few rods distant, Sill, after divesting himself of a part of his clothes, plunged into the water, and with vigorous strokes swam towards the land. He had proceeded but a short way when, either in consequence of becoming benumbed by the coldness of the water after being chilled by exposure to the wind, or from being seized by cramp, or from what other cause, the unfortunate man suddenly turning his face towards Armstrong, and uttering a cry of alarm, sank and disappeared from sight. Once more only was anything seen of him, when brought near the surface, perhaps, by an eddy in the stream, a hand emerged, and for an instant the fingers quivered in the air.
With a sort of desperate horror Armstrong gazed upon the appalling spectacle. The expression of anguish on the face of the drowning fisherman, as his distended eyes met his own, froze his blood, and left a memory behind to last to his dying day. Fascinated, his eyes dwelt on the spot where the fisherman sunk, and for a moment a terrible temptation was whispered into his ear quietly, to drop into the river, and accompany the spirit of the drowned man. But it lasted only a moment, and the instinct of life resumed its power.
It was not long ere his condition was discovered from the shore, when chilled and shivering he was taken off by a boat that put out to his rescue. On arriving at his home, Faith, excessively alarmed, immediately dispatched the faithful Felix for the doctor.
CHAPTER XXV.
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.