The Lost Hunter Read online

  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 theaccident. But although this seemed the only effect produced upon hisbodily health, his mind had suffered a severe shock which was notequally obvious. Fancies, each gloomier than the preceding, took,henceforth, more and more possession of his imagination. He seemed theharbinger of misfortune to all connected with him. Frequently rose upthe image of his dead brother, mingling with his dreams and obtrudingitself even into his waking thoughts, at one time dripping withwater as when taken from the pond--ghastly pale--livid--with scarcelydistinguishable lineaments; at another wrapped in the dress of thetomb, and pointing with bony finger to a new-made grave. Then his wifewould appear, holding their little son by the hand, and standing onthe opposite side of a river that rolled between, beckoning him tocross. But whenever he made the attempt the waves would close over hishead, 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, mosthorrible of all, he himself would be desperately struggling to holdSill under water, till finally the yielding body sunk, sunk intodepths no eye could fathom. But never till the face turned andtransfixed him with the despairing glare of those dreadful eyes.

  But we are anticipating and rather describing the condition intowhich his mind gradually fell, than its state immediately after hisinterview with the Solitary. It took some time longer before the ideathat by an inexorable decree he was doomed to entail destructionon all connected with him, became fixed. For awhile it floateduncertainly and impalpably before him, and only slowly, likean approaching spectre, took upon itself shape and presence. Aconversation between himself and his daughter on the second day afterthe accident, and his conduct immediately thereafter, may give us someapprehension 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, howthankful ought I to be for the saving of your precious life!"

  "We are often thankful in our ignorance," said her father, "for thegreatest misfortunes."

  "Do you call it a misfortune to me," she cried, "that I am not leftalone in the world? Oh, father, what should I do without you?" Andin spite of her exertions to suppress them, the tears burst from hereyes.

  "Come to me, my child," said Armstrong, and he took the weeping girlinto his arms, and leaned her head gently upon his bosom. "Composeyourself. Believe me, there are trials harder to be borne than theloss of parents."

  "None, none to me," sobbed Faith. "If it were right I would pray thatI 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, Itrust, 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, "atthinking of the possibility of a misfortune to myself, when my heartis swelling with thankfulness for your preservation?" She arose fromher 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 oldman, with white hair and bent body, creeps to his grave, while theinfant that has just learned to smile in its mother's face, is hurriedfrom 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 takenand I left?"

  "Why should we curiously inquire?" replied Faith. "If we could lookbehind the curtain, no doubt we should see sufficient reasons for thechoice."

  "When I look back upon my life," continued Armstrong, more distinctlyrevealing the thought lurking in his mind, "it seems as if I were bornto be the cause of misfortune to others. Had any one else been inthe boat, the accident would not have happened, or certainly notterminated 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 methe instrument to execute the decrees of Heaven. I am a rod toattract the fires that consume, while itself rises unscathed amid thedestruction."

  It seemed to Faith natural that her father should be affected by thedeath of the fisherman, who, after saving his life, had perished inthe attempt to bring rescue, although she thought his expressionsexaggerated. She felt pained at his self-reproaches, but doubted notthat soon the keenness of regret would lose its edge. In order thesooner, therefore, to produce this result, she attempted to divert histhoughts into another channel.

  "You are unjust to yourself, father," she said. "How many are there tobless you for charities known only to themselves and you?"

  "Mention them not, Faith, crumbs from my superfluity, like those thatfell from the other rich man's table. Besides, of what avail willany charities, as you call them, of mine be? They will serve only toconvey the curse that attaches itself to me. I tremble to think youare my daughter."

  "And I," said Faith, "can never be thankful enough for having sucha father. Ah, how happy we might be, if you would only banish thesefancies from your mind!"

  "Thus it is," said Armstrong. "Did I not say right? Like an evilspirit I scatter only gloom around one. I will remove a presence thatblasts whatever it meets."

  So saying he rose, and in spite of the tearful entreaties of hisdaughter, walked into the hall, and taking his great coat from thehook that held it, put it on and passed into the street.

  Faith, upon his departure, sunk into a chair, and allowed freecourse to her tears. They brought relief, and after a few moments sherecovered composure. "This is very foolish," she said to herself, "tocry like a child. My dear father is nervous, and I do not wonder, thatshocking accident agitates him. I am glad he is gone, for it isbetter he should seek the society of his friends, than sit here makinghimself melancholy with me. I must be cheerful to receive him when hereturns. At least, he shall see no trace of tears."

  Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong walked down the street, but shunningthe sight of others, he turned at the first opportunity into anunfrequented road. It led towards the Severn, and hardly knowing howit happened, he crossed a bridge, and soon found himself in the woodsthat skirt the left bank of that river. Unconsciously, and as ifattracted by some spell, he was directing his course towards the sceneof 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 hiscompanions, gradually subdued the excitement of his feelings. Hispace, at first rapid, relaxed, the light began to play upon the cloudsthat brooded on his spirits, and he wondered at his fancies and hisconduct.

  "How could I," thought he, "be so cruel to my own Faith! Her lifeought to be all sunshine and gladness, and would be but for me, and Imust sadden and darken it with the baleful imaginings of a distemperedmind. I must struggle harder and pray oftener and more fervently tobe preserved from myself. And now my soul feels the need of communingwith the Infinite Spirit. What fitter place for adoration than thestillness 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 floatingin the blue. He glanced at the sun flaming in golden magnificence. Hiseyes fell on the hoary stems of the giants of the forest. He sawthe trailing arbutus, the delicious herald of warmer suns and softerwinds, creeping to his feet, and raised his hands to heaven andrepeated 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 s
itt'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 themin his bosom. "Faith loves flowers," he said, "and the sweetness andwhiteness 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 Spiritcaught away.

  He continued his walk, striving to drive away the gloomy ideas, which,in spite of his resistance, threatened again to master him. With hiseyes bent upon the ground, he proceeded some distance, when a slightnoise attracted his attention. He raised his eyes, and discoveredthe cause. Five or six men were approaching, bearing, between them,something on some boards. Mr. Armstrong stopped, and, as they camenear, perceived, it was the body of the drowned fisherman.

  "Fate," he murmured between his teeth, "has driven me here. It wasmeet that the murderer should be confronted by his victim."

  The men, when they had surmounted the steep river bank, tired with theweight, put down the corpse near where Armstrong stood. He walked upto it, and gazed upon the face. The men, solemnized by the mournfultask, 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--effortsto close them had been in vain--but, there was no speculation in theformer, and the soul played no more around the latter. The long brownhair, from which the water dripped, hung in disorder over the foreheadand down the neck. Armstrong knelt on the withered leaves, by the sideof the corpse, and parted the hair with his fingers.

  "The agony," he said, as if addressing the drowned man, "is over. Thecurtain is lifted. The terrible secret is disclosed. You have heardthe summons we must all hear. You have trod the path we must alltread. You know your doom. Poor fellow! how gladly would I give mylife for yours."

  The bystanders were moved. Thus to behold the rich and prosperousMr. Armstrong, whose reserve was mistaken by some for haughtiness,kneeling on the ground and lamenting over the obscure fisherman, wassomething they had not expected.

  "Sill was a good fellow and a ginerous," said Tom Gladding, wipingaway 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 toa poor family. Josiah tried to make everybody comfortable."

  "When I was sick, a year ago," said one of the men, "and the neighborsthought I was going to die, Josiah set up many a night with me, whenhe had to work all the next day for his wife and children. I had nonotion, 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 muchconsarn him whether it's to-day or to-morrow, when you think ofetarnity. Howsoever, it's no use standing here sniveling; so, let'sget on. Miss Sill will be glad the body's found, though it will 'mostkill her to see it."

  Thereupon, Tom and his friends took up the corpse, and pursued theirway to the village.

  Armstrong stood still, and looked after them till they were out ofsight. He then turned, descended the bank, and sat upon a rock on theedge of the water.

  He reviewed the events of the day before the yesterday. He hadrepeatedly endeavored to divert his mind from such thoughts; but, inspite of his wishes, they would force themselves back. Finding allresistance vain, he had, finally, abandoned himself to their control.

  They passed confusedly through his mind. It was difficult to arrangethem in the order of their succession. He began to be uncertainwhether his visit to Holden was made before or after the drowning ofSill. He tried to recollect the purpose of his visit to the Solitary,but could fix upon nothing definite. He seemed to remember that he hadmade a confession of some sort, and that Holden had charged him withthe murder of his brother; and, at the same time, commended him forremoving George from the evil to come. His thoughts then reverted tothe upsetting of the boat. He knew that Sill had saved his life; butwhy, when in safety on the boat, had he left it? He had a notion ofsome conversation between them, and strove, till his brain burned, toremember it. Had he not urged the unfortunate man to swim ashore? Wasit not most probable he had done so? Was not that most consistent withhis usual treatment of others? Was not that the means adopted by thestern angel of fate, to accomplish the decree?

  Such was the nature of the thoughts of the unhappy Armstrong. Dowhat he might, he could not exclude them. They would give place to noothers. 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 notconsent; but, a mightier will commanded, and the weaker must obey.The sport of an irresistible necessity--with no power of choice--theblind, unwilling instrument of a controlling force, he was,notwithstanding, justly chargeable with every misfortune, and, like amalefactor, must endure the consequences.

  Long he sat thus absorbed in these wretched reflections. He staredupon the water, but saw nothing: the tide rose and wet his feet, buthe felt it not; the wind blew chill, but he was not cold. He got upat last from his seat, and was recalled to life. He felt stiff fromhaving been in one posture so long. He took out his watch, and foundit was twelve o'clock. He looked at the sun, and perceived it did notcontradict the watch, and turned his steps homeward.

  The crow from the topmost bough of a withered tree eyed him as hepassed along quite near, and croaked once, but did not leave hisperch. Armstrong heard him not. Nor did he heed the blue-bird singingin the noonday sun to the arbutus blossoms crushed by his unwittingfeet, or notice the petulant squirrel flinging down the shells of hisnuts, as if in mockery at the passing stranger. He was met by Primusin the village street, who took off his cap, but to the salutationof the negro he paid no regard. The General stopped as he passed, andturned round, with a sorrowful surprise, to look after him, and shookhis head. It was the first time Mr. Armstrong had passed him withoutnotice and a kind word. The negroes are very superstitious, and greatobservers of signs. He remarked that Mr. Armstrong's hat was pulledover his eyes, in the same manner he wore it at the funeral of hiswife, and augured some impending calamity.

  Mr. Armstrong entered his house, and threw himself into a seat, buthe sat only a moment. Something seemed to be wanting. A restlessimpatience possessed him. He took up the tongs and begun to alterthe disposition of the sticks of wood. He could not suit himself, andfinally abandoned the fire to itself, after having filled the roomwith smoke. He went to the bookcase, and took down a book, andcommenced reading. But presently his eyes wandered off, and fastenedthemselves on the rug. He threw down the book, and rung the bellviolently. Felix instantly answered the summons.

  "It seems to me you are very negligent in attending to the bell thismorning," said he. "It is unpleasant to be obliged to ring so often."

  "You ring only once, Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, opening his eyeswide with astonishment. "I in the kitchen at the time, and comeimmediumtly. 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 someladies."

  "Go, and find her, and request her to come home."

  Felix retreated hastily into the kitchen, and seized his cap. Butbefore going out he thought it necessary to speak to Rosa.

  "O, Rosa!" he said, "take care o' the boss while I'm gone. Somethingdreadful is happened to him, and I'm 'fraid of the consequence. If youhear the bell, Rosa, run for your life."

  "How can I leave the dinner? It all spoil, Felix," said Rosa. "I sendKaty."

  "Never mind t
wo dinners," cried Felix. "Better burn the roast beefthan make _him_ feel worse. I never know him cross afore."

  Felix was not obliged to go far. He had hardly got outside of thegate, when he saw his young mistress coming down the street. Walkingrapidly, he soon met her, and communicated his errand. Faith quickenedher steps, and in a few moments stood by the side of her father.

  She found him contemplating the sprigs of arbutus he had picked forher. The sight and scent of the lovely flowers had carried him back tothe moment when he plucked them, and restored, in a measure, thetone of mind that prevailed then. It was, therefore, with his usualsweetness he addressed her, though there was something in his voicethat made the words drop like so many tears upon her heart.

  "I have brought you some flowers, my darling," he said. "They are thefirst nurslings of spring. Beautiful things! looking up all night andday, with their starry eyes, to heaven, and drinking the dew of God'sgrace. Happy things! they know no sin nor sorrow, and are rememberedonly for their perfume and beauty. Take them, Faith. Sweets tothe sweet. Like these flowers, your soul exhales an atmosphere offragrance, and they belong to you."

  The mutations of Mr. Armstrong's mind were like the changes of anApril day. The softer mood was now prevailing, and as Faith kissed theflowers, before she put them in her bosom, she felt less unhappy thanin the morning.