The Lost Hunter Part 31

"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 pa.s.sed 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 h.o.a.ry 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, impa.s.sive 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 pa.s.sed 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 ash.o.r.e? 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 pa.s.sed 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 sh.e.l.ls of his nuts, as if in mockery at the pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed, and turned round, with a sorrowful surprise, to look after him, and shook his head. It was the first time Mr. Armstrong had pa.s.sed him without notice and a kind word. The negroes are very superst.i.tious, 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 G.o.d'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.

CHAPTER XXVI.