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 linéaments; 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.