The Lost Hunter

by John Turvill Adams

  CHAPTER XL.

  Man is a harp, whose cords elude the sight, Each yielding harmony disposed aright; The screws reversed (a task which if he please, God in a moment executes with ease), Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use.

  COWPER

  The aberration of mind of the unhappy Mr. Armstrong was at last withinevitable and steady step approaching its dreaded culminating point.To the outward eye he exhibited but little change. He was indeed, attimes more restless, and his eyes would wander round as if in questof some object that was trying to elude his sight; at one momentlistless, silent, and dejected, and again animated, almost gay, likeone who, ashamed of an exhibition of moody temper, tries to atoneby extraordinary efforts of amiability for the error. His intimatefriends had some knowledge of these changes, and to Faith, above all,living with him in the same house, and in the tender relation ofa daughter to a parent, each of whom idolized the other, they werepainfully apparent, and great was the anxiety they occasioned. Howbitter were the tears which in solitude she shed, and frequent andfervent her supplications to the universal Father to pity and protecther father! How willingly, even at the sacrifice even of her own life,would she have restored peace and happiness to him!

  But to the neighbors, to those who saw Armstrong only in public, nogreat change was manifest. He was thinner and paler than usual, to besure, but every one was liable to attacks of indisposition, and therewas no reason why he should be exempt; he did not speak a great deal,but he was always rather taciturn, and when he did converse, it waswith his usual sweetness and affability. They guessed he'd be betterafter a while.

  Such was the common judgment in the little community among those whohad any knowledge of Armstrong's condition. They saw him daily in thestreets. They conversed with him, and could see nothing out of theway. But some few who recollected the history of the family, and thecircumstances attending the latter years of Armstrong's father, shooktheir heads, and did not hesitate to intimate that there had alwaysbeen something strange about the Armstrongs. Curious stories, too,were told about the grandfather, and there was a dim tradition, nobodyknew whence it came, or on what authority it rested, that the originalancestor of the family in this country, was distinguished in thosedays of ferocious bigotry, when the Indians were regarded by many asCanaanites, whom it was a religious duty to extirpate, as much for anunrelenting severity against the natives, bordering even on aberrationof mind, as for reckless courage.

  It is sad to look upon the ruins of a palace in whose halls the gaysong and careless laugh long ago echoed; to contemplate the desolationof the choked fountains in gardens which _were_ princely; and withdifficulty to make one's way through encroaching weeds and tangledbriers, over what once were paths where beauty lingered and listenedto the vow of love; or to wander through the streets of a disentombedcity, or seated on a fallen column, or the stone steps of thedisinterred amphitheatre, to think of the human hearts that here, athousand years agone, beat emulously with the hopes and fears, theloves and hates, the joys and sorrows, the aspiration and despairthat animate or depress our own, and to reflect that they haveall vanished--ah, whither? But however saddening the reflectionsoccasioned by such contemplations, however much vaster the interestsinvolved in them, they do not affect us with half that wretched sorrowwith which we gaze upon the wreck of a human mind. In the former case,that which has passed away has performed its part; on every thingterrestial "transitory," is written, and it is a doom we expect, andare prepared for; but in the latter it is a shrouding of the heavens;it is a conflict betwixt light and darkness, where darkness conquers;it is an obscuration and eclipse of the godlike. We therefore feel nodesire to dwell upon this part of our history, but, on the contrary,to glide over it as rapidly as is consistent with the development ofthe tale.

  Next after Faith, the faithful Felix noticed, with disquietude, thealteration in his master, and many were the sad colloquies he heldwith Rosa on the subject. Holden in some way or another was connectedin his mind with the cause of Mr. Armstrong's melancholy, for althoughfor several years the latter had not been remarkably cheerful, yet itwas only since Holden's acquaintance had become intimacy, that thatmelancholy deepened into gloom. The simple fellow naturally lookedround for some cause for the effect, and none presented itself soplausible as the one he adopted.

  "I wish," he had repeatedly said to Rosa, "that the old man would stayaway. I'd see the divil with as much satisfacshum as him. Miss Faithtoo, I am sorry to say, is out of her wits."

  One morning when Felix went up stairs, in answer to his master's bell,he could not avoid remarking on his altered appearance.

  "I hope you will 'scuse me, sir," he said, "but me and the servantsvery much alarm about you, sir."

  "I am obliged to you, Felix, and to all of you, but really there is nooccasion for any alarm," said Mr. Armstrong.

  "The case is the alarmingest when the patient doesn't know how sick heis. There was my old friend, Pompey Topset. He was setting up on thebed, when I come in to see him, smoking a pipe. And says he, saysPompey to me, says he, Felix, how do you do? this child never feelbetter. Then he give one puff and his head fall on the breast, andthe pipe jump out of his mouth and burnt the clothes, and where wasPompey! He never," added Felix, shaking his head, "was more mistakenin all his life."

  Mr. Armstrong was obliged to smile. "So you think me in as dangerous acondition as Pompey was, when he took his last smoke."

  "Bless you, Mr. Armstrong for the sweet smile," exclaimed, the negro."If you know how good it make me feel here, (laying his hand on hisheart) you would smile pretty often. I can remember when the wrenwasn't merrier than you, and you laughed almost as much as this foolFelix." At the recollection of those happy days, poor Felix pressedhis hands upon his eyes, and tried to hide the tears, that in spite ofhis efforts stole through the fingers. "But," continued he, "I hope inthe name of marcy, that you ain't so bad off as Pompey. That can't be.I only spoke of him for the sake of--of--the illumination."

  "And what would you have me do?" inquired Armstrong, desirous to takeall possible notice of the affectionate fellow.

  "I pufess a high 'pinion of the doctor," answered Felix. "There is noman who gives medicine that tastes worse, and therefore must be thepowerfullest. I would proscribe the doctor, sir."

  "You would prescribe the doctor? Ah, Felix, I am afraid my case hasnothing to do with his medicines."

  "There is one other thing I should like to mention if I wasn't 'fraidit might offend Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, hesitatingly.

  "And what is that, Felix? I will promise not to be offended."

  Thus encouraged, Felix ventured to say.

  "I have remark that Mr. Holden come often to see you, and you go tosee him. His visits always seem to leave you kind o' solemncolly like,and all the world is surprise that you are so condescensious to thebasket-man."

  "Enough of this," said Armstrong, abruptly and sternly. "You permittoo much freedom to your tongue respecting your superiors. Leave theroom."

  Poor Felix, aghast at the sudden change in the manner of his master,precipitately retired, casting back a grieved look, and ejaculatingunder his breath, as he closed the door, "Good Lord!"

  "What is the matter with me?" said Armstrong, presently to himself,upon being left alone. "I invite this poor fellow, whose only fault isthat he loves me too much, to speak freely, and then treat him harshlyfor his unintentional impertinence, assuming an importance thatbelongs to no one, and as if we were not worms creeping togethertowards the edge of that precipice from which we must fall intoeternity. Whence springs my conduct but from pride, self-will,selfishness? I would arrogate a superiority over this poor negro. Poornegro! There spoke the pride of your heart, James Armstrong! But wellis he called Felix in comparison with you. Happy in being born of adespised and persecuted race; happy in being condemned to the life ofa servant, to an ignorance that diminishes responsibility; happy inreceiving no good thing here. Strut about, Jam
es Armstrong, in purpleand fine linen, but know that for all these things, God will assuredlycall thee to judgment."

  That whole day Armstrong seemed debating some question with himself.He paid less than even his usual attention to what was passing around,and more than once was spoken to without heeding the address. In theafternoon, he started off by himself, saying he might not returnuntil evening. Felix, whose anxiety the rebuff in the morning hadstrengthened and confirmed, watched his master as he left the house,and would have followed to guard him against a danger, the approach ofwhich he instinctively felt, but which he could not see, unless Faith,to whom he thought proper to communicate his intention, had forbiddenhim. She found it difficult to prevent him, so greatly were the fearsof the black excited, on whose mind the motives of delicacy thatinduced Faith to desire to guard the movements of her father fromobservation, cannot be supposed to have exerted so much force.Much doubting and questioning the wisdom of the young lady, yetnot venturing to disobey her, Felix blamed himself for making heracquainted with his design.

  "This child head," he said, apostrophizing himself, "ain't no betterthan a squash. What made me tell Miss Faith what I were going to do?"

  After Armstrong left the house, he continued in the street only alittle way, soon striking across the fields and thus greatly abridgingthe distance he must have passed over had he pursued the high road.The truth is, he was directing his steps towards the very spot hehad visited with Judge Bernard. He reached it, notwithstanding he wasafoot, in much less time than the drive had taken, so rapidly didhe walk when out of sight, and so much was the length of the wayshortened. Upon arriving at the place, he sat down upon the samelog which had been his former seat, and folding his arms sunk into areverie. After the space of an hour, perhaps, thus passed, he rose andcommenced piling up near the brook some pieces of wood which hetook from the heaps about him, making another, differing from themprincipally in being smaller. As he crossed the sticks laid regularlyat right angles upon each other, he filled up the intervals with theloose leaves and dry brush lying around. In this way he proceededuntil he had raised a cube, perhaps six feet long, four wide, and fourhigh.

  During the whole time the work was progressing he seemed to becontending with violent emotions and driven along by some power hevainly tried to resist. Terror, awe, and repugnance were all portrayedupon his countenance. But still the work went on. When it was finishedhe stood off a few steps, and then, as in a sudden frenzy, rushedat, and seizing upon the several sticks of wood, hurled them in everydirection around until the whole pile was demolished. Neglecting hishat that lay upon the ground, he then ran with a wild cry, and at thetop of his speed, bounding, like a wild animal, over the brush andtrunks of trees, as if in haste to remove himself from a dreadfulobject, until he reached the woods, when falling upon his face, helay quite still. After a time he appeared seized with a hystericalpassion; he pressed his hand on his side as if in pain, and heavysobs burst at irregular intervals from his bosom. These finally passedaway, and he sat up comparatively composed. A struggle was stillgoing on, for several times he got up and walked a short distance andreturned and threw himself down on the ground as before. At length,indistinctly muttering, unheeding the blazing sun that scorched hisunprotected head, and lingering as though unwilling to advance, hereturned to the scene of his former labors. And now, as if unwillingto trust himself with any delay, lest his resolution might falter,he proceeded, with a sort of feverish impatience, to reconstruct thepile. Shortly, the pieces were laid symmetrically upon each other asbefore, and the dead leaves and brush disposed in the intervals. Afterall was done, Armstrong leaned over and bowed his head in an attitudeof supplication. When he raised it the eyes were tearless, and hispale face wore an aspect of settled despair. Resuming the hat, thatuntil now had lain neglected in the leaves, he went to the brook andwashed his hands in the running water.

  "Could man wash out the sins of his soul," he said, "as I washthese stains from my hands! But water, though it may cleanse outerpollution, cannot reach the inner sin. Blood, blood only, can do that.Why was it that this dreadful law was imposed upon our race? But Iwill not dwell on this. I have interrogated the universe and God, andentreated them to disclose the awful secret, but in vain. My heartand brain are burnt to ashes in the attempt to decipher the mystery. Iwill strive no more. It is a provocation to faith. I dare not trustto reason. There is something above reason. I submit. Dreadful,unfathomable mystery, I submit, and accept thee with all theconsequences at which the quivering flesh recoils."

  Upon the return of Armstrong, all traces of violent emotion haddisappeared, and given place to exhaustion and lassitude. Faith had,by this time, become so accustomed to the variable humors of herfather, that, however much they pained her, she was no longer alarmedby them as formerly. It was her habit, whenever he was attacked by hismalady, to endeavor to divert his attention from melancholy thoughtsto others of a more cheerful character. And now, on this day, sofraught with horrors of which she was ignorant, although the silenceof the unhappy man interrupted by fits of starting, and inquiries ofthe time o'clock, revealed to her that he was suffering to an unusualdegree, she attempted the same treatment which, in more than oneinstance, had seemed to be attended with a beneficial effect.Armstrong was peculiarly sensitive to music, and it was to his love ofit that she now trusted to chase away his gloom. When, therefore, inthe evening, she had vainly endeavored to engage him in conversation,receiving only monosyllables in return, she advanced to the piano, andinquired if he would not like to hear her sing?

  "Sing! my child?" said Armstrong, as if at first not understanding thequestion; "Oh, yes--let me hear you sing."

  Faith opened the piano, and turning over the leaves of a music book,and selecting a sacred melody as best befitting the mood of herfather, sung, with much sweetness and expression, the following lines:

  How shall I think of Thee, eternal Fountain Of earthly joys and boundless hopes divine, Of Thee, whose mercies are beyond recounting, To whom unnumbered worlds in praises shine?

  I see thy beauty in the dewy morning, And in the purple sunset's changing dyes; Thee I behold the rainbow's arch adorning; Thee in the starry glories of the skies.

  The modest flower, low in the green grass blushing, The wondrous wisdom of the honey bee, The birds' clear joy in streams of music gushing, In sweet and varied language tell of Thee.

  All things are with Thy loving presence glowing, The worm as well as the bright, blazing star; Out of Thine infinite perfection flowing, For Thine own bliss and their delight THEY ARE.

  But chiefly in the pure and trusting spirit, Is Thy choice dwelling-place, Thy brightest throne. The soul that loves shall all of good inherit, For Thou, O God of love art all its own.

  Upon Thine altar I would lay all feeling, Subdued and hallowed to Thy perfect will, Accept these tears, a thankful heart revealing, A heart that hopes, that trembles, and is still.

  At the commencement of the hymn, Armstrong paid but little attention,but as the sweet stream of melody flowed on from lips on which he hadever hung with delight, and in the tones of that soft, beloved voice,it gradually insinuated itself through his whole being, as it wereinto the innermost chambers of his soul. He raised the dejected eyes,and they dwelt on Faith's face with a sort of loving eagerness, as ifhe were seeking to appropriate some of the heavenly emotion that tohis imagination, more and more excited, began to assume the appearanceof a celestial halo around her head. But it is not necessary to assumethe existence of insanity to account for such an impression. If therebe anything which awakens reminiscences of a divine origin, it is fromthe lips of innocence and beauty, to listen to the pure heart pouringitself out in tones like voices dropping from the sky. The sweetness,the full perfection of the notes are not sufficient to account for theeffect. No instrument made by human hands is adequate to it. Thereis something more, something lying behind, sustaining and floatingthrough the sounds. Is it the sympathy of the heavenly for theeart
hly; the tender lamentation not unmixed with hope; the sigh of theattendant angel?

  Upon the conclusion of the piece, Faith rose and took a seat by herfather.

  "Shall I sing more, father?" she inquired.

  "No, my darling," answered Armstrong, taking her hand into his."Dearly as I love to hear you, and although it may be the last time,I would rather have you nearer me, and hear you speak in your ownlanguage; it is sweeter than the words of any poet. Faith, do youbelieve I love you?"

  "Father! father!" cried she, embracing him, "how can you ask so cruela question? I know that you love me as much as father ever loved adaughter."

  "Promise me that nothing shall ever deprive you of a full confidencein my affection."

  "I should be most wretched, could I think it possible."

  "But suppose I should kill you this instant?"

  "Dear father, this is horrid! You are incapable of entertaining athought of evil towards me."

  "You are right, Faith, but only suppose it."

  "I cannot have such a thought of my own father! It is impossible. Iwould sooner die than admit it into my mind."

  "I am satisfied. Under no circumstances can you conceive a thoughtof evil of me. But this is a strange world, and the strangest thingshappen in it. I speak in this way because I do not know what may cometo pass next. I have always loved my fellow-men, and desired theirgood opinion, and the idea of forfeiting it, either through my ownfault or theirs, is painful to me. But men judge so absurdly! Theylook only at the outside. They are so easily deceived by appearances!Do you know, that of late I have thought there was a great deal ofconfusion in the ordinary way of men's thinking? But I see clearly thecause of the errors into which they are perpetually falling. All thediscord arises from having wills of their own. Do you not think so?"

  "Religion teaches, father, that our wills are sources of unhappinessonly when opposed to the Divine will."

  "I knew you would agree with me. And then think of the folly of it.The resistance must be ineffectual. That is a sweet song you sung,but it seems to me the theology of it is not altogether correct.It celebrates only the love of God, and is, therefore, partial andone-sided. He is also a consuming fire."

  "A consuming fire to destroy what is evil."

  "I hope it is so. But do you know that I have been a good dealtroubled lest there might be truth in the doctrine, that Necessity, aniron Necessity, you understand, might control God himself?"

  "Why will you distress yourself with these strange speculations,father? There are some things, it was intended, we should not know."

  "Why," continued Armstrong, "it is an opinion that has beenentertained for thousands of years, and by the wisest men. The oldphilosophers believed in it, and I do not know how otherwise toexplain the destiny of the elect and reprobate. For you see, Faith,that if God could make all men happy, he would. But he does not."

  "I think we ought not to engage our minds in such thoughts," saidFaith. "They cannot make us wiser or better, or comfort us inaffliction, or strengthen us for duty."

  "They are very interesting. I have spent days thinking them over. Butif the subject is unpleasant we will choose another. I think you lookwonderfully like your mother to-night. I almost seem to see her again.It was very curious how Mr. Holden discovered your likeness to her."

  "I was quite startled," said his daughter, glad to find her father'smind directed to something else. "I wonder if he could have seen mymother."

  He explained the way in which he found it out. "Was it not ingenious?No one else would have thought of it. He has a very subtle intellect."

  "I was not quite satisfied," said Faith. "His explanation seemed farfetched, and intended for concealment. I think he must have seen mymother."

  "If that is your opinion, I will inquire into it. But I do not wishto speak of Holden. You have been to me, Faith, a source of greathappiness, and when you are gone, I know I shall not live long."

  "We shall live many happy years yet, dear father, and when our timecomes to depart, we will thank God for the happiness we have enjoyed,and look forward to greater."

  "Your time is at the door, my daughter," said Armstrong, solemnly.

  "I know that at any moment I may be called, but that does not affectmy happiness, or diminish my confidence, that all is well according tothe counsel of His will."

  "I see thee in the shining raiment of the blessed! I behold thee inthe celestial city!" exclaimed Armstrong.

  It was later than usual when the father and daughter separated thatnight. It seemed as if he were unwilling to allow her to depart,detaining her by caresses when she made suggestions of the lateness ofthe hour, and assenting only when the clock warned that midnight waspassed. Then it was he said:

  "I do wrong to keep you up so long, Faith. You should be bright andwell for an excursion I intend to take with you to-morrow. You will gowith me, will you not?"

  "I shall be delighted. The clear sky," she added, walking to thewindow, "promises a fine day."

  "Upon how many new-made graves will to-morrow's sun shine? I wish minewas one of them"

  "O, do not say so. You will break my heart."

  "Not willingly. O! I do not pain you willingly. You were not born tosuffer much pain. Living or dying, you will be a pure offering to yourMaker, my daughter."

  "Father, how strangely you talk! You are ill."

  "As well as I shall be in this life. But do not be troubled. To-morrowwill make a change."

  He was near the door when he uttered the last words; and now, asif not daring to trust himself in a longer conversation, he hastilyopened it, and proceeded to his chamber. Faith followed his example,pondering sadly over the conversation. It did not escape her, that itwas more incoherent than usual, but she had seen persons before undergreat religious distress of mind, whose peace was afterwards restored,and she doubted not that, in like manner, her father's doubts wouldbe solved, and his spirit calmed. With, her heart full of him, and herlast thought a petition on his behalf, she fell asleep.