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 with inevitable and steady step approaching its dreaded culminating point. To the outward eye he exhibited but little change. He was indeed, at times more restless, and his eyes would wander round as if in quest of some object that was trying to elude his sight; at one moment listless, silent, and dejected, and again animated, almost gay, like one who, ashamed of an exhibition of moody temper, tries to atone by extraordinary efforts of amiability for the error. His intimate friends had some knowledge of these changes, and to Faith, above all, living with him in the same house, and in the tender relation of a daughter to a parent, each of whom idolized the other, they were painfully apparent, and great was the anxiety they occasioned. How bitter were the tears which in solitude she shed, and frequent and fervent her supplications to the universal Father to pity and protect her 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, no great change was manifest. He was thinner and paler than usual, to be sure, but every one was liable to attacks of indisposition, and there was 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 was with his usual sweetness and affability. They guessed he'd be better after a while.
Such was the common judgment in the little community among those who had any knowledge of Armstrong's condition. They saw him daily in the streets. They conversed with him, and could see nothing out of the way. But some few who recollected the history of the family, and the circumstances attending the latter years of Armstrong's father, shook their heads, and did not hesitate to intimate that there had always been something strange about the Armstrongs. Curious stories, too, were told about the grandfather, and there was a dim tradition, nobody knew whence it came, or on what authority it rested, that the original ancestor of the family in this country, was distinguished in those days of ferocious bigotry, when the Indians were regarded by many as Canaanites, whom it was a religious duty to extirpate, as much for an unrelenting severity against the natives, bordering even on aberration of mind, as for reckless courage.
It is sad to look upon the ruins of a palace in whose halls the gay song and careless laugh long ago echoed; to contemplate the desolation of the choked fountains in gardens which were princely; and with difficulty to make one's way through encroaching weeds and tangled briers, over what once were paths where beauty lingered and listened to the vow of love; or to wander through the streets of a disentombed city, or seated on a fallen column, or the stone steps of the disinterred amphitheatre, to think of the human hearts that here, a thousand years agone, beat emulously with the hopes and fears, the loves and hates, the joys and sorrows, the aspiration and despair that animate or depress our own, and to reflect that they have all vanished—ah, whither? But however saddening the reflections occasioned by such contemplations, however much vaster the interests involved in them, they do not affect us with half that wretched sorrow with 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 thing terrestial "transitory," is written, and it is a doom we expect, and are 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 no desire to dwell upon this part of our history, but, on the contrary, to glide over it as rapidly as is consistent with the development of the tale.
Next after Faith, the faithful Felix noticed, with disquietude, the alteration in his master, and many were the sad colloquies he held with Rosa on the subject. Holden in some way or another was connected in his mind with the cause of Mr. Armstrong's melancholy, for although for several years the latter had not been remarkably cheerful, yet it was only since Holden's acquaintance had become intimacy, that that melancholy deepened into gloom. The simple fellow naturally looked round for some cause for the effect, and none presented itself so plausible as the one he adopted.
"I wish," he had repeatedly said to Rosa, "that the old man would stay away. I'd see the divil with as much satisfacshum as him. Miss Faith too, 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 servants very much alarm about you, sir."
"I am obliged to you, Felix, and to all of you, but really there is no occasion for any alarm," said Mr. Armstrong.
"The case is the alarmingest when the patient doesn't know how sick he is. There was my old friend, Pompey Topset. He was setting up on the bed, when I come in to see him, smoking a pipe. And says he, says Pompey to me, says he, Felix, how do you do? this child never feel better. Then he give one puff and his head fall on the breast, and the pipe jump out of his mouth and burnt the clothes, and where was Pompey! He never," added Felix, shaking his head, "was more mistaken in all his life."
Mr. Armstrong was obliged to smile. "So you think me in as dangerous a condition 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 his heart) you would smile pretty often. I can remember when the wren wasn't merrier than you, and you laughed almost as much as this fool Felix." At the recollection of those happy days, poor Felix pressed his hands upon his eyes, and tried to hide the tears, that in spite of his efforts stole through the fingers. "But," continued he, "I hope in the 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 take all possible notice of the affectionate fellow.
"I pufess a high 'pinion of the doctor," answered Felix. "There is no man who gives medicine that tastes worse, and therefore must be the powerfullest. I would proscribe the doctor, sir."
"You would prescribe the doctor? Ah, Felix, I am afraid my case has nothing to do with his medicines."
"There is one other thing I should like to mention if I wasn't 'fraid it 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 to see him. His visits always seem to leave you kind o' solemncolly like, and all the world is surprise that you are so condescensious to the basket-man."
"Enough of this," said Armstrong, abruptly and sternly. "You permit too much freedom to your tongue respecting your superiors. Leave the room."
Poor Felix, aghast at the sudden change in the manner of his master, precipitately retired, casting back a grieved look, and ejaculating under 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 is that he loves me too much, to speak freely, and then treat him harshly for his unintentional impertinence, assuming an importance that belongs to no one, and as if we were not worms creeping together towards the edge of that precipice from which we must fall into eternity. Whence springs my conduct but from pride, self-will, selfishness? I would arrogate a superiority over this poor negro. Poor negro! There spoke the pride of your heart, James Armstrong! But well is he called Felix in comparison with you. Happy in being born of a despised and persecuted race; happy in being condemned to the life of a servant, to an ignorance that diminishes responsibility; happy in receiving no good thing here. Strut about, James Armstrong, in purple and fine linen, but know that for all these things, God will assuredly call 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 the afternoon, he started off by himself, saying he might not return until evening. Felix, whose anxiety the rebuff in the morning had strengthened and confirmed, watched his master as he left the house, and would have followed to guard him against a danger, the approach of which he instinctively felt, but which he could not see, unless Faith, to whom he thought proper to communicate his intention, had forbidden him. She found it difficult to prevent him, so greatly were the fears of the black excited, on whose mind the motives of delicacy that induced Faith to desire to guard the movements of her father from observation, cannot be supposed to have exerted so much force. Much doubting and questioning the wisdom of the young lady, yet not venturing to disobey her, Felix blamed himself for making her acquainted with his design.
"This child head," he said, apostrophizing himself, "ain't no better than 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 a little way, soon striking across the fields and thus greatly abridging the distance he must have passed over had he pursued the high road. The truth is, he was directing his steps towards the very spot he had visited with Judge Bernard. He reached it, notwithstanding he was afoot, in much less time than the drive had taken, so rapidly did he walk when out of sight, and so much was the length of the way shortened. Upon arriving at the place, he sat down upon the same log which had been his former seat, and folding his arms sunk into a reverie. After the space of an hour, perhaps, thus passed, he rose and commenced piling up near the brook some pieces of wood which he took from the heaps about him, making another, differing from them principally in being smaller. As he crossed the sticks laid regularly at right angles upon each other, he filled up the intervals with the loose leaves and dry brush lying around. In this way he proceeded until he had raised a cube, perhaps six feet long, four wide, and four high.
During the whole time the work was progressing he seemed to be contending with violent emotions and driven along by some power he vainly tried to resist. Terror, awe, and repugnance were all portrayed upon his countenance. But still the work went on. When it was finished he stood off a few steps, and then, as in a sudden frenzy, rushed at, and seizing upon the several sticks of wood, hurled them in every direction around until the whole pile was demolished. Neglecting his hat that lay upon the ground, he then ran with a wild cry, and at the top of his speed, bounding, like a wild animal, over the brush and trunks of trees, as if in haste to remove himself from a dreadful object, until he reached the woods, when falling upon his face, he lay quite still. After a time he appeared seized with a hysterical passion; he pressed his hand on his side as if in pain, and heavy sobs burst at irregular intervals from his bosom. These finally passed away, and he sat up comparatively composed. A struggle was still going on, for several times he got up and walked a short distance and returned and threw himself down on the ground as before. At length, indistinctly muttering, unheeding the blazing sun that scorched his unprotected head, and lingering as though unwilling to advance, he returned to the scene of his former labors. And now, as if unwilling to trust himself with any delay, lest his resolution might falter, he proceeded, with a sort of feverish impatience, to reconstruct the pile. Shortly, the pieces were laid symmetrically upon each other as before, and the dead leaves and brush disposed in the intervals. After all was done, Armstrong leaned over and bowed his head in an attitude of supplication. When he raised it the eyes were tearless, and his pale face wore an aspect of settled despair. Resuming the hat, that until now had lain neglected in the leaves, he went to the brook and washed his hands in the running water.
"Could man wash out the sins of his soul," he said, "as I wash these stains from my hands! But water, though it may cleanse outer pollution, cannot reach the inner sin. Blood, blood only, can do that. Why was it that this dreadful law was imposed upon our race? But I will not dwell on this. I have interrogated the universe and God, and entreated them to disclose the awful secret, but in vain. My heart and brain are burnt to ashes in the attempt to decipher the mystery. I will strive no more. It is a provocation to faith. I dare not trust to reason. There is something above reason. I submit. Dreadful, unfathomable mystery, I submit, and accept thee with all the consequences at which the quivering flesh recoils."
Upon the return of Armstrong, all traces of violent emotion had disappeared, and given place to exhaustion and lassitude. Faith had, by this time, become so accustomed to the variable humors of her father, that, however much they pained her, she was no longer alarmed by them as formerly. It was her habit, whenever he was attacked by his malady, to endeavor to divert his attention from melancholy thoughts to others of a more cheerful character. And now, on this day, so fraught with horrors of which she was ignorant, although the silence of the unhappy man interrupted by fits of starting, and inquiries of the time o'clock, revealed to her that he was suffering to an unusual degree, she attempted the same treatment which, in more than one instance, had seemed to be attended with a beneficial effect. Armstrong was peculiarly sensitive to music, and it was to his love of it that she now trusted to chase away his gloom. When, therefore, in the evening, she had vainly endeavored to engage him in conversation, receiving only monosyllables in return, she advanced to the piano, and inquired if he would not like to hear her sing?
"Sing! my child?" said Armstrong, as if at first not understanding the question; "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 her father, 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 had ever hung with delight, and in the tones of that soft, beloved voice, it gradually insinuated itself through his whole being, as it were into 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 if he were seeking to appropriate some of the heavenly emotion that to his imagination, more and more excited, began to assume the appearance of a celestial halo around her head. But it is not necessary to assume the existence of insanity to account for such an impression. If there be anything which awakens reminiscences of a divine origin, it is from the lips of innocence and beauty, to listen to the pure heart pouring itself out in tones like voices dropping from the sky. The sweetness, the full perfection of the notes are not sufficient to account for the effect. No instrument made by human hands is adequate to it. There is something more, something lying behind, sustaining and floating through the sounds. Is it the sympathy of the heavenly for the earthly; the tender lamentation not unmixed with hope; the sigh of the attendant angel?
Upon the conclusion of the piece, Faith rose and took a seat by her father.
"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 own language; it is sweeter than the words of any poet. Faith, do you believe I love you?"
"Father! father!" cried she, embracing him, "how can you ask so cruel a question? I know that you love me as much as father ever loved a daughter."
"Promise me that nothing shall ever deprive you of a full confidence in 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 a thought 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. I would sooner die than admit it into my mind."
"I am satisfied. Under no circumstances can you conceive a thought of evil of me. But this is a strange world, and the strangest things happen in it. I speak in this way because I do not know what may come to pass next. I have always loved my fellow-men, and desired their good opinion, and the idea of forfeiting it, either through my own fault or theirs, is painful to me. But men judge so absurdly! They look 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 of confusion in the ordinary way of men's thinking? But I see clearly the cause of the errors into which they are perpetually falling. All the discord arises from having wills of their own. Do you not think so?"
"Religion teaches, father, that our wills are sources of unhappiness only 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 and one-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 deal troubled lest there might be truth in the doctrine, that Necessity, an iron 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 been entertained for thousands of years, and by the wisest men. The old philosophers believed in it, and I do not know how otherwise to explain 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," said Faith. "They cannot make us wiser or better, or comfort us in affliction, or strengthen us for duty."
"They are very interesting. I have spent days thinking them over. But if the subject is unpleasant we will choose another. I think you look wonderfully 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's mind directed to something else. "I wonder if he could have seen my mother."
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 far fetched, and intended for concealment. I think he must have seen my mother."
"If that is your opinion, I will inquire into it. But I do not wish to speak of Holden. You have been to me, Faith, a source of great happiness, and when you are gone, I know I shall not live long."
"We shall live many happy years yet, dear father, and when our time comes 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 affect my happiness, or diminish my confidence, that all is well according to the counsel of His will."
"I see thee in the shining raiment of the blessed! I behold thee in the celestial city!" exclaimed Armstrong.
It was later than usual when the father and daughter separated that night. It seemed as if he were unwilling to allow her to depart, detaining her by caresses when she made suggestions of the lateness of the hour, and assenting only when the clock warned that midnight was passed. Then it was he said:
"I do wrong to keep you up so long, Faith. You should be bright and well for an excursion I intend to take with you to-morrow. You will go with me, will you not?"
"I shall be delighted. The clear sky," she added, walking to the window, "promises a fine day."
"Upon how many new-made graves will to-morrow's sun shine? I wish mine was 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 to suffer much pain. Living or dying, you will be a pure offering to your Maker, 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-morrow will make a change."
He was near the door when he uttered the last words; and now, as if not daring to trust himself in a longer conversation, he hastily opened it, and proceeded to his chamber. Faith followed his example, pondering sadly over the conversation. It did not escape her, that it was more incoherent than usual, but she had seen persons before under great religious distress of mind, whose peace was afterwards restored, and she doubted not that, in like manner, her father's doubts would be solved, and his spirit calmed. With, her heart full of him, and her last thought a petition on his behalf, she fell asleep.