"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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. 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, a.s.suming 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, G.o.d will a.s.suredly 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce of an hour, perhaps, thus pa.s.sed, 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 princ.i.p.ally 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 pa.s.sion; he pressed his hand on his side as if in pain, and heavy sobs burst at irregular intervals from his bosom. These finally pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude 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 G.o.d, 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 la.s.situde. 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sume the appearance of a celestial halo around her head. But it is not necessary to a.s.sume 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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."