University of Virginia Library

67. CHAPTER LXVII.
HOW ST. JOHN KEPT HIS APPOINTMENT WITH THE
STRANGER.

Three days after the morning ride of the friends, and
about midnight, a man was seated in the upper room of
the tall house pointed out by the stranger to St. John,
and bending over a great table covered with papers, was
writing rapidly.

It was the stranger himself.

He was clad in the same sable suit—his face was pale
and earnest as before—and he was writing by the light of
a single candle which sent its feeble glimmer far across the
roofs of the houses—a solitary sentinel, in its watch-tower,
over the sleeping town.

The stranger continued writing for half an hour without
raising his head; but at the end of that time, a footstep
upon the winding stair-case attracted his attention.

He listened as the step ascended, and went to the door,
which he threw open.

He found himself opposite to Mr. St. John.

“Ah! it is you, friend!” he said; “welcome! And yet I
grieve to see you—if—”

And a look of inquiry ended the sentence.

St. John inclined his head, slowly, and took the seat toward
which the stranger motioned him.

“I reply to your unuttered question,” said the young man,
calmly; “yes, I have come to seek you, as you predicted
I would come. It is to do my duty—to try at least. I am
ready to do all that a broken-hearted man may do—a poor
gentleman. You were right; I am miserable, utterly so—
you triumph.”

Having thus spoken in a tone of gloomy, but uncomplaining
despair, the young man leaned upon the table, and lowered
his eyes.

The stranger looked at him long and intently, without
speaking. Then taking his cold hand and pressing it,

“You will not think me insincere when I tell you, sir,” he
said, “that your unhappiness deeply afflicts me. I will not be
guilty of the bad taste of asking its nature, of probing your
wounds afresh, and making you suffer for the gratification
of my curiosity. It is enough for me to know that you are
grieved, and I most sincerely sympathize with you, and, if
possible, would endeavor to console you.”

There was great dignity in the air of the stranger, as he
spoke, and that sincerity which springs from a superior nature,
but the young man only shook his head, and muttered
some inaudible thanks.

“So let it be then, friend,” said the stranger, “I shall ask
you no questions and offer no common-place consolations.
Will you permit me, however, to make one observation before
we dismiss the subject?”

“Willingly.”

“Do you remember one day when we dined in your private
apartment at the Raleigh tavern?”

“Yes, perfectly,” said St. John.

“Do you remember observing my silence and abstraction?”

“Yes.”

“To end my questions—do you recall that history of

my life which I related in the old church at Richmond
town?”

“I shall not forget it.”

“Well, friend,” said the stranger, calmly, “the apartment
to which you conducted me, in the Raleigh tavern, was the
one which she occupied, when I knew her first—the woman
who was more to me than life. There first I saw her,
there she moved about, and sat, and read, and smiled; there
first her head rested on my breast, and I heard her heart
speak to me. Well, I thus entered that room again at your
invitation, after years of absence, and I recognized, perfectly,
every detail of the apartment—the windows, the old
mirror above the fireplace, the very andirons, and the crack
in the plaster of the wall. Here she had sat down and
looked at me so kindly, there she had stood with the breeze
lifting her curls, yonder she had leaned one white arm on
the moulding—I saw all, and lived through the whole past
again. You observed my abstraction, I remember; you
gazed at me as I leaned on the table, and left the wine untasted,
and mused.”

“Yes, I saw all that, sir,” said St. John, “and I feel for
you.”

“Let me finish, friend; it is not idly that I recall all this.
I say that there, in that apartment, I thus recalled to my
mind the grand hours of my life, when my horizon was all
sunshine, and the sad present was set, like a black figure,
against that dead sunlight. Well, I did not groan and sob,
turn pale, and cover my face. I looked, in turn, upon every
object; I traversed the whole past with a single glance, and
then I returned to the subject we had been discussing, without
emotion. Do you understand?”

St John inclined his head, calmly.

“You wish to console me,” he said. “I thank you.”

“I wish, indeed, to say to you that the lapse of time
slowly wears away the deepest impressions, that grief gradually
disappears, that God finally leaves us only that pensive
sadness which surrounds the beloved and lost figure with a

sort of glory, contributing far more to our happiness than
our misery.”

St. John remained silent.

“I have said,” added the stranger, “that I would not
weary you, in your doubtless great grief, with common-place
consolations. But I declare to you, friend, as the result
of the observation and experience of a life crammed with
bitter and corroding emotions—I declare to you, I say, as a
proposition, a truth, which can not be refuted, or modified
in its application, that the merciful God, who has made the
creature man, does not design, nor will he permit grief to
master us, the clouds to overshadow us for ever. The gloom
will disappear, the sun will again shine, that hope which
now flies from you for ever, as you imagine, will return, and
again you will be happy.”

St. John listened in the same gloomy silence, and said at
last,

“I know not if I even believe in a God, but I do in my
destiny.”

The stranger looked sadly at his companion.

“I thought the old Greek dogma had disappeared, friend,”
he said; “destiny is but another word for chance, however
opposite they may seem.”

“Well, I do not refuse that philosophy either.”

“Look at that flower on my table,” said the stranger;
“that alone refutes you.”

“An apple blossom; yes, it is very pretty; simple, but
delicate and beautiful.”

“Simple?” said the stranger; “there, friend, you err;
't is a miracle of complexity. Its history unfolds the spirit
of the universe, and simple as that flower may seem to you,
the links of an invisible chain bind it to the throne of the
Eternal. Look at it with me; see these delicate petals, like
rose-colored velvet, the germ of the fruit in the middle of
the star, the down on the leaf and around the stem. A
thousand trees shall grow upon a hundred hills, and no one
shall produce a different bloom, and if this be conceded,

friend, 't is violating reason to dub such causality as is here
apparent, with the name of chance. Chance might, if you
choose, originate this blossom, though I could never comprehend
the meaning of the word, even; but could a blind
chance continue to produce? Let it be granted that this
wonderful trifle came by accident, could accident constantly
renew it? Is it not a mere contradiction, I ask you calmly,
friend? To me it is evident that this incessant reproduction,
this fatal sequence, involves necessarily the existence of
law. The bough buds and blooms, the bloom falls away,
the green germ expands into a globe, striped or mottled,
filled with juice, sour or sweet, and the small seed of this
globe possesses the reproductive power so perfectly that
with a handful you may plant a forest. Year after year that
forest, in turn, blossoms and bears fruit—what fruit? Why
the same, absolutely the same, and the existence of immutable
law thus reveals itself. I see you acquiesce.

“Well now friend,” continued the stranger, whose design
seemed to be a diversion of the young man's thoughts,
“if this law does beyond doubt exist, how was it established?
Chaos as you know is the primal condition of
matter—does order evolve itself from chaos blindly? or
can law itself rise from anarchy without a motor, a fiat of
some greater power? There must of necessity be something
above chaos and anarchy, to bring forth law and
order. What must it be? Why a God. It seems to me,
friend, that the necessity for this Being is more fatally
logical, armed with a wedge more penetrating, than the
Greek `Necessity.' ”

“I did not mean to say that I doubted the existence of
a supreme Being,” said St. John gloomily; “I only say
that this Being, if he exists, has made my life darkness.”

“How do you know that fact?”

“My reason tells me so—to answer you philosophically,”
said St. John.

“And what does your reason tell you about the atonement?”

“It recoils.”

“I thought so. Well, friend, permit me to say that you
reject these consolations precisely because you reason as
you do, with the head.”

“How should I?”

“As a child does, with the heart.”

“Must I embrace blindly?” said the young man with
gloomy calmness. “I can not do that.”

“No one expects you to.”

“How then?”

“With faith founded on reason—a `reasonable faith.' ”

“Faith and reason are implacable enemies,” said St.
John struggling gloomily against hope, “the encyclopæ
dists prove that——”

“Man is a machine. So they do, friend,” interrupted the
stranger. “Well they make but sorry machines of us—I
prefer one of wood and iron to their imaginary men. I
say that faith and reason, so far from being hostile, are inseparable;—true
faith and right reason, understand me,
friend—else we wander. It is no quibble to say you must
exert faith to believe in reason—to comprehend what is
really such. I do not call a skepticism, springing from
depravity of life, and warping mind and heart, the triumph
of reason. I say that the French idea of it is based at
most on science and philosophy miscalled; and the encyclopædists
stumble in the dark, and utter only broken
words, for science and philosophy are progressive. Do
you comprehend the immense significance of this fact,
friend? Undoubtedly both science and philosophy are
constantly advancing and unfolding—well, the philosophy
preached by Paul in the name of his Master, is perfect,
finished, not progressive. From Plato and Pythagoras,
to Diderot and D'Alembert, the philosophers of all nations
have been speculating on the mystery of human life—man's
destiny; and those accomplished intellects, you must confess,
have come to different conclusions. They all appealed
to science and philosophy, and their systems have all been

rejected—because the child who succeeds the octogenarian
knows more than the gray-haired thinker—has the benefit
of every new discovery, a sealed book to the generation
preceding him. That is undoubtedly the state of science.
What is revelation, by which term I mean of course the
system of the `Nazarene philosopher,' as says a friend of
mine? Is it either progressive or defective? More than
seventeen hundred years ago, from the depths of the East,
where the paganism of the profligate Romans mingled
with the groveling hypocrisy of the debased Hebrews—
from this repulsive society of hard masters and cowering
slaves, came a man of thirty, announcing a new system.
He was poor, and his followers were some fishermen from
the most gnorant district of the country of Galilee. This
man continued to disseminate his views for three years, and
then the Hebrews, whom he arraigned as hypocrites, procured
his execution as a seditious person, in the Roman
manner—by crucifixion. What was the system of this
young philosopher, the philosophy originating in the most
debased age and people of which history speaks? Friend,
you may read it in the book called by that Greek word
itself—the Bible. If you do not see that the model therein
given is superior to the highest development of holiness
found in the purest ages and the most enlightened countries,
you must read without the student's mind. As I
have said over and over, human philosophy is progressive,
and consequently defective; the divine system is not progressive,
because it is perfect. It has not advanced one
step for seventeen hundred years, and is still immeasurably
in advance of our purer civilization. Is that not plain?
Look at it as a statesman searching for the means of leading
a great land to happiness and glory; then say if you
can doubt that if the precepts of the Nazarene philosopher
—I mean love and charity—were the common law, the
world would touch the summit of her splendor, her peace
and joy? Year by year, the world has advanced to higher
heights under the banner bearing that rude instrument on
which the Founder was executed—the Cross drives the
powers of darkness before its triumphal march. Thus the
earth blossoms every year with purer flowers; but where
is the individual whose life has approached the great Exemplar's?
He was a poor youth, reared up in the midst
of the superstition, cruelty, and debasement of a pagan
land and nation. You, a Virginia gentleman of the eighteenth
century can not touch the threshold of this majestic
temple, where truth and goodness sit like queens. I finish
by saying, that if there is any cause and effect, the system
can not be of human origin. I would rather believe the
miracles recorded in that book than credit the idea that
the man who founded its system was merely a man—a system
which, after two thousand years nearly, soars above the
onward march of the nations, and remains unapproached
and unapproachable. Reason shifts and changes, and the
philosophy of to-day is the byword of the morrow. This
revelation alone does not change—because man eternally
requires the same consolation, just this, and this alone—and
so it will be to the end. Friend, there are times when the
cold reason brings but sorry consolation. When the heart
is broken with grief, the spirit weary and worn by sorrow,
the eye dim, and the blood cold, at such times we do not
read the encyclopaedia. We then feel that the heart is
greater than the intellect—that after all we are not machines—we
find in faith that rest which the wounded seek
when they drag their bleeding limbs from the battle field.
I ask for the healing balm, and will not listen to Voltaire
who stands by and sneers, and tries to persuade me that it
is a nostrum. And now pardon me for these many words;
my excuse is that they are true.”

“There is nothing for me to pardon,” said St. John, in the
same cold and gloomy tone; “I should rather return you
my thanks, friend. I see plainly that your object is to console
me in my affliction. I only regret that 't is impossible.
Whatever I may have in the future, I have now no faith
like yours. I lament it, but I can not help it. Let me not

longer trespass on your time than is absolutely necessary.
You were writing?”

“Yes,” said the stranger, abandoning the subject, as his
companion desired, “I was at work.”

“And I interrupt you.”

“No, it is not interruption to see friends, whatever having
others by me may be. The mind gathers strength and
elasticity from rest. My pamphlet will end with greater
vigor for your visit.”

And the stranger lifted one of the sheets and ran his eye
over it with that comprehensive glance peculiar to authors.

“I have nearly finished,” he said.

“What is it?” asked St. John, who had never for a moment
lost his cold and gloomy air, and seemed indeed to
move and speak like a lifeless automaton; “is it revolutionary?”

“You shall judge for yourself.”

And the stranger pointed to a rough printed sheet of proof.
Mr. St. John read,

“Thoughts on the Present Aspect of Affairs, by a
Man of the Times.”

As he was reading the commencement of the pamphlet,
a tap at the door announced a visitor, and without waiting
for permission, a printer's boy entered.

The stranger handed him the pages of MS., and he retired
as silently as he had come.

St. John, for a moment interrupted, again returned to the
pamphlet, and having read the two or three sheets, said, as
he laid them down,

“That seems to me treason, friend—it will be seized.”

“No,” said the stranger.

“Why not?”

“At least if it is seized, that ceremony will take place in
a thousand separate localities throughout Virginia.”

“You do not publish here then?”

“No, 't is only printed here.”

“And scattered by your agents?”

The stranger nodded.

St. John reflected for some moments without speaking,
and then said,

“I came to offer you a gift for the cause, friend. 'T is
twenty thousand pounds, in valid securities, for which I will
take your receipt.”

The young man uttered these words as coldly as before,
and then waited for the stranger's reply.

That reply was a refusal of the money, on the ground
that the association would not consent to impoverish its
friends even for the general good. The stranger presented
his view at great length and earnestly, but St. John did not
seem in the least moved by his arguments.

“Well, friend,” he said, with gloomy calmness and the
same measured, automaton-like movement of the head, “well,
be it as you wish. I can not force you to accept the gift I
offer; but I forewarn you that this refusal will be injurious
to me, perhaps fatal, if I do not forestall its effects. You
look at me with curiosity, and my words even seem to cause
you concern; well, I will respond to the silent question of
your eyes; I will speak plainly as you formerly spoke; I
will explain my meaning, and the action I have taken.”

St. John paused a moment, and suppressed the groan
which struggled for utterance—in an instant he was again
calm.

“Since I last saw you, friend,” he said, coldly, “I have
suffered a misfortune which henceforth renders me the victim
of an incurable despair. I shall only say, upon this
point, that my despair proceeds from the changed relations
of a woman who is no longer the same to me, and has
broken my heart. 'T is almost a piece of cant, the phrase
which I use, but it is true. You will easily understand, after
these words, that I can not remain where I was once happy.
I can not look upon the objects which were familiar to me
and to her, without breaking my heart daily, and opening
afresh my almost mortal wounds. I fear to do so. I think
my frame, already much weakened by illness, would succumb.

I shall therefore go away from these scenes; I shall
never again look upon them. I have just perfected the arrangements
by which my whole property is alienated, my
intention being to leave Virginia for ever. I have executed,
in the first place, a deed by which my old and faithful servants,
with their entire families, are conveyed in fee simple
to a gentleman living near me, my uncle—one who has been
a most tender father to me in my orphanage, refusing absolutely
to accept the least return for his kindness, or even so
much as repayment of his expenditures on my account.
This deed is properly drawn, and my uncle will have no
choice in the matter, for I shall be dead, as it were, and it
is in fact a bequest by my last will and testament. Well,
there was so much taken from the cause, but I did not dream
of any other course. My real estate remained, and that is
all free from incumbrance. See these papers—they are approved
securities from the purchaser, Mr. A. Z. Smith, of this
town. At the moment when he affixed his name to them,
I felt almost relieved, for, from that instant I should no
longer look upon scenes which it tears my very soul to approach
now. You spoke of that room at the Raleigh, friend;
you say you were simply sad. With me it is different, for
there is a room yonder in my house, which would strangle
me with memories should I enter it, were I not to faint and
fall on the threshold.

“But I wander. Let me say what I intended. I thus
hold in my hand the purchase money of my manor house and
plantation, but it will not remain by me long. It shall not
be the accursed temptation in my grasp, corrupting me, and
leading me to those desperate courses by which men most
frequently try to drown despair. No, I am resolved, friend.
I will not retain the means of drugging myself with sensual
poison, and of thus slowly slipping, as it were, into the gulf
of perdition. I know myself well enough to understand
that I require rough medicine, if indeed any medicine at all
exists, for my disease. I must wrestle with the hard world
if I would retain even my faith of gentleman, if I would

forget what has paralyzed me. Well, friend, do you still
refuse? If you do, I have only to add that the dice will
relieve me of my incumbrance. I have a natural and acquired
fondness for the vice of play, and, from my past experience,
I do not despair of being rapidly relieved. Speak
finally now, for myself I have nothing more to say.”

And the young man, as cold and gloomy as ever, ceased
speaking, looking out into the gloomy night.

The stranger did not reply for some moments. During
this pause, his penetrating eyes were fixed intently upon the
face of his companion, and he seemed to feel that he was in
presence of a man who had finally resolved, and whom it
was useless to make any effort to move. Then, as he gazed,
a sigh shook his breast, and an expression of compassion,
almost tender, as a father's for an unhappy child, softened
the iron features, and vailed the brilliant eyes.

He stretched out his hand, and laying it kindly on the
young man's shoulder, said,

“You must suffer much.”

“I do,” was the gloomy reply.

“Is there no means of relieving this unhappiness?”

“None.”

“You will not confide in me entirely, and take my advice.”

“It is useless, friend; it will only tear open my wounds.”

A silence followed the low words, during which neither
spoke.

“Be it so,” said the stranger, at length; “I do not further
urge you, and I accept your gift.”

With these words, he took a piece of paper, wrote some
lines on it, and received in exchange for it the papers which
St. John still held in his hand.

“I retain what I need,” said the young man, “and my
future is already resolved on.”

“That at least you can speak of.”

“Assuredly. I shall to-morrow apply to the Governor of
Virginia for a commission in the service of his Majesty.”

“Ah! you apply to Dunmore?”

“Yes. That is, to the Governor of this colony, in his official
capacity; my plea being simply that I am an educated
Virginian.”

“You go West?”

“Yes, to the Indian wars, and, if I do not die there, down
the Ohio river to New Spain, thence to Europe.”

And the young man looked, with the calmness of despair,
through the window, at the stars.

The stranger sighed, and his clear eyes were again vailed
with their expression of compassionate regret.

“I understand all now,” he said, “and I can not oppose your
plans. I know well that the heart, when deeply wounded,
instinctively recoils from the sight of those objects familiar
to it in the hours of happiness; I know that the impulse to
go away to some distant land, to new scenes and adventures,
which will divert the mind's eternal brooding, is unconquerable.
Perhaps, after all, you have adopted the best course,
and in a few years you will return cured of your wounds.”

The young man replied by a gloomy shake of the head.

“Well,” said the stranger, “let us leave it to time. To
return to the affairs of the moment, I think you are right in
going to the frontier. At last his Excellency has sounded
the bugle blast, and the men of Virginia are mustering to
the rendezvous. General Lewis, a giant among giants, the
brave of braves, is in Williamsburg, and in ten days the
army will be on its march, his Excellency following it with
his select corps.”

The stranger spoke coolly, but a meaning glance showed
that his words contained more than they expressed. What
he now added proved this:

“This is the affair as it appears in the official proclamation,”
continued the stranger, “and even to the eyes of
many Virginians. Those who pierce beneath the wrappings
of events see differently, however. It is my profound conviction
that this man, Dunmore, is going out younder to perfect
the treachery which he long since conceived. Conolly

laid the train—his master will apply the match. You are
going to look on, and hear the explosion. It is really the
cause of liberty which you serve, in diverting thus your own
private grief. Let that cheer you.”

And the stranger again looked earnestly and compassionately
at St. John, and was silent.

The young man rose.

“Friend,” he said, “I have listened as you have listened
to me, and I thank you. You more than ever confirm me
in my intention, and I shall early in the morning proceed
to put it into execution—take the first step. Yes, from this
time forth I am a wanderer, and if that wandering will benefit
a cause which I feel is just and noble, so much the better.
I shall apply for the commission of lieutenant—if it is
refused, I shall volunteer in the ranks. Now I will go, having
too far trespassed already on your valuable time. You
are courteous to shake your head, but I have seriously interrupted
you. Well, good friend, let us now part. I shall
see you again before I go—until then, farewell.”

And exchanging a grasp of the hand with his companion,
who still looked at him with that compassionate softness,
dimming the brilliant and penetrating eyes, the young man
took his departure, and soon regained the street, which was
still and vacant.

With measured steps, and in silence, he sought his own
mansion, and the lonely stars looked down upon him, peering
with their curious eyes, as they have looked on men who
have suffered in all ages.

As he entered the door, the young man turned his head
and saw the light still shining from the lofty eyrie of the
stranger.

“Yes,” he murmured, “like him, it keeps watch while
others sleep. Sleep! Oh! when shall I sleep, and not
awake?”