The Mystery of Chance

by Melville Davisson Post

　　IT WAS a night like the pit. The rain fell steadily. Now and then a gustof wind rattled the shutters, and the tavern sign, painted with thefeatures of George the Third, now damaged by musket-balls and with theeyes burned out, creaked.

　　The tavern sat on the bank of the Ohio. Below lay the river and thelong, flat island, where the ill-starred Blennerhasset had set up hisfeudal tenure. Flood water covered the island and spread everywhere-avast sea of yellow that enveloped the meadow-lands and plucked at thefringe of the forest.

　　The scenes in the tavern were in striking contrast. The place boomedwith mirth, shouts of laughter, ribald tales and songs. The whole crewof the Eldorado of New Orleans banqueted in the guest-room of thetavern. This was the open room for the public. Beyond it and facing theriver was the guest-room for the gentry, with its floor scrubbed withsand, its high-boy in veneered mahogany, its polished andirons and itsvarious pretensions to a hostelry of substance.

　　At a table in this room, unmindful of the bedlam beyond him, a man satreading a pamphlet. He leaned over on the table, between two tall brasscandlesticks, his elbows on the board, his thumb marking the page. Hehad the dress and manner of a gentleman-excellent cloth in his coat, arich stock and imported linen. On the table sat a top hat of the time,and in the corner by the driftwood fire was a portmanteau with silverbuckles, strapped up as for a journey. The man was under forty, hisfeatures regular and clean-cut; his dark brows joined above eyes big andblue and wholly out of place in the olive skin.

　　Now and then he got up, went over to the window and looked out, but hewas unable to see anything, for the rain continued and the puffs ofwind. He seemed disturbed and uneasy. He drummed on the sill with hisfingers, and then, with a glance at his portmanteau, returned to hischair between the two big tallow candles.

　　From time to time the tavern-keeper looked in at the door with someservile inquiry. This interruption annoyed the guest.

　　"Damme, man," he said, "are you forever at the door?"

　　"Shall I give the crew rum, sir?" the landlord asked.

　　"No," replied the man; "I will not pay your extortions for importedliquor."

　　"They wish it, sir."

　　The man looked up from his pamphlet

　　"They wish it, eh," he said with nice enunciation. "Well, Mr. Castoe, Ido not!"

　　The soft voice dwelt on the "Mr. Castoe" with ironical emphasis. Themobile upper lip, shadowed with a silken mustache, lifted along theteeth with a curious feline menace.

　　The man was hardly over his table before the door opened again. Heturned abruptly, like a panther, but when he saw who stood in the door,he arose with a formal courtesy.

　　"You are a day early, Abner," he said. "Are the Virginia wagons in fortheir salt and iron?"

　　"They will arrive tomorrow," replied my uncle; "the roads are washed outwith the rains."

　　The man looked at my uncle, his hat and his greatcoat splashed with mud.

　　"How did you come?" he asked.

　　"Along the river," replied my uncle, "I thought to find you on theEldorado."

　　"On the Eldorado!" cried the man. "On such a night, when the Tavern ofGeorge the Third has a log fire and kegs in the cellar!"

　　My uncle entered, closed the door, took off his greatcoat and hat, andsat down by the hearth.

　　"The boat looked deserted," he said.

　　"To the last nigger," said the man. "I could not take the comforts ofthe tavern and deny them to the crew."

　　My uncle warmed his hands over the snapping fire.

　　"A considerate heart, Byrd," he said, with some deliberation, "is a finequality in a man. But how about the owners of your cargo, and thecompany that insures your boat?"

　　"The cargo, Abner," replied the man, "is in Benton's warehouse, unloadedfor your wagons. The boat is tied up in the backwater. No log can strikeit."

　　He paused and stroked his clean-cut, aristocratic jaw.

　　"The journey down from Fort Pitt was damnable," he added, "-miles offlood water, yellow and running with an accursed current. It was nopleasure voyage, believe me, Abner. There was the current running logs,and when we got in near the shore, the settlers fired on us. A carelessdesperado, your settler, Abner!"

　　"More careless, Byrd, do you think," replied my uncle, "than the rivercaptain who overturns the half-submerged cabins with the wash of hisboat?"

　　"The river," said the man, "is the steamboat's highway."

　　"And the cabin," replied my uncle, "is the settler's home."

　　"One would think," said Byrd, "that this home was a palace and the swampland a garden of the Hesperides, and your settler a King of the GoldenMountains. My stacks are full of bullet holes."

　　My uncle was thoughtful by the fire.

　　"This thing will run into a river war," he said. "There will be violenceand murder done."

　　"A war, eh!" echoed the man. "I had not thought of that, and yet, I hadbut now an ultimatum. When we swung in tonight, a big backwoodsman cameout in a canoe and delivered an oration. I have forgotten the periods,Abner, but he would burn me at the stake, I think, and send the boat toSatan, unless I dropped down the river and came in below thesettlement."

　　He paused and stroked his jaw again with that curious gesture.

　　"But for the creature's command," he added, "I would have made thedetour. But when he threatened, I ran in as I liked and the creature gota ducking for his pains. His canoe went bottom upward, and if he had notbeen a man of oak, he would have gone himself to Satan."

　　"And what damage did you do?" inquired my uncle.

　　"Why, no damage, as it happened," said the man. "Some cabins swayed, butnot one of them went over. I looked, Abner, for a skirmish in your war.There was more than one rifle at a window. If I were going to follow theriver," he continued, "I would mount a six-pounder."

　　"You will quit the river, then," remarked my uncle.

　　"It is a dog's life, Abner," said the man. "To make a gain in these daysof Yankee trading, the owner must travel with his boat. Captains are atrifle too susceptible to bribe. I do not mean gold-pieces, slipped intothe hand, but the hospitalities of the shopkeeper. Your Yankee, Abner,sees no difference in men, or he will waive it for a sixpence in histill. The captain is banqueted at his house, and the cargo is put onshort. One cannot sit in comfort at New Orleans and trade along theOhio."

　　"Is one, then, so happy in New Orleans?" asked my uncle.

　　"In New Orleans, no," replied the man, "but New Orleans is not theworld. The world is in Piccadilly, where one can live among his fellowslike a gentleman, and see something of life-a Venetian dancer, ladies offashion, and men who dice for something more than a trader's greasyshillings."

　　Byrd again got up and went to the window. The rain and gusts of windcontinued. His anxiety seemed visibly to increase.

　　My uncle arose and stood with his back to the driftwood fire, his handsspread out to the flame. He glanced at Byrd and at the pamphlet on thetable, and the firm muscles of his mouth hardened into an ironicalsmile.

　　"Mr. Evlyn Byrd," he said, "what do you read?" The man came back to thetable. He sat down and crossed one elegant knee over the other.

　　"It is an essay by the Englishman, Mill," he said, "reprinted in thepress that Benjamin Franklin set up at Philadelphia. I agree with LordFairfax where the estimable Benjamin is concerned: 'Damn his littlemaxims! They smack too much of New England!' But his press gives now andthen an English thing worth while."

　　"And why is this English essay worth while?" asked my uncle.

　　"Because, Abner, in its ultimate conclusions, it is a justification of agentleman's most interesting vice. 'Chance,' Mr. Mill demonstrates, 'isnot only at the end of all our knowledge, but it is also at thebeginning of all our postulates.' We begin with it, Abner, and we endwith it. The structure of all our philosophy is laid down on the sillsof chance and roofed over with the rafters of it."

　　"The Providence of God, then," said my uncle, "does not come into Mr.Mill's admirable essay."

　　Mr. Evlyn Byrd laughed. "It does not, Abner," he said. "Things happen inthis world by chance, and this chance is no aide-de-camp of your God. Ithappens unconcernedly to all men. It has no rogue to ruin and no goodchurchman, pattering his prayers, to save. A man lays his plansaccording to the scope and grasp of his intelligence, and this chancecomes by to help him or to harm him, as it may happen, with no concernabout his little morals, and with no divine intent."

　　"And so you leave God out," said my uncle, with no comment.

　　"And why not, Abner?" replied the man. "Is there any place in thisscheme of nature for His intervention? Why, sir, the intelligence of manthat your Scriptures so despise can easily put His little plan ofrewards and punishments out of joint. Not the good, Abner, but theintelligent, possess the earth. The man who sees on all sides of hisplan, and hedges it about with wise precaution, brings it to success.Every day the foresight of men outwits your God."

　　My uncle lifted his chin above his wet stock. He looked at the windowwith the night banked behind it, and then down at the refined andelegant gentleman in the chair beside the table, and then at thestrapped-up portmanteau in the corner. His great jaw moved out under themassive chin. From his face, from his manner, he seemed about toapproach some business of vital import. Then, suddenly, from the roombeyond there came a great boom of curses, a cry that the dice had fallenagainst a platter, a blow and a gust of obscenities and oaths.

　　My uncle extended his arm toward the room.

　　"Your gentleman's vice," he said; "eh, Mr. Byrd!"

　　The man put out a jeweled hand and snuffed the candles. "The vice,Abner, but not the gentlemen." Mr. Byrd flicked a bit of soot from hisimmaculate sleeve. Then he made a careless gesture.

　　"These beasts," he said, "are the scum of New Orleans. They would bringany practice into disrepute. One cannot illustrate a theory by suchcreatures. Gaming, Abner, is the diversion of a gentleman; it depends onchance, even as all trading does. The Bishop of London has been unableto point out wherein it is immoral."

　　"Then," said Abner, "the Bishop does little credit to his intelligence."

　　"It has been discussed in the coffee-houses of New Orleans," replied Mr.Byrd, "and no worthy objection found."

　　"I think I can give you one," replied my uncle.

　　"And what is your objection, Abner?" asked the man. "It has thisobjection, if no other," replied my uncle, "it encourages a hope ofreward without labor, and it is this hope, Byrd, that fills the jailhouse with weak men, and sets strong ones to dangerous ventures."

　　He looked down at the man before him, and again his iron jaw moved.

　　"Byrd," he said, "under the wisdom of God, labor alone can save theworld. It is everywhere before all benefits that we would enjoy. Everyman must till the earth before he can eat of its fruits. He must fellthe forest and let in the sun before his grain will ripen. He must spinand weave. And in his trading he must labor to carry his surplus stuffto foreign people, and to bring back what he needs from their abundance.Labor is the great condition of reward. And your gentleman's vice, Byrd,would annul it and overturn the world."

　　But the man was not listening to Abner's words. He was on his feet andagain before the window. He had his jaw gathered into his hand. The manswore softly.

　　"What disturbs you, Byrd?" said my uncle.

　　He stood unmoving before the fire, his hands to the flame. The manturned quickly.

　　"It is the night, Abner-wind and driving rain. The devil has it!"

　　"The weather, Byrd," replied my uncle, "happens in your philosophy bychance, so be content with what it brings you, for this chance regards,as you tell me, no man's plans; neither the wise man nor the fool hathany favor of it."

　　"Nor the just nor the unjust, Abner."

　　My uncle looked down at the floor. He locked his great bronze fingersbehind his massive back.

　　"And so you believe, Byrd," he said. "Well, I take issue with you. Ithink this thing you call 'chance' is the Providence of God, and I thinkit favors the just."

　　"Abner," cried the man, now turning from the window, "if you believethat, you believe it without proof."

　　"Why, no," replied my uncle; "I have got the proof on this very night."

　　He paused a moment; then he went on.

　　"I was riding with the Virginia wagons," he said, "on the journey here.It was my plan to come on slowly with them, arriving on the morrow. Butthese rains fell; the road on this side of the Hills was heavy; and Idetermined to leave the wagons and ride in tonight.

　　"Now, call this what you like-this unforeseen condition of the road,this change of plan. Call it 'chance,' Byrd!"

　　Again he paused and his big jaw tightened.

　　"But it is no chance, sir, nor any accidental happening that Madison ofVirginia, Simon Carroll of Maryland and my brother Rufus are uprightmen, honorable in their dealings and fair before the world.

　　"Now, sir, if this chance, this chance of my coming on tonight beforethe Virginia wagons, this accidental happening, favored Madison, SimonCarroll and my brother Rufus as though with a direct and obvious intent,as though with a clear and preconceived design, you will allow it to meas a proof, or, at least, Mr. Evlyn Byrd, as a bit of evidence, as asort of indisputable sign, that honorable men, men who deal fairly withtheir fellows, have some favor of these inscrutable events."

　　The man was listening now with a careful attention. He came away fromthe window and stood beside the table, his clenched fingers resting onthe board. "What do you drive at, Abner?" he asked.

　　My uncle lifted his chin above the big wet stock.

　　"A proof of my contention, Byrd," he answered.

　　"But your story, Abner? What happened?"

　　My uncle looked down at the man.

　　"There is no hurry, Byrd," he said; "the night is but half advanced andyou will not now go forward on your journey."

　　"My journey!" echoed the man. "What do you mean?"

　　"Why, this," replied my uncle: "that you would be setting out forPiccadilly, I imagine, and the dancing women, and the gentlemen who liveby chance. But as you do not go now, we have ample leisure for ourtalk."

　　"Abner," cried Mr. Byrd, "what is this riddle?"

　　My uncle moved a little in his place before the fire.

　　"I left the Virginia wagons at midday," he went on; "night fell in theflatland; I could hardly get on; the mud was deep and the rains blew.The whole world was like the pit. It is a common belief that a horse cansee on any night, however dark, but this belief is error, like thatwhich attributes supernatural perception to the beast. My horse wentinto the trees and the fence; now and then there was a candle in awindow, but it did not lighten the world; it served only to accentuatethe darkness. It seemed impossible to go forward on a strange road, nowflooded. I thought more than once to stop in at some settler's cabin.But mark you, Byrd, I came on. Why? I cannot say. 'Chance,' Mr. EvlynByrd, if you like. I would call it otherwise. But no matter."

　　He paused a moment, and then continued:

　　"I came in by the river. It was all dark like the kingdom of Satan.Then, suddenly, I saw a light and your boat tied up. This light seemedsomewhere inside, and its flame puzzled me. I got down from my horse andwent onto the steamboat. I found no one, but I found the light. It was afire just gathering under way. A carpenter had been at work; he had leftsome shavings and bits of candle, and in this line of rubbish the firehad started."

　　The man sat down in his chair beside the two tallow candles.

　　"Fire!" he said. "Yes, there was a carpenter at work in my office cabintoday. He left shavings, and perhaps bits of candle, it is likely. Wasit in my office cabin?"

　　"Along the floor there," replied my uncle, "beginning to flame up."

　　"Along the floor!" repeated Mr. Byrd. "Then nothing in my cabin wasburned? The wall desk, Abner, with the long mahogany drawer-it was notburned?"

　　He spoke with an eager interest.

　　"It was not burned," replied my uncle. "Did it contain things of value?"

　　"Of great value," returned the man.

　　"You leave, then, things of value strangely unprotected," replied myuncle. "The door was open."

　　"But not the desk, Abner. It was securely locked. I had that lock fromSheffield. No key would turn it but my own."

　　Byrd sat for some moments unmoving, his delicate hand fingering hischin, his lips parted. Then, as with an effort, he got back his genialmanner.

　　"I thank you, Abner," he said. "You have saved my boat. And it was astrange coincidence that brought you there to do it."

　　Then he flung back in his big chair with a laugh.

　　"But your theory, Abner? This chance event does not support it. It isnot the good or Christian that this coincidence has benefited. It is I,Abner, who am neither good nor Christian."

　　My uncle did not reply. His face remained set and reflective.

　　The rain beat on the window-pane, and the drunken feast went on in theroom beyond him.

　　"Byrd," he said, "how do you think that fire was set? A half-burnedcigar dropped by a careless hand, or an enemy?"

　　"An enemy, Abner," replied the man. "It will be the work of these damnedsettlers. Did not their envoy threaten if I should come in, to the perilof their cabins? I gave them no concern then, but I was wrong in that. Ishould have looked out for their venom. Still, they threaten with suchease and with no hand behind it that one comes, in time, to take nonotice of their words."

　　He paused and looked up at the big man above him. "What do you think,Abner? Was the fire set?"

　　"One cannot tell from the burning rubbish," replied my uncle.

　　"But your opinion, Abner?" said the man. "What is your opinion?"

　　"The fire was set," replied my uncle.

　　Byrd got up at that, and his clenched hand crashed on the table.

　　"Then, by the kingdom of Satan, I will overturn every settler's cabinwhen the boat goes out tomorrow."

　　My uncle gave no attention to the man's violence.

　　"You would do wanton injury to innocent men," he said. 'The settlers didnot fire your boat."

　　"How can you know that, Abner?"

　　My uncle changed. Vigor and energy and an iron will got into his bodyand his face.

　　"Byrd," he said, "we had an argument just now; let me recall it to yourattention. You said 'chance' happened equally to all, and I that theProvidence of God directs it. If I had failed to come on tonight, theboat would have burned. The settlers would have taken blame for it. AndMadison of Virginia, Simon Carroll of Maryland and my brother Rufus,whose company at Baltimore insure your boat, would have met a loss theycan ill afford."

　　His voice was hard and level like a sheet of light.

　　"Not you, Byrd, who, as you tell me, are neither good nor Christian, butthese men, who are, would have settled for this loss. Is it thetruth-eh, Mr. Evlyn Byrd?"

　　The man's big blue eyes widened in his olive skin.

　　"I should have claimed the insurance, of course, as I had the right todo," he said coldly, for he was not in fear. "But, Abner--"

　　"Precisely!" replied my uncle. "And now, Mr. Evlyn Byrd, let us go on.We had a further argument. You thought a man in his intelligence couldoutwit God. And, sir, you undertook to do it! With your crew drunkenhere, the boat deserted, the settlers to bear suspicion and yourportmanteau packed up for your journey overland to Baltimore, youwatched at that window to see the flames burst out."

　　The man's blue eyes-strange, incredible eyes in that olive skin-were nowhard and expressionless as glass. His lips moved, and his hand crept uptoward a bulging pocket of his satin waistcoat.

　　Grim, hard as iron, inevitable, my uncle went on:

　　"But you failed, Byrd! God outwitted you! When I put that fire out inthe rubbish, the cabin was dark, and in the dark, Byrd, there, I saw agleam of light shining through the keyhole of your wall desk-the deskthat you alone can open, that you keep so securely locked. Three bits ofcandle were burning in that empty drawer."

　　The man's white hand approached the bulging pocket,

　　And my uncle's voice rang as over a plate of steel. "Outwit God!" hecried. "Why, Byrd, you had forgotten a thing that any schoolboy couldhave told you. You had forgotten that a bit of candle in a drawer, forlack of air, burns more slowly than a bit outside. Your pieces set tofire the rubbish were consumed, but your pieces set in that lockeddrawer to make sure-to outwit God, if, by chance, the others failed-wereburning when I burst the lid off."

　　The man's nimble hand, lithe like a snake, whipped a derringer out ofhis bulging pocket.

　　But, quicker than that motion, quicker than light, quicker than the eye,my uncle was upon him. The derringer fell harmless to the floor. Thebones of the man's slender fingers snapped in an iron palm. And myuncle's voice, big, echoing like a trumpet, rang above the storm and thedrunken shouting:

　　"Outwit God! Why, Mr. Evlyn Byrd, you cannot outwit me, who am thefeeblest of His creatures!"