’Tis necessity
To which the gods must yield; and I obey,
Till I redeem it by some glorious way.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

The next morning was beautiful, like most June mornings. Armstrong, who had not closed his eyes during the whole night, rose with the dawn to wander through his garden, which was a favorite resort. His walk, at first rapid and irregular, as if he were trying to work off a nervous excitement, gradually slackened, until it became a firm, composed step. With folded arms and compressed, resolved lips, he paced up and down the paths. He was living in an interior world. He heard not the singing of the birds, which, in great numbers, frequented the spacious gardens and orchards lying around; he saw not the beautiful flowers, burdening the air with sweetness; nor the young fruit, whose progress, through the various stages of its growth, he had once watched with so much pleasure. His mind went back to the time when he was a school-boy with his brother George; when they slept in the same bed, and associated in the same sports; it then advanced to their college days, and the face of the beautiful girl, who became his wife, flitted by him. He thought of that fair face now for many a long day, mouldering in the grave, into which he had seen the coffin lowered; then his thoughts reverted to his brother George, so brave, so generous, so strong once, but who presented himself to his vision now, a livid corpse, dripping with water. Next came his mother, of whom his recollection was faint; and then his father, with insanity in his eyes. He felt, as it were, their presence around him, but it was a companionship which afforded no pleasure. There seemed to be something about himself that invincibly held them off, notwithstanding their attempts to approach a sullen sphere, which projected a dark shadow, only to the edge of which the spirits could come, and which they made repeated efforts to cross.

While Armstrong was suffering under these strange delusions, Felix approached, to call him to breakfast. The black beheld him walking backwards and forwards, with orderly and composed steps, and congratulated himself upon the change since the day before. He had not, however, ventured to address his master since being ordered away, and uncertain how he would be received, preferred to be spoken to first. With this view, he drew nigh one of the flower-beds, which Armstrong was passing and re-passing, and pretended to busy himself with tying up one of the rose bushes, then in full bloom. Armstrong did not see Felix as he passed, so deep was his reverie, but on retracing his steps, he observed a shadow on the path, which occasioned him to lift his eyes, when he discerned the black. He stopped and spoke.

“Felix,” he said, “I was unkind to you yesterday. I ask your pardon.”

“O, Mr. Armstrong,” said Felix, his eyes protruding with astonishment, “there is no ’casion. I say so many foolish things, it is no wonder you out of patience sometime.”

“No, Felix; it was a fancied superiority that made me speak harshly. You have always been a good and faithful servant,” he continued, taking out his pocket-book, which he opened mechanically, as from the force of habit, “and I wish I had it in my power to express better my sense of the obligation. But why do I open it?” he said, closing at the same time, and offering it to Felix. “You will find here what may be of use to you, though I think there is little enjoyment purchasable with money.”

“Why! Mr. Armstrong,” cried Felix, stepping back. “What for do I want more money? I have enough, and you will please keep it, sir, to give some poor man if you wish.”

“You are right to despise it,” said Armstrong. “It shows a superiority of soul. Now here is this poor black,” he went on soliloquizing, though all the time Felix stood before him, “who has learned that lesson of contentment which the generality never learn. Rich in his poverty here, an inheritor of the skies, I have only insulted him by so contemptible an offer.” His head sunk upon his breast, his eyes fell upon the ground, his pocket-book dropped from his unconscious hand, and he resumed his walk. The negro stooped and picked it up, saying, to himself:

“Very strange! Mr. Armstrong act as if pocket-book chock full o’ bank-bills grow like chick-weed, but I will take him under my protecshum till I give him to Miss Faith.”

Upon Armstrong’s return from the end of the walk, Felix delivered himself of his errand, and his master directed his steps towards the house.

He found his daughter with the breakfast apparatus before her, and looking as fresh and charming as the morning itself.

“You have shown better taste than I, father,” she said. “You have been enjoying the beauty of nature, while I was lying on a downy pillow.”

“Sleep is sweet to the young and healthy,” said Armstrong, “and my selfishness kept you up so late last night, that I do not wonder you are not as early as usual.”

“My late hours have done me no harm. But when shall we take the drive you promised me?”

“At any time that is most agreeable to yourself.”

“If you refer it to me, I shall not long hesitate.”

“It will make no difference with me. Choose, yourself, my darling.”

“Then, why not this morning, while the air is fresh with the dews of night, and before the roads are filled with dust? I anticipate a great deal of pleasure, for it seems to me some mystery hangs about this drive, and that you are preparing for me a delightful surprise.”

Armstrong started, and an expression of pain gathered over his face.

“That was earlier than I intended,” he said, “but a few hours can make no difference.”

“If it is not perfectly convenient; if you have another engagement, put it off later. It was only the loveliness of the morning which made me select it.”

“I have no other engagement so important,” said Armstrong; “it is of great importance to us both: I ought to gratify any request you can make, but”

“Why hesitate, dear father, to make your own choice without regard to a chance expression of mine? I really have no preference contrary to yours.”

“There is no such thing as chance. We will go this morning, my darling,” said Armstrong, with decision. “I have observed, there are some persons controlled by a heavenly influence, which prevents their erring. I have felt it sometimes, and, I think I feel it now. You were always right from infancy. The influence upon us both is the same, and, I am convinced, we should follow it.”

Accordingly, shortly after breakfast, Faith and her father entered the coach, which was driven by Felix. The route they passed over was the same taken by the Judge and Armstrong, and we are, therefore, relieved from the necessity of a description. Besides, we are now too much interested in Armstrong, to allow us to pay much attention to the beauties of external nature. Of such infinite worth is a human being; so incalculably grand and precious those faculties and powers which connect him with his magnificent source; so fraught with mystery the discipline he endures, a mystery in which each one endowed with the same nature, has part, that the natural and the visible shrink into insignificance in comparison with the unseen and spiritual. Of what consequence is a world of insensate matter, when brought into competition with the immortal spirit?

Vain would be the attempt to describe the tumult of feelings that, like billows of fire, dashed through the soul of the unfortunate man. Sitting, as he supposed, for the last time, by the side of one dearer than life, his eyes no longer dwelt upon Faith, with that expression of calm and boundless love, whence she had been accustomed to drink in so much happiness. Yet, was the love all there, but it was a troubled love, a love full of anguish. What sweetness! what confidence in him he read in her face! It was like the placid surface of a mountain lake, in which the skies delight to mirror themselves no emotion hidden, no thought concealed and, for all this innocent confidence, what was his return? He was entertaining, in his mind, a dreadful purpose; carefully concealing it so that it should be beyond the power of suspicion, and inveigling her into a snare, which, upon being discovered, must fill her young heart with an agony worse than death. But no thought of swerving from his purpose crossed now the mind of Armstrong. Considerations like these had long been reflected upon, and in connection with others, been able, indeed, to retard the execution of his design, but not, as it seemed, to defeat it. Whatever weight they might have had, they were obliged to yield to more powerful antagonists. He was no longer a free agent. A force, as with the grip of a vice, held him fast. A scourge, whose every lash drew blood, as it were, from his heart, drove him on. Beautiful, magnificent, the harmonious and healthy play of the human faculties; horrid, beyond conception, the possible chaos of their diseased action!

Meanwhile, Faith, ignorant of what was passing in her father’s mind, endeavored to interest him in the objects which attracted her attention, but in vain. The moment was nigh which was to accomplish a deed, at the bare contemplation of which his whole being revolted; but, to whose execution he felt drawn by a power, as irresistible by him as is that force which keeps the worlds in their places, by those rolling spheres. Engrossed, absorbed by one dominating idea, there was no room in his mind for another. The musical tones of Faith’s voice; the smiles evoked for his sake, that played around those lips sweeter than the damask rose, clustered inevitably about that one thought. But, he felt them as a swarm of angry bees, that eagerly settle upon a living thing to sting it into torture. That living thing was his burning, sensitive heart, quivering, bleeding, convulsed, longing for the bliss of annihilation. And thus, in an agony far greater than that which the martyr endures in the chariot of flame which is to waft him to heaven, as the sufferings of the immortal spirit can exceed those of the perishable body, the insane man pursued his way. How unending seemed that road, and yet, how he longed that it might extend on for ever! Within the time of each revolution of the wheels, an age of torment was compressed; yet, how he dreaded when they should stop!

But this could not last, and, at length, the coach reached a spot where Armstrong proposed they should alight. Accordingly, he assisted Faith out, and, preceding her, they took their way across the fields. Faith, unable to resist the attraction of the wild-flowers scattered beneath her feet, stooped occasionally to pick them, and soon had her hands full.

“What a pity it is, father,” she said, “that we should step upon these beautiful things! They seem little fairies, enchanted in the grass, that entreat us to turn aside and do them no harm.”

“It is our lot, in this world, cursed for our sakes,” said Armstrong, hoarsely, “to crush whatever we prize and love the dearest.”

“The flower is an emblem of forgiveness,” said Faith. “Pluck it, and it resents not the wrong. It dies, but with its last breath, exhales only sweetness for its destroyer.”

“O, God!” groaned Armstrong. “Was this, too, necessary? Wilt thou grind me between the upper and the nether millstone?”

“What is the matter, father?” inquired Faith, anxiously, catching some words between his groans. “O, you are ill, let us return.”

“No, my daughter, there is no return. It was a pang like those to which I am subject. Will they ever pass off?”

They had reached the open space of ground or clearing made by Gladding, and Armstrong advanced, with Faith following, directly to the pile he had built near the brook.

“What a beautiful stream!” exclaimed Faith. “How it leaps, as if alive and rejoicing in its activity! I always connect happiness with life.”

“You are mistaken,” said Armstrong. “Life is wretchedness, with now and then a moment of delusive respite to tempt us not to cast it away.”

“When your health returns, you will think differently, dear father. Look! how enchanting this blue over-arching sky, in which the clouds float like angels. With what a gentle welcome the wind kisses our cheeks, and rustles the leaves of the trees, as if to furnish an accompaniment to the songs of the birds which flit among them, while the dear little brook laughs and dances and claps its hands, and tells us, like itself, to be glad. There is only one thing wanting, father, and that is, that you should be happy. But I wonder why this pile of wood was built up so carefully near the edge of the water.”

“It is the altar on which I am commanded to sacrifice thee, my child,” said Armstrong, seizing her by the arm, and drawing her towards it.

There was a horror in the tones of his voice, a despair in the expression of his face, and a lurid glare in his eyes, that explained all his previous conduct, and revealed to the unhappy girl the full danger of her situation; even as in a dark night a sudden flash of lightning apprises the startled traveller of a precipice over which his foot has already advanced, and the gleam serves only to show him his destruction.

“Father, you cannot be in earnest,” she exclaimed, dreadfully alarmed at being in the power of a maniac, far from assistance, “you do not mean so. Oh,” she said throwing herself into his arms, “I do not believe my father means to hurt me.”

“Why do you not fly? Why do you throw your arms about me? Do you think to defeat the decree? Unwind your arms, I say, and be obedient unto death.”

So saying, with a gentle force he loosed the hold of the fainting girl, who with one hand embracing his knees, and the other held up to deprecate his violence, sunk at his feet.

“God have mercy upon us! Christ have mercy upon us,” her pale lips faintly gasped.

“Faith, my precious, my darling,” said Armstrong, with a terrible calmness, as he drew a large knife out of his bosom, “You know I do not this of myself, but I dare not disobey the command. It might endanger the soul of my child, which is dearer than her life. Think, dear child, in a moment, you will be in Paradise. It is only one short pang, and all is over. Let me kiss you first.”

He stooped down, he inclosed her in his arms, and strained her to his heart he imprinted innumerable kisses on her lips, her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead he groaned, and large drops of sweat stood on his face, pressed out by the agony.

“You will see your mother and my brother George, Faith. Tell them not to blame me. I could not help it. You will not blame me, I know. You never blamed me even in a thought. I wish it was for you to kill me. The father, it would seem ought to go first, and I am very weary of life.”

He raised the knife, and Faith, with upturned and straining eyes, saw it glittering in the sunshine. She strove to cry out, but in vain. From the parched throat no sound proceeded. She saw the point about to enter her bosom. She shut her eyes, and mentally prayed for her father. At that moment, as the deadly instrument approached her heart, she heard a voice exclaim, “Madman forbear!” She opened her eyes: the knife had dropped from her father’s hand; he staggered and leaned against the altar. A few words will explain the timely interruption.

When Armstrong and his daughter left the carriage to cross the field, the mind of Felix was filled with a thousand apprehensions. He would have followed had he dared to leave the horses, but this, his fear of the consequences if the high-spirited animals were left to themselves, forbade. With anxious eyes he pursued the receding foot-steps of his master and young mistress until they were lost to sight, and then, with a foreboding of evil, hid his face in the flowing mane of one of the horses, as if seeking comfort from his dumb companion. Some little time passed, which to the fearful Felix seemed hours, when, whom should he see but the man whom of all the world he dreaded most. It was Holden, bounding along with strides which showed that the habits of his forest-life were not forgotten. At any other time the apparition of the Solitary would have imparted anything but pleasure, but now it was as welcome as a spar to a shipwrecked sailor. Holden advanced straight to the carriage, but before he could speak the black addressed him,

“Oh, Mr. Holden, if you love Mr. Armstrong and Miss Faith, go after them quick; don’t stop a minute.”

“Where are they?” said Holden.

“They go in that direcshum,” answered Felix, pointing with his chin, across the field.

“How long ago?”

“Ever so long; Oh, good Mr. Holden, do hurry,” said Felix, whose anxieties made him magnify the progress of time.

Holden asked no further questions, but increasing his speed, hastened on an Indian lope in the direction indicated, following the traces in the grass.

As he hurried on, his dream occurred to him. The features of the country were the same as of that he had traversed in his sleep: he remembered also, that the day of the week was Friday. As these thoughts came into his mind, they stimulated him to press on with increased speed, as if something momentous depended upon the swiftness of his motions. It was well he did so. A moment later might have been too late; a moment more and he might have seen the fair creature he so loved weltering in her blood. Too late to stay the uplifted hand of the deranged man with his own, he had uttered the cry which had arrested the knife.

Holden stooped down, and taking into his arms the insensible form of Faith, bore her to the brook. Here he lavishly sprinkled her face with the cool water, and sobs and deep drawn sighs began, after a time, to herald a return to consciousness. Armstrong followed, and as he saw the pale girl lying like a corpse in the arms of Holden, he threw himself down by her side upon the grass, and took her passive hand, which lay cold in his own.

“She is not dead, is she?” said he. “O, say to me, she is not dead. I thought I heard a voice from heaven I expected to hear it which commanded me to forbear. Did I disobey the angel? Was he too late? Too late, too late, too late! Oh, she is dead, dead. My Faith, my daughter, my darling! O, God, it was cruel in thee!”

But presently, as we have said, sighs and sobs began to heave the bosom of Faith, and as she opened her languid eyes their soft light fell upon the face of her father.

With a cry of delight he sprang from the ground. “She is not dead,” he exclaimed, “she is alive! I knew it would be so. I knew it was only a trial of my faith. I knew God would send his angel. He has angels enough in heaven. What does he want of Faith yet? My darling,” he said, getting down and leaning the head of his daughter upon his bosom, “God did not mean it in earnest. He only meant to try us. It is all over now, and hereafter we shall be so happy!”

Holden, who, when Faith began to revive, had surrendered her to her father, stood looking on, while tears streamed down his face. Faith had now so far recovered as to sit up and look about her, and throwing her arms around her father’s neck, she hid her face in his bosom.”

“My brain whirls,” she said, “and it seems to me as if I had had a dreadful dream. I thought you wanted to kill me, father.”

“No, no, no!” cried Armstrong, “I never wanted to. It was my trial,” he added, solemnly, “and I shall never have another, Faith. God is too merciful to try a man twice, so.”

“James,” said Holden, and his voice sounded with unusual magnificence, “dost thou know me?”

“Certainly,” said Armstrong; “it is a strange question to ask me. You are Mr. Holden.”

“I am thy brother George.”

Without a doubt, without a misgiving, Armstrong, still holding his daughter, extended his hand to Holden.

“So, George,” he said, “you have risen from the dead to save Faith’s life. I knew God would work a miracle if it was necessary.”

“I trust I have risen from the death of sin but I have never been in the grave of which thou speakest. Know that in veritable flesh and blood, I am thy brother George, who hath never tasted of death.”

But this was an idea which Armstrong was incapable of receiving. He shook his head, and muttering to himself, “Can the dead lie?” looked suspiciously at Holden.

The announcement of the Solitary struck Faith, at once, as the truth. Her mind was in no condition to reason and compare proofs. She only felt how sweet had been her intercourse with him, and how he had contrived to make her love and reverence him. She hoped it was true, he was her long lost uncle, and she believed it because she hoped it.

“My Uncle George!” she said, as attempting to rise she received his embrace. She could say no more. The agitation of her feelings choked her voice and vented itself in a flood of tears.

“What, crying, my darling?” said Armstrong. “This is no time for tears. You should rejoice, for is not George here, who left his grave to save your life, and has not our faith received its triumphant crown?”

“Alas!” exclaimed Holden, by a word and look conveying his meaning. “As soon as you are able to walk, dear Faith, we had better return to your home.”

“I think I am sufficiently restored,” she replied, “if you will assist me.”

Holden gave her his arm, and supported her to the carriage, followed with great docility by Armstrong, who broke out into occasional snatches of music, once a common habit, but in which he had not been known to indulge for a long time.