"We shall live many happy years yet, dear father, and when our time comes to depart, we will thank G.o.d 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 a.s.senting only when the clock warned that midnight was pa.s.sed. 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 pet.i.tion on his behalf, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER XLI.

'Tis necessity To which the G.o.ds 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 s.p.a.cious 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 a.s.sociated 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 pa.s.sing and re-pa.s.sing, and pretended to busy himself with tying up one of the rose bushes, then in full bloom. Armstrong did not see Felix as he pa.s.sed, 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 antic.i.p.ate 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 pa.s.sed 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 compet.i.tion 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 r.e.t.a.r.d 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 pa.s.sing 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, cl.u.s.tered 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 a.s.sisted 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 gra.s.s, that entreat us to turn aside and do them no harm."

"It is our lot, in this world, cursed for our sakes," said Armstrong, hoa.r.s.ely, "to crush whatever we prize and love the dearest."