No man who sinks to sleep at night
Knows what his dreams shall be;
No man can know what wonder-sight
His inner eye shall see.
THOMAS L. HARRIS.
When Holden was left alone in his chamber, he sank into a seat and
covered his face with both hands. He remained in this position for
some time, and when he removed them, it was very pale, and exhibited
traces of strong emotion. He cast his eyes slowly around the
room, examining every part, not even the furniture escaping minute
observation. But of all the objects a portrait that hung over the
fire-place attracted the most attention. It was that of a man, past
the prime of life, and who in youth must have possessed considerable
beauty. The features were regular and well-formed, the forehead high
and broad, and the hair long and abundant, waving in curls over the
shoulders. What was the age designed to be portrayed, it was
difficult to determine with any degree of exactness, for there was a
contradiction between the parts which appeared scarcely reconcilable
with one another. Looking at the furrows that seamed the face, its
pallor, and the wrinkles of the brow, one would have said that the
original must have been a man between sixty and seventy, while the
hair, dark and glossy, indicated much less age. Yet, the perfection of
the drawing, the flesh-like tints that melted into each other, and
the air of reality that stamped the whole, proclaimed the portrait the
work of a master, and it was impossible to avoid the conviction that
it was an authentic likeness.
Holden placed the candle on the mantelpiece in such a manner as best
to throw light upon the picture, and stood at a little distance to
contemplate it. As he gazed, he began to fancy he discovered traits
which had at first escaped his observation. An expression of pain and
anxious sadness overspread the face, and gleams of light, like the
glare of insanity, shot from the eyes. So strong was the impression,
and so deeply was he affected, that as if incapable of enduring
the sight, he shut his eyes, and turning away, paced several times
backwards and forwards, without looking up. After a few turns, he
stopped before the portrait, and fixed his eyes upon it again, but
only for a moment, to resume his walk. This he did repeatedly, until
at last, with a groan, he dropped into a chair, where, crossing his
arms upon his breast, he remained for awhile lost in thought. Who can
say what were the reflections that filled his mind? Was he considering
whether the painter meant to delineate insanity, or whether it was not
a delusion springing from his own disordered intellect?
It was a long time before sleep visited the Solitary in his soft
and curtained bed. It might be owing to the events of the day, so
startling and unusual; it might be on account of the yielding bed,
so different from his own hard couch; or in consequence of the effect
produced by the portrait; or of all these causes combined, that sleep
was long in coming, and when it did come, was disturbed with dreams,
and unrefreshing. Before, however, Holden fell asleep, he had lain, as
if under the influence of a spell, looking at the picture on which the
beams of the moon, stealing through the branches of the large elm
that shaded the house, flickered uncertainly and with a sort of wierd
effect, as the night wind gently agitated the leaves.
It seemed to Holden, so insensibly glided his last waking thought into
his dreams making one continuous whole, that the portrait he had been
looking at was a living person, and he was astonished that he had
mistaken a living being for a piece of painted canvas. In a stern,
deep voice the man who had taken possession of the chair in which he
himself had been sitting, ordered him to approach. If Holden had been
so disposed, he had no ability to disobey the command. He, therefore
advanced towards the figure, and at a signal knelt down at his feet.
The man, thereupon, stretching out his hands, laid them upon his head
in the attitude of benediction. He then rose from his seat, and making
a sign to Holden to follow him, they noiselessly descended the stairs
together, and passed into the moonlight. The man constantly preceding
him, they went on, and by familiar paths and roads, and in the
ordinary time that would be required to accomplish the distance,
arrived at a spot on the banks of the Wootúppocut well known to
Holden. Here the stranger stopped, and seating himself upon the trunk
of a felled tree, motioned to his companion to be seated. Holden
obeyed, waiting for what should follow. Presently he saw two figures,
a male and female, approaching. The latter was veiled, and although
the face of the man was exposed, it swam in such a hazy indistinctness
that it was impossible to make out the features. Still it seemed to
him that they were not entirely unknown, and he tormented himself with
ineffectual attempts to determine where he had seen them. He turned to
his guide to ask who they were, but before he could speak the stranger
of the portrait placed his fingers on his lips, as if to require
silence. The two persons advanced until they reached a small brook
that babbled down a ravine, and fell into the river. Suddenly
something glittered in the air; the figures vanished; and upon looking
at the brook Holden beheld, to his horror, that it was red like blood.
He turned in amazement to his guide, who made no reply to the look of
inquiry, unless the word "Friday," which he uttered in the same deep
tone, can be so considered.
Holden awoke, and the sweat was standing in great drops on his
forehead. As his senses and recollection were gradually returning, he
directed his eyes towards the place where the portrait hung, half in
doubt whether he should see it again. The beams of the moon no longer
played upon it, but there was sufficient light in the room to enable
him to distinguish the features which now, more and more distinctly
emerged to sight. The hollow eyes were fixed on his, and the word
"Friday" seemed still quivering on the lips.
Holden lay and thought over his dream. With the young and imaginative,
dreams are not uncommon, but with the advanced in life they are
usually unfrequent. As the fancy decays,--as the gay illusions that
brightened our youth disappear, to give place to realities,--as the
blood that once rushed hurriedly, circulates languidly--farewell to
the visions that in storm or sunshine flitted around our pillows.
It cannot, indeed, be said that Holden never had dreams. The excitable
temperament of the man would forbid the supposition, but, even with
him, they were uncommon. He turned the one he had just had over and
over again, in his mind; but, reflect upon it as he pleased, he could
make nothing out of it, and, at last, with a sense of dissatisfaction
and endeavoring to divert his mind from thoughts that banished sleep,
he forgot himself again.
His slumbers were broken and harassed throughout the night, with
horrid dreams and vague anticipations of further evil. At one time he
was at his cabin, and his son lay bleeding in his arms, pierced by the
bullet of Ohquamehud. At another, Faith was drowning, and stretching
out her hands to him for succor, and as he attempted to hasten to her
assistance, her father interfered and held him violently back. And at
another, he was falling from an immeasurable height, with the grip of
the Indian at his throat. Down--down he fell, countless miles, through
a roaring chaos, trying to save himself from strangulation, until,
just as he was about to be dashed to pieces against a rock, he awoke
sore and feverish.
The sun was already some distance above the horizon as Holden rose
from his troubled slumbers. The cool air of morning flowed with a
refreshing sweetness through the open window, and the birds were
singing in the branches of the large elm. With a feeling of welcome he
beheld the grateful light. He endeavored to recall and reduce to some
coherency the wild images of his dreams, but all was confusion, which
became the more bewildering, the longer he dwelt upon them, and the
more he strove to untangle the twisted skein. All that he could now
distinctly remember, were the place whither he had been led, and the
word spoken by the portrait.
When he descended to breakfast, both Mr. Armstrong and his daughter
remarked his disordered appearance, and anxiously inquired, how he had
passed the night. To these inquiries, he frankly admitted, that he had
been disturbed by unpleasant dreams.
"You look," said Mr. Armstrong, "like the portrait which hangs in the
chamber where you slept. It is," he continued, unheeding the warning
looks of Faith, "the portrait of my father, and was taken a short time
before he was seized with what was called a fit of insanity, and which
was said to have hastened his death.
"How is it possible, dear father, you can say so?" said Faith, anxious
to prevent an impression she was afraid might be made on Holden's
mind.
"I do not mean," continued Armstrong, with a singular persistency,
"that Mr. Holden's features resemble the portrait very much; but there
is something which belongs to the two in common. Strange that I never
thought of it before!"
Holden during the conversation had sat with drooping lids, and a
sad and grieved expression, and now, as he raised his eyes, he said,
mournfully--
"Thou meanest, James, that I, too, am insane. May Heaven grant
that neither thou nor thine may experience the sorrow of so great a
calamity."
Faith was inexpressibly shocked. Had any one else spoken thus, with
a knowledge of Holden's character, she would have considered
him unfeeling to the last degree, but she knew her father's
considerateness and delicacy too well to ascribe it to any other cause
than to a wandering of thought, which had of late rapidly increased,
and excited in her mind an alarm which she trembled to give shape to.
Before she could interpose, Armstrong again spoke--
"Insane!" he said. "What is it to be insane? It is to have faculties
exalted beyond the comprehension of the multitude; to soar above the
grovelling world. Their eyes are too weak to bear the glory, and,
because they are blind, they think others cannot see. The fools
declared my father was insane. They say the same of you, Holden, and,
the next thing, I shall be insane, I suppose. Ha, ha!"
Holden himself was startled. He muttered something indistinctly before
he answered--
"May the world never say that of thee, dear James!"
"Why not?" inquired Armstrong, eagerly. "Alas! you consider me
unworthy to be admitted to the noble band of misunderstood and
persecuted men? True, true! I know it to be true. My earthly instincts
fetter me to earth. Of the earth, I am earthy. But what shall prevent
my standing afar off, to admire them? What a foolish world is this!
Were not the prophets and apostles denounced as insane men? I have it,
I have it," he added, after a pause, "inspiration is insanity."
Holden looked inquiringly at Faith, whose countenance evinced great
distress; then, turning to Armstrong, he said--
"Thou art not well, James. Perhaps, like me, thou hast passed a
disturbed night?"
"I have, of late been unable to sleep as well as formerly," said
Armstrong. "There is a pain here," he added, touching his forehead,
"which keeps me awake."
"Thou needest exercise. Thou dost confine thyself too much. Go more
into the open air, to drink in the health that flows down from the
pure sky."
"It is what I urge frequently on my dear father," said Faith.
"Faith is an angel," said Holden. "Listen to her advice. Thou canst
have no better guide."
"She shall redeem my soul from death," said Armstrong.
When Holden left the house of his host, he determined to carry
into effect a resolution which, it appeared now to himself, he had
strangely delayed, such was the influence what he had just seen
and heard exercised over him. That Fate or mathematical Providence,
however, in which he so devoutly believed, notwithstanding he acted as
though none existed, seemed as if, tired out with his procrastination
and irresolution, determined to precipitate events and force him to
lift the veil, that for so many years--with a wayward temper and love
of mystery, inexplicable by any motives that regulate the movements of
ordinary minds--he had chosen to spread around himself. What followed
only convinced him more thoroughly, if that were possible, of his
helplessness on the surging tide of life and of the delusion of those
who imagine they are aught but bubbles, breaking now this moment, now
that, according to a predetermined order.