THE PRESENTIMENT.
Deep and gloomy were the meditations of Algernon Reynolds, as, in
company with Ella Barnwell, he rode slowly along the narrow path which
he had traversed, if not with buoyant, at least with far lighter
spirits than now, the morning before. From some, latent cause, he felt
oppressed with a weight of despondency, as previously mentioned, that
served to prostrate in a measure both his mental powers and physical
system. He felt, though he could give no reason why, that some calamity
was about to befall himself and the fair being by his side; and he
strove to arouse himself and shake off the gloomy thoughts; but if he
succeeded, it was only momentary, and they would again rush back with an
increased power. He had been subject, since his unfortunate quarrel with
his cousin, to gloomy reveries and depressions of spirits--but never
before had he felt exactly as now; and though in all former cases the
event referred to had been the cause of his sad abstractions, yet in the
present instance it scarcely held a place in his thoughts. Could it be a
presentiment, he asked himself, sent to warn him of danger and prepare
him to meet it? But the question he could not answer.
The night, or rather the morning, though clear overhead, was uncommonly
dark; and the stars, what few could be discerned, shed only pale, faint
gleams, as though their lights were about to be extinguished. For some
time both Algernon and Ella continued their journey without exchanging a
syllable--she too, as well as himself, being deeply absorbed in no very
pleasant reflections. She thought of him, of his hard fate, to meet with
so many bitter disappointments at an age so young; and at last, for no
premeditated, no intentional crime, be forced to fly from home and
friends, and all he held dear, to wander in a far off land, among
strangers--or worse, among the solitudes of the wilderness--exposed to a
thousand dangers from wild savage beasts, and wilder and more savage
human beings; and perhaps, withal, be branded as a felon and fugitive
from justice. She thought what must be his feelings, his sense of utter
desolation, with none around to sympathize--no sweet being by his side
to whisper a single word of encouragement and hope; or, should the worst
prove true, to share his painful lot, and endeavor to render less
burdensome his remorseful thoughts, by smiles of endearment and looks of
love. She thought, too, that to-morrow--perhaps today--he would take his
departure, peradventure never to behold her again; and this was the
saddest of the train. Until she saw him, Ella had never known what it
was to love--perchance she did not now--but at least she had experienced
those fluttering sensations, those deep and strange emotions, those
involuntary yearnings of the heart toward some object in his presence,
that aching void in his absence, which the more experienced would
doubtless put down to that cause, and which no other being had ever even
for a moment awakened in her breast. For something like half an hour the
two rode on together, buried in their own sad reflections, when Ella
broke the silence, by saying, in a low, touching voice:
"You seem sad to-night, Algernon."
Algernon started, sighed heavily, and turning slightly on his saddle,
said: "I am sad, Ella--very, very sad."
"May I ask the cause?" rejoined Ella, gently.
"Doubtless you will think it strange, Ella, but the cause I believe to
have originated in a waking vision or presentiment."
"That does seem strange!" observed Ella, in return.
"Did it never strike you, dear Ella, that we are all strange beings,
subject to strange influences, and destined, many of us, to strange
ends?" inquired Reynolds, solemnly.
"Perhaps I do not understand you," replied Ella; "but with regard to
destiny, I am inclined to think that we in a measure shape our own. As
to our being strange, there are many things relating to us that we may
not understand, and therefore look upon them in the light of which you
speak."
"Are there any we do understand, Ella?" rejoined Algernon. "When I say
understand, I mean the word to be used in its minutest and broadest
sense. You say there are many things we may not understand concerning
ourselves--what ones, I pray you, do we fully comprehend? We are here
upon the earth--so much we know. We shall die and pass away--so much we
know also. But how came we here, and why? How do we exist? How do we
think, reason, speak, feel, move, see, hear, smell, taste? All these
we do, we know; but yet not one--not a single one of them can we
comprehend. You wish to raise your hand; and forthwith, by some
extraordinary power--extraordinary because you cannot tell where it is,
nor how it is--you raise it. Why cannot a dead person do the same?
Strange question you will say to yourself with a smile--but one easily
answered! Why, because in such a person life is extinct--there is no
vital principle--the heart is stopped--the blood has ceased to flow
in its regular channels! Ay! but let me ask you _why_ that life is
extinct?--why that breath has stopped?--and why that blood has ceased
to flow? There was just the same amount of air when the person died as
before! There were the same ingredients still left to stimulate that
blood to action! Then wherefore should both cease?--and with them the
power of thought, reason, speech, and all the other senses? It was not
by a design of the individual himself; for he strove to his utmost to
breathe longer; he was not ready to die--he did not want to quit this
earth so soon; and yet with all his efforts to the contrary, reason
fled, the breath stopped, the blood ceased, the limbs became palsied and
cold, and corruption, decay and dust stood ready to follow. Now why was
this? There is but one answer: 'God willed it!' If then one question
resolves itself into one answer,--'the will of God'--so may all of
the same species; and we come out, after a long train of analytical
reasoning, exactly where we started--with this difference--that when we
set out, we believed in being able to explain the wherefore; but when we
came to the end, we could only assert it as a wonderful fact, whereof
not a single iota could we understand."
Algernon spoke in a clear, distinct, earnest tone--in a manner that
showed the subject was not new to his thoughts; and after a short pause,
during which Ella made no reply, he again proceeded.
"In this grand organ of man--where all things are strange and
incomprehensible--to me the combination of the physical and mental is
strangest of all. The soul and the body are united and yet divided. Each
is distinct from and acts without the other at times, and yet both act
in concert with a wonderful power. The soul plans and the body executes.
The body exercises the soul--the soul the body. The one is visible--the
other invisible; the one is mortal--the other immortal. Now why do they
act together here? Why was not each placed in its separate sphere of
action? Again: What is the soul? Men tell us it is a spirit. What is a
spirit? An invisible something that never dies. Who can comprehend it?
None. Whither does it go when separated forever from the body? None can
answer, save in language of Scripture: 'It returns to God who gave it.'"
"I have never heard the proposition advanced by another," continued
Algernon, after another slight pause, "but I have sometimes thought
myself, that the soul departs from the body, for a brief season, and
wanders at will among scenes either near or remote, and returns with
its impressions, either clouded or clear, to communicate them to the
corporeal or not, as the case may be: hence dreams or visions, and
strong impressions when we wake, that something bright and good has
refreshed our sleep, or something dark and evil has made it troubled and
feverish. Again I have sometimes thought that this soul--this invisible
and immortal something within us--has power at times to look into the
future, and see events about to transpire; which events being sometimes
of a dark and terrible nature, leave upon it like impressions; and hence
gloomy and melancholy forebodings. This may be all sophistry--as much of
our better reasoning on things we know nothing about often is--but if it
be true, then may I trust to account for my present sadness."
"Have you really, then, sad forebodings?" inquired Ella, quickly and
earnestly.
"Against my will and sober reason, dear Ella, I must own I have.
Perchance, however, the feeling was only called up by a train of
melancholy meditations. While sitting there to-night, gazing upon
the many bounding forms--some full of beauty and grace, and some of
strength--noting their joyous faces, and listening occasionally to the
lightsome jest, and merry, ringing laugh--I could not avoid contrasting
with the present the time when I was as happy and full full of mirth as
they. I pictured to myself how they would stare and shudder and draw
away from me, did they know my hand was stained with the blood of my
own kin. Then I began, involuntarily as it were, to picture to myself
the fate of each; and they came up before me in the form of a vision,
(though if such, it was a waking one) but in regular order; and I saw
them pass on one after another--some gliding smoothly down the stream of
time to old age--some wretched and crippled, groping their way along
over barren wastes, without water or food, though nearly dying for the
want of both--some wading through streams of blood, with fierce and
angry looks--and some with pale faces, red eyes, and hollow cheeks,
roving amid coffins, sepulchres and bones; but of all, the very fewest
number happy."
"Oh! it was an awful vision!" exclaimed Ella, with a shudder.
"It was awful enough," rejoined Algernon; "and despite of me, it made me
more and more sad as I thought upon it. Could it indeed be a dream? But
no! I was--seemingly at least--as wide awake and conscious as at the
present moment. I saw the dance going on as ever--I saw the merry
smiles, and heard the jest and laugh as before. Could it be some strange
hallucination of the brain--some wild imagining--caused by my previous
exercise and over heat? I pondered upon it long and seriously, but could
not determine. Suddenly--I know not how nor why--that ill-looking
stranger who lodged one night at your uncle's, and departed so
mysteriously, came up in my mind; and almost at the same moment, I
fancied myself riding with you, dear Ella, through a dark and lonely
wood--when all of a sudden there came a fierce yell--several dark,
hideous forms, with him among them, swam around me--I heard you shriek
for aid--and then all became darkness and confusion; from which I was
aroused by some one inquiring if I were ill? What I answered I know not;
but the querist immediately took his leave."
"It all seems very strange, Algernon," observed Ella, thoughtfully; "but
it was probably nothing more than a feverish dream, brought about by
your exercise acting too suddenly and powerfully upon your nervous
system, which doubtless has not as yet recovered from the prostration
caused by your wound."
"So I tried to think, dear Ella," returned Algernon, with a sigh; "but
I have not even yet been able to shake off the gloomy impression, that,
whatever the cause, it was sent as a warning of danger. But I am
foolish, perhaps, to think as I do; and so let us change the subject.
You spoke a few moments since of destiny. You said, if I mistake not,
you believed each individual capable of shaping his own."
"I did," answered Ella; "with the exception, that I qualified it by
saying in a measure. No person, I think, has the power of moulding
himself to an end which is contrary to the law of nature and his own
physical organization; but at the same time he has many ways, some good
and some evil, left open for him to choose; else he were not a free
agent."
"Ay," rejoined Algernon, "by-paths all to the same great end. I look
upon every one here, Ella, as a traveler placed upon the great highway
called destiny--with a secret power within that impels him forward, but
allows no pause nor retrograde. Along this highway are flowers, and
briars, and thistles, and weeds, and shady woods, and barren rocks, and
sterile bluffs, and glassy plots; but proportioned differently to each,
as the Maker of all designs his path to be pleasant or otherwise. Beside
this highway are perhaps a dozen minor paths, all running a similar
course, and all finally merging into it--either near or far, as the case
may be--before its termination at the great gate of death. The free
agency you speak of, is in choosing of these lesser paths--some of which
are full of the snares of temptation, the chasms of ruin, and the
pitfalls of destruction; and some of the flowers of peace, the bowers of
plenty, and the green woods of contentment. But how to follow the proper
one is the difficulty; for they run into one another--cross and recross
in a thousand different ways--so that the best disposed as often hit the
wrong as the right one, and are entrapped before they are aware of their
dangerous course. Worldly wisdom is here put at fault, and the fool as
often goes right as the wise man of lore--thus showing, notwithstanding
our free agency, that circumstances govern us; and that what many put
down as crime, is, in fact, oftentimes, neither more nor less than error
of judgment."
"Then you consider free agency only a chance game, depending, as it
were, upon the throw of a die?" observed Ella, inquiringly.
"I believe this much of free agency, that a train of circumstances often
forces some to evil and others to good; and that we should look upon the
former, in many cases--mind I do not say all--as unfortunate rather than
criminal--with pity rather than scorn; and so endeavor to reclaim them.
Were this doctrine more practiced by Christians--by those whom the world
terms good, (but whom circumstances alone have made better than their
fellows,) there would be far less of sin, misery, and crime abounding
for them to deplore. Let the creed of churches only be to ameliorate the
condition of the poor, relieve the distressed, remove temptations from
youth, encourage the virtuous, and endeavor, by gently means, to reclaim
the erring--and the holy design of Him who died to save would nobly
progress, prisons would be turned into asylums, and scaffolds be things
known only by tradition."
Algernon spoke with an easy, earnest eloquence, and a force of emphasis,
that made each word tell with proper effect upon his fair hearer. To
Ella the ideas he advanced were, many of them, entirely new; and she
mused thoughtfully upon them, as they rode along, without reply; while
he, becoming warm upon a subject that evidently occupied no inferior
place in his mind, went on to speak of the wrongs and abuses which
society in general heaped upon the unfortunate, as he termed
them--contrasted the charity of professing Christians of the eighteenth
century with that of Christ himself--and pointed out what he considered
the most effectual means of remedy. To show that a train of
circumstances would frequently force persons against their own will and
reason to be what society terms criminal, he referred to himself, and
his own so far eventful destiny; and Ella could not but admit to
herself, that, in his case at least, his arguments were well grounded,
and she shaped her replies accordingly.
Thus conversing, they continued upon their course, until they came to
the brow of a steep descent, down which the path ran in a zigzag manner,
through a dark, gloomy ravine, now rendered intensely so to our
travelers, by the hour, their thoughts, the wildness of the scenery
around, and the dense growth of cedars covering the hollow, whose
untrimmed branches, growing even to the ground, overreached and partly
obstructed their way. By this time only one or two stars were visible in
the heavens; and they shone with pale, faint gleams; while in the east
the beautiful gray and crimson tints of Aurora announced that day was
already breaking on the slumbering world. Drawing rein, Algernon and
Ella paused as if to contemplate the scene. Below and around them each
object presented that misty, indistinct appearance, which leaves the
imagination power to give it either a pleasing or hideous shape. In the
immediate vicinity, the country was uneven; rocky, and covered with
cedars; but far off to the right could be discerned the even surface of
the cane-brake, previously mentioned, now stretching away in the
distance like the unruffled bosom of some beautiful lake. A light breeze
slightly rustled the leaves of the trees, among whose branches an
occasional songster piped forth his morning lay of rejoicing.
"How lovely is nature in all her varieties!" exclaimed Ella, with
animation, as she glanced over the scene.
"Ay, and in that variety lies her loveliness," answered Algernon.
"It is the constant and eternal change going forward that interests us,
and gives to nature her undying charm. Man--high-souled, contemplative
man--was not born to sameness. Variety is to his mind what food is to
his body; and as the latter, deprived of its usual nourishment, sinks to
decay--so the former, from like deprivation of its strengthening power,
becomes weak and imbecile. Again: as coarse, plain food and hardy
exercise add health and vigor to the physical--so does the contemplation
of nature in her wildness and grandeur give to the mental a powerful and
lofty tone. Of all writers for poetical and vigorous intellects, give me
those who have been reared among cloud-capped hills, and craggy steeps,
and rushing streams, and roaring cataracts; for their conceptions are
grand, their comparisons beautiful, and the founts from which they draw,
as exhaustless almost as nature herself."
"I have often thought the same myself," returned Ella; "for I never gaze
upon a beautiful scene in nature, that I do not feel refreshed. To me
the two most delightful are morning and evening. I love to stand upon
some eminence, and mark, as now, the first gray, crimson and golden
streaks that rush up in the eastern sky; and catch the first rays of old
Sol, as he, surrounded by a reddened halo, shows his welcome face above
the hills; or at calm eve watch his departure, as with a last, fond,
lingering look he takes his leave, as 'twere in sorrow that he could not
longer tarry; while earth, not thus to be outdone in point of grief,
puts on her sable dress to mourn his absence."
"Ah! Ella," said Algernon, turning to her with a gentle smile, "methinks
morning and evening are somewhat indebted to you for a touch of poetry
in their behalf."
"Rather say I am indebted to them for a thousand fine feelings I have
not even power to express," rejoined Ella.
Algernon was on the point of returning an answer, when, casting his eyes
down into the ravine, he slightly started, his gaze became fixed, and
his features grew a shade more pale. Ella noticed this sudden change,
and in a voice slightly tremulous inquired the cause. For nearly a
minute Algernon made no reply, but kept his eyes steadily bent in the
same direction, apparently riveted on some object below. Ella also
looked down; but seeing nothing worthy of note, and growing somewhat
alarmed at his silence, was on the point of addressing him again, when,
slightly turning his head, and rubbing his eyes with his hand, he said:
"Methought I saw a dark object move in the hollow below; but I think I
must have been mistaken, for all appears quiet there now--not even a
limb or so much as a leaf stirs. Lest there should be danger, however,
dear Ella, I will ride down first and ascertain. If I give an alarm,
turn your horse and do not spare him till you reach Wilson's."
"No, no, no!" exclaimed Ella, with vehemence, laying her hand upon his
arm, as he was about starting forward, her own features now growing very
pale. "If you go, Algernon, you go not alone! If there is danger, I will
share it with you."
Algernon turned towards her a face that, one moment crimsoned with
animation and the next became deadly pale; while his whole frame
quivered with intense emotion, and he seemed vainly struggling to
command contending feelings. Suddenly clasping her hand in his, he
pressed it warmly, raised it to his lips, and in a trembling tone said:
"Ella--dear Ella--God bless you! If ever--but--no--no--no;" and covering
his face with his hands, he wept convulsively; while she, no less deeply
affected, could scarcely sit her horse.
At length Algernon withdrew his hands, and exhibited features pale but
calm. Drawing forth his pistols, he carefully examined their priming,
and then replaced them in his belt. During this proceeding, he failed
not to urge Ella to alter her design and remain, while he went forward;
but finding her determined on keeping him company, he signified his
readiness to proceed, and both started slowly down the hill together.
They reached the ravine in safety, and advanced some twenty yards
further, when suddenly there arose a terrific Indian yell, followed
instantly by the sharp report of several fire-arms, a wild, piercing
shriek, some two or three heavy groans, a rustling among the trees, and
then by a stillness as deep and awfully solemn as that which pervades
the narrow house appointed for all living.