University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

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 rouse himself and shake off
the gloomy thoughts; but if he succeeded, it was only momentary, when
they would again rush back with an increased power. He had been subject,
since the unfortunate quarrel with his cousin, to gloomy reveries and depression
of spirits—but never before had he felt exactly as now; and though
in all former cases the event refered 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 scarcely 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 premiditated, 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 to-day—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 sadle, 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, reasou, 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 has 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 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 not 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 imagination—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 sudden 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
minutes 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 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 traveller 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 grassy 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 of choice that circumstances govern us, and that
what many put down as crime, is, in fact, oftentimes, neither more nor less
than error of judgement.”

“Then you consider free agency only a chance game, depending, as it
were, upon the throw of a die?” obseryed Ella, inquiringly.

“I believe this much of free agency, that a train of circumstances often
forces some to be evil and others 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 practised 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 virtubus, and endeavor, by gentle 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 this 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 travellers,
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 orimson
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 unruffied 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 roundelay 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, but I always feel refreshed therefor.
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 reaoh 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 clusping 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—Oh God!—Oh
God!” 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 operation, he failed not to press

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 had advanced some twenty yards farther, 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.