The Fate: A Tale of Stirring Times

by G. P. R. James

The morning was bright and smiling when Ralph Woodhall set out upon his journey. All nature appeared to rejoice; the fresh green trees, the sparkling river, even the dark brown moor seemed to revel in the sunshine; the light air waved the branches, and carried now and then a small floating shadow from a hardly-seen cloud over the bosom of the landscape, bringing out the brightness with stronger effect. The moment was one which Ralph had dreaded. The parting had been very different before: first, because the tenderer ties which bound him to that spot had not been so strong; and, secondly, because, on every former occasion, there had been a fixed limit to his proposed absence. He had gone to the university for his term, and knew or hoped that, when it was ended, he should return. But now all was vague and misty. Months, years, the better part of life itself, might wane before he saw his father's house again; and then the long, long absence from his Margaret! It was in vain that he reasoned with himself--that he argued that departure afforded the only chance of winning her; that to linger on there, spending hours which should be devoted to active exertion in the storm-foretelling calm of temporary happiness, was only to insure bitter disappointment, and to render that disappointment ten times more bitter. It was all in vain. He had looked forward to the moment of parting with dread; but, as I have said, the brightness and the light, and the sparkling of the scene, gave preponderance to hope against fear. It seemed a happy omen to him; it seemed to promise the smile of Heaven upon his endeavors, the sunshine of success to light his way.

Early in the morning, with the first light, he had risen from his bed, and made his final arrangements for departure. All that he intended to take absolutely with him had been packed into two large leathern bags, commonly used by travelers in those days, which strapped to the back of the saddle. A large trunk-mail stood filled with a variety of little articles that he prized, books, gifts from friends, some curious relics of olden times, and all the fine apparel that he possessed, to go by one of those innumerable carriers who at that time traversed the country in every direction, following often paths peculiar to themselves, and at one time, when the plague was raging in the land, actually tracking out new roads, or changing small by-lanes into high-ways, in order to avoid infected places.

When he was dressed and ready, he descended quietly to his father's room, and opened the door with a gentle hand, for Mr. Woodhall was never a very early riser, and Ralph fancied that he might be still asleep. He found him, however, lying reading in his bed, and, after taking a brief parting, not without its tenderness and depth of feeling, however few the words might be, the young man retired. When he was near the door, however, old Mr. Woodhall exclaimed, "Ralph! Ralph!" and added, when his son turned toward him, "you have not forgotten your Cicero, I hope; you said you would put him in your saddle-bags; he is a good companion, Ralph." His son assured him that Cicero had not been forgotten, and then departed.

The next parting was a silent one, but not less full of emotion. There was a little rise in the ground upon the road which he traveled, whence the whole of one side of the mansion of Woodhall was visible to the wanderer's eye. The house was indeed so near that small ornaments of stone-work could be easily distinguished across the stream, and at one of the windows, which, by one means or another, he had learned to know better than any of the rest, there was a fair face gazing out upon the road. Ralph paused for an instant, and waved his hand; a hand was waved in return, and then Margaret retreated hastily from the open window, and he thought he could see her kneel down at the foot of the bed, as if to pray or weep.

"I will win her or die," said Ralph to himself, and that last interview armed him, perhaps, more than all else, to struggle with the difficulties before him. There is nothing in the world so invigorating to the wrestler, man, in his combat with the world, as a strong passion and a strong resolution.

From that spot he rode on rapidly, gaining the high country by degrees, sometimes sweeping over a bare hill side, sometimes passing along under a bank from which stretched forth a canopy of trees. At the distance of about four miles there was a small hamlet, from which the inhabitants of the cottages had principally gone forth to their early labors in the field; but one old woman, withered and blear, with such a face as would easily have made a witch in any land not more than fifty years before, was sitting spinning at one of the doors. As the young traveler came up she raised her eyes, and said aloud, "Ay, those ride fast who ride to ill."

Ralph heard the words, and, somewhat more impressible that morning than usual, he checked his horse and turned to the old crone: "Why say you so, mother?" he asked; "I have never done you any ill, but good, and to your son's family too."

"Ay, it does not matter, Master Ralph," replied the old woman, shaking her head; "what I said is true, notwithstanding;" and she repeated it.

"Do you mean to say I am riding to do ill or to suffer ill?" asked the young man.

"Ay, to suffer more than you know of," replied the woman.