"Then, why not this morning, while the air is fresh with the dews of night, and before the roads are filled with dust? I anticipate 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 passed 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 competition 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 retard 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 passing 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, clustered 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!