CHAPTER XXXVIII.
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 andcovered his face with both hands. He remained in this position forsome time, and when he removed them, it was very pale, and exhibitedtraces of strong emotion. He cast his eyes slowly around theroom, examining every part, not even the furniture escaping minuteobservation. But of all the objects a portrait that hung over thefire-place attracted the most attention. It was that of a man, pastthe prime of life, and who in youth must have possessed considerablebeauty. The features were regular and well-formed, the forehead highand broad, and the hair long and abundant, waving in curls over theshoulders. What was the age designed to be portrayed, it wasdifficult to determine with any degree of exactness, for there was acontradiction between the parts which appeared scarcely reconcilablewith one another. Looking at the furrows that seamed the face, itspallor, and the wrinkles of the brow, one would have said that theoriginal must have been a man between sixty and seventy, while thehair, dark and glossy, indicated much less age. Yet, the perfection ofthe drawing, the flesh-like tints that melted into each other, andthe air of reality that stamped the whole, proclaimed the portrait thework of a master, and it was impossible to avoid the conviction thatit was an authentic likeness.
Holden placed the candle on the mantelpiece in such a manner as bestto throw light upon the picture, and stood at a little distance tocontemplate it. As he gazed, he began to fancy he discovered traitswhich had at first escaped his observation. An expression of pain andanxious sadness overspread the face, and gleams of light, like theglare of insanity, shot from the eyes. So strong was the impression,and so deeply was he affected, that as if incapable of enduringthe sight, he shut his eyes, and turning away, paced several timesbackwards and forwards, without looking up. After a few turns, hestopped before the portrait, and fixed his eyes upon it again, butonly for a moment, to resume his walk. This he did repeatedly, untilat last, with a groan, he dropped into a chair, where, crossing hisarms upon his breast, he remained for awhile lost in thought. Who cansay what were the reflections that filled his mind? Was he consideringwhether the painter meant to delineate insanity, or whether it was nota delusion springing from his own disordered intellect?
It was a long time before sleep visited the Solitary in his softand curtained bed. It might be owing to the events of the day, sostartling and unusual; it might be on account of the yielding bed,so different from his own hard couch; or in consequence of the effectproduced by the portrait; or of all these causes combined, that sleepwas long in coming, and when it did come, was disturbed with dreams,and unrefreshing. Before, however, Holden fell asleep, he had lain, asif under the influence of a spell, looking at the picture on which thebeams of the moon, stealing through the branches of the large elmthat shaded the house, flickered uncertainly and with a sort of wierdeffect, as the night wind gently agitated the leaves.
It seemed to Holden, so insensibly glided his last waking thought intohis dreams making one continuous whole, that the portrait he had beenlooking at was a living person, and he was astonished that he hadmistaken 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 hehimself had been sitting, ordered him to approach. If Holden had beenso disposed, he had no ability to disobey the command. He, thereforeadvanced towards the figure, and at a signal knelt down at his feet.The man, thereupon, stretching out his hands, laid them upon his headin the attitude of benediction. He then rose from his seat, and makinga sign to Holden to follow him, they noiselessly descended the stairstogether, and passed into the moonlight. The man constantly precedinghim, they went on, and by familiar paths and roads, and in theordinary time that would be required to accomplish the distance,arrived at a spot on the banks of the Wootuppocut well known toHolden. Here the stranger stopped, and seating himself upon the trunkof a felled tree, motioned to his companion to be seated. Holdenobeyed, waiting for what should follow. Presently he saw two figures,a male and female, approaching. The latter was veiled, and althoughthe face of the man was exposed, it swam in such a hazy indistinctnessthat it was impossible to make out the features. Still it seemed tohim that they were not entirely unknown, and he tormented himself withineffectual attempts to determine where he had seen them. He turned tohis guide to ask who they were, but before he could speak the strangerof the portrait placed his fingers on his lips, as if to requiresilence. The two persons advanced until they reached a small brookthat babbled down a ravine, and fell into the river. Suddenlysomething glittered in the air; the figures vanished; and upon lookingat 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 ofinquiry, unless the word "Friday," which he uttered in the same deeptone, can be so considered.
Holden awoke, and the sweat was standing in great drops on hisforehead. As his senses and recollection were gradually returning, hedirected his eyes towards the place where the portrait hung, half indoubt whether he should see it again. The beams of the moon no longerplayed upon it, but there was sufficient light in the room to enablehim to distinguish the features which now, more and more distinctlyemerged 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 areusually unfrequent. As the fancy decays,--as the gay illusions thatbrightened our youth disappear, to give place to realities,--as theblood that once rushed hurriedly, circulates languidly--farewell tothe visions that in storm or sunshine flitted around our pillows.
It cannot, indeed, be said that Holden never had dreams. The excitabletemperament of the man would forbid the supposition, but, even withhim, they were uncommon. He turned the one he had just had over andover again, in his mind; but, reflect upon it as he pleased, he couldmake nothing out of it, and, at last, with a sense of dissatisfactionand endeavoring to divert his mind from thoughts that banished sleep,he forgot himself again.
His slumbers were broken and harassed throughout the night, withhorrid dreams and vague anticipations of further evil. At one time hewas at his cabin, and his son lay bleeding in his arms, pierced by thebullet of Ohquamehud. At another, Faith was drowning, and stretchingout her hands to him for succor, and as he attempted to hasten to herassistance, her father interfered and held him violently back. And atanother, he was falling from an immeasurable height, with the grip ofthe Indian at his throat. Down--down he fell, countless miles, througha roaring chaos, trying to save himself from strangulation, until,just as he was about to be dashed to pieces against a rock, he awokesore and feverish.
The sun was already some distance above the horizon as Holden rosefrom his troubled slumbers. The cool air of morning flowed with arefreshing sweetness through the open window, and the birds weresinging in the branches of the large elm. With a feeling of welcome hebeheld the grateful light. He endeavored to recall and reduce to somecoherency the wild images of his dreams, but all was confusion, whichbecame the more bewildering, the longer he dwelt upon them, and themore he strove to untangle the twisted skein. All that he could nowdistinctly remember, were the place whither he had been led, and theword spoken by the portrait.
When he descended to breakfast, both Mr. Armstrong and his daughterremarked his disordered appearance, and anxiously inquired, how he hadpassed the night. To these inquiries, he frankly admitted, that he hadbeen disturbed by unpleasant dreams.
"You look," said Mr. Armstrong, "like the portrait which hangs in thechamber where you slept. It is," he continued, unheeding the warninglooks of Faith, "the portrait of my father, and was taken a short timebefore he was seized with what was called a fit of insanity, and whichwas said to have hastened his death.
"How is it possible, dear
father, you can say so?" said Faith, anxiousto prevent an impression she was afraid might be made on Holden'smind.
"I do not mean," continued Armstrong, with a singular persistency,"that Mr. Holden's features resemble the portrait very much; but thereis something which belongs to the two in common. Strange that I neverthought of it before!"
Holden during the conversation had sat with drooping lids, and asad and grieved expression, and now, as he raised his eyes, he said,mournfully--
"Thou meanest, James, that I, too, am insane. May Heaven grantthat neither thou nor thine may experience the sorrow of so great acalamity."
Faith was inexpressibly shocked. Had any one else spoken thus, witha knowledge of Holden's character, she would have consideredhim unfeeling to the last degree, but she knew her father'sconsiderateness and delicacy too well to ascribe it to any other causethan 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 facultiesexalted beyond the comprehension of the multitude; to soar above thegrovelling world. Their eyes are too weak to bear the glory, and,because they are blind, they think others cannot see. The foolsdeclared 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 beforehe answered--
"May the world never say that of thee, dear James!"
"Why not?" inquired Armstrong, eagerly. "Alas! you consider meunworthy to be admitted to the noble band of misunderstood andpersecuted men? True, true! I know it to be true. My earthly instinctsfetter me to earth. Of the earth, I am earthy. But what shall preventmy 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 greatdistress; then, turning to Armstrong, he said--
"Thou art not well, James. Perhaps, like me, thou hast passed adisturbed night?"
"I have, of late been unable to sleep as well as formerly," saidArmstrong. "There is a pain here," he added, touching his forehead,"which keeps me awake."
"Thou needest exercise. Thou dost confine thyself too much. Go moreinto the open air, to drink in the health that flows down from thepure sky."
"It is what I urge frequently on my dear father," said Faith.
"Faith is an angel," said Holden. "Listen to her advice. Thou cansthave no better guide."
"She shall redeem my soul from death," said Armstrong.
When Holden left the house of his host, he determined to carryinto effect a resolution which, it appeared now to himself, he hadstrangely delayed, such was the influence what he had just seenand heard exercised over him. That Fate or mathematical Providence,however, in which he so devoutly believed, notwithstanding he acted asthough none existed, seemed as if, tired out with his procrastinationand irresolution, determined to precipitate events and force him tolift the veil, that for so many years--with a wayward temper and loveof mystery, inexplicable by any motives that regulate the movements ofordinary minds--he had chosen to spread around himself. What followedonly convinced him more thoroughly, if that were possible, of hishelplessness on the surging tide of life and of the delusion of thosewho imagine they are aught but bubbles, breaking now this moment, nowthat, according to a predetermined order.