I cannot think of sorrow now: and doubt
If e'er I felt it--'tis so dazzled from
My memory by this oblivious transport.
BYRON
"Here come that strange old man," said Felix, the next morning,
looking out of the kitchen window, which commanded a view of the road.
"I do believe he's bewitched the boss."
Rosa, to whom the remark was addressed, ran to the window, and saw the
Recluse coming up the street.
"I'm 'stonished," she said, "that Mr. Armstrong and Miss Faith give
so much encouragement to these low pussons. They always take so much
liberty."
"Give 'em an inch and they take two feet," said Felix. "I wish his
two feet take him away from this house for the last time," he added,
laughing.
"Ha, ha, ha, you so 'musing Felix," said Rosa. "There is something too
very genteel in your laugh."
"You do me proud, sweet Rosa," answered Felix, bowing with his hand
upon his breast.
Holden was no favorite of the black. The well-dressed and well-fed
servant of a wealthy family, with the feeling common to all who judge
from outside appearances, had at first been disposed to look down upon
the coarsely-dressed anchorite, who supported himself by so mean a
labor as the manufacture of baskets, and to consider him as little
better than a beggar-man. No sooner, however, did Holden detect the
feeling, and it was instantly, than he corrected it, so that it never
made its appearance again in his presence. In fact, a feeling of fear
superseded the impertinence of the negro. There was something in the
burning glare of Holden's eyes, and the deep tones of his voice, that
exerted an inexplicable power over Felix. Much he turned it over in
his mind, why, in spite of himself, he was obliged to be as civil
to Holden as to white gentlemen, and at last concluded, the Solitary
possessed some magic art, by which he controlled others. He the more
readily adopted the opinion because he considered his master and young
mistress under the spell of the same glamourie to which he himself had
succumbed.
When, therefore, Holden struck with the knocker on the door, the
obsequious Felix was at hand to open it, and show him into the parlor.
"Tell your master I am here," said Holden, entering.
"How does he know Mr. Armstrong is at home?" said Felix, to himself.
"But I'm a free man, and it is very onpolite to talk about my master."
"The Lord hath raised up a mighty salvation for us," was the address
of Holden, as Mr. Armstrong entered the room. "I come to bid thee
farewell for a time."
"Farewell!" repeated Mr. Armstrong, without comprehending the meaning
of the other.
"Sit thee down, dear friend, and listen to what will give thee joy for
my sake now, and thine own hereafter. My son, who was dead, is alive
again.".
Armstrong was at a loss to divine the meaning of his visitor. He took
it for some figurative form of expression, and, without making any
reply, passed his hand over his forehead, as if trying to recall some
idea.
Holden read his thoughts. "Thou dost not understand," he said. "Know
then that the child perished not with the mother."
"My friend," said Armstrong, who had now complete command of himself,
"you do not reflect that I cannot understand your allusions. Explain
to me, that I may participate in your joy."
"The child of my youth, he whom I lost, whom I mourned for so many
years as dead, is alive," exclaimed Holden, in tones of irrepressible
emotion.
"I give you joy," said Armstrong, grasping his hand. "But you never
mentioned you had a son. How have you lost, and how found him?"
"It is the Lord's doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes," said
Holden. "Not long since thou didst tell of an unhappy man, round whom
afflictions had gathered. Now will I tell thee of another not less
wretched, the clouds of whose sorrow the setting sun is gilding. Be it
unto thee for a lesson of hope, for I tell thee, James, that assuredly
thou shalt be comforted."
We will endeavor to compress into a few words the more diffuse
narrative of the Recluse, confining ourselves to the substance.
It will be recollected that before Holden's constrained retirement
among the Indians, he had attached to him the squaw, Esther, by the
ties of both gratitude and respect. But it was only at a distance she
looked up to him whom she regarded as a sort of superior being. She
would not have ventured to speak to him of herself, for how could he
take an interest in so insignificant a creature? The nearer relations,
however, into which they were thrown, while he was an inmate of
her cabin, without diminishing her affection, abated her awe. The
teachings of Holden, and the strong interest he manifested for herself
and tribe so affected her, that one day she made to him a confession
of the events of her life. It is only necessary to recount those which
have a connection with this story. Some twenty years previous she had
accompanied her husband on a visit to a tribe in Kentucky, into which
some of her own relatives had been received. While there an expedition
had been undertaken by the Indians, which her husband joined, against
the white settlements, then inconsiderable, and exposed. After a few
days the warriors returned in triumph, bringing with them many
scalps, but no prisoner, except a little boy, saved by her husband,
Huttamoiden. He delivered the child to her, and having none herself,
she soon learned to love it as her own. Huttamoiden described to her
with that particularity which marks the description of natural objects
by an Indian, whose habits of life in the forest compel him to a close
observation, the situation of the log-hut from which the child was
taken, the hut itself before which leaped a mountain stream, the
appearance of the unfortunate woman who was murdered, and the
desperate resistance of the master of the cabin, who, at the time, was
supposed to have perished in the flames, but was afterwards known by
the name of Onontio--as the scourge and terror of the tribe which
had destroyed his family. She had shortly afterwards started with her
husband, taking with them the little boy, for the east, but they found
the innumerable questions and suspicions occasioned by the possession
of the white child so annoying, and dreaded so the inquiries and
investigation that would be made upon their return home, that they
determined to get rid of him upon the first opportunity. As their
route lay through New York, the streets of a populous city furnished
the very chance they desired. It was with great reluctance Esther
felt herself compelled to this course, and she was unwilling the child
should fall into unkind hands. While reflecting upon what was to be
done, she remembered a family which had come from that part of the
country whence she came, and whom she had known as worthy people,
and determined to entrust to them the boy. She dared not to do
this openly. So one night she placed the child on their door-step,
enjoining him not to stir until some one took him into the house,
while she herself watched close by, until she saw him taken in. Since
then, not daring to make inquiries, for fear of bringing on herself
some unknown punishment, she had not heard of the boy. She remembered
the name of the people with whom he was left, and also the street, and
the number, and gave them to Holden.
Upon this foundation it was the Recluse built up the hope that his son
was yet alive.
"I am Onontio," he said. "The Being who touched the heart of the
ferocious savage to spare the life of the child, hath preserved him.
Mine eyes shall yet behold him."
Armstrong was deeply touched, and in the contemplation of the
brightening prospects of his friend, he forgot the clouds that hung
around his own horizon. Perhaps he was not so sanguine of success
as Holden, whose eagle eyes seemed penetrating the future, but he
respected too deeply the high raised hopes and sacred feelings of the
father, to drop a word of doubt or discouragement.
"Myself, my purse," he said, "are at your service."
"Thomas Pownal goeth to the city to-morrow," replied Holden. "I will
speak unto him, and accompany him. Nor do I refuse thy assistance, but
freely as it is offered as freely do I accept it. They who are worthy
to be called my friends, regard gold and silver only as it ministers
to their own and others' wants."
He took the proffered bank-bills with quite as much an air of one
conferring, as one of receiving a favor, and, without even looking at
the amount, put them in his pocket.
It was so long since Holden had been in the great world, or mingled
in the ordinary pursuits of men--and his appearance and mode of speech
were so different from those of others--that Armstrong had some fears
respecting his researches. It was, perhaps, this latent apprehension
of his fitness to appear in the world--an apprehension, however,
only dimly cognizable by himself--that induced Holden to seek the
companionship of Pownal. With these feelings, and believing he might
be of advantage to this strange man, for whom this new development
awakened additional interest in his mind, Armstrong offered to be his
companion, in the search for his son; but, to his surprise, his offer
was hastily rejected.
"No," said Holden; "it befitteth not. Stay, to take care of Faith.
Stay, to welcome me when I shall return with a crown of rejoicing upon
my head."
Armstrong shrunk within himself at the repulse. He would not have
regarded or hardly noticed it once, but, his mind had become morbidly
sensitive. A word, a look, a tone had now power to inflict a wound.
He was like the Sybarite whose repose was disturbed by a wrinkled
rose-leaf; with this difference, that they were spiritual, not
material hurts he felt. Did the forecast of Holden penetrate the
future? Did he, as in a vision, behold the spectres of misfortune that
dogged Armstrong's steps? Was he afraid of a companionship that
might drag him down and entangle him in the meshes of a predestined
wretchedness? He is right, thought Armstrong. He sees the whirlpool
into which, if once drawn, there is no escape from destruction.
Holden succeeded better in communicating a portion of his confidence
to Pownal. In the morning of life, before experience has dimmed our
sky with clouds, we readily perceive the sun of joy. The bright eyes
of youth catch his rays on the mountain tops, before the drooping lids
of age are raised from the ground. The ardent temperament of the
young man entered with delight into the hopes of his elder. He even
anticipated the request Holden intended to make, and asked permission
to accompany him. With a very natural feeling he endeavored to effect
some change in the costume of the Recluse, but here he met with
decided opposition.
"I have nothing to do with the world or its follies," said Holden.
"Let it pass on its way as I will on mine. It will reck but little of
the garments of an unknown man."
It was more for the sake of his friend than himself that Pownal
proposed the change. Perceiving the feelings of the other, he forbore
to press a proposal further, which, after all, was of but little
consequence. A sloop was to sail the next day--the wind favoring--from
Hillsdale, and it was agreed between the two to take passage together.
We may judge of the feelings of Pownal at this time, from the fact
that the last evening he spent at Hillsdale, before he left for New
York, where, indeed, he expected to remain but a short time, found him
at the house of Judge Bernard. He was fortunate, whether beyond his
expectations or not we cannot say, in finding Miss Bernard alone. At
least it was a fortunate coincidence with his wishes, and might we
judge, from the raised color of the cheeks, and the smiles that played
round the lips of the beautiful girl, not displeasing to her. It is
wonderful, when we look back, how frequently these charming accidents
of youth occur.
It was unnecessary that Pownal should speak of his intended trip to
the commercial capital. He seemed to assume that Anne was already
acquainted with his purpose, but of Holden's discovery she had not
been informed.
"Beautiful!" cried Anne, clapping her hands. "We shall have a
_dénouément_ fit for a novel yet. Oh, I do hope he may find his son.
And," added she, with a warm quick feeling, "I can see now reason for
the strange habits of our poor dear prophet. Oh, to think of the long
years of lonesome misery he must have passed!"
"He seems to have no doubt," said Pownal, "of discovering his lost
son. I confess that when I heard him in his animated way tell his
story, with eyes raised in thankfulness to heaven, I was swept along
by his enthusiasm, and felt no more doubt than himself of his success;
but when I reflect more calmly on the circumstances the prospect is
not so brilliant."
"Do not doubt: the prospect _is_ brilliant: Jeremiah shall cease his
lamentations: our prophet shall be made happy. Ah, why anticipate
anything but good!"
"I accept the omen, dear Miss Bernard," said Pownal, looking with
admiration upon her beaming countenance, "Men arrive at conclusions,
how often false, by a fallible process of reasoning, while truth comes
to your more fortunate sex by a happy inspiration."
"And I accept the compliment, since you accept the inspiration. I hope
it is with more than the ordinary sincerity of those in the habit of
making compliments."
"I wish you could see into my heart."
"You would wish the window closed immediately. What do you suppose I
should see there?"
"Yourself."
"Then it is a looking-glass," said Anne, blushing. "A valuable piece
of furniture certainly, in which any lady may view her face!"
"No! a portrait more true to life than Stuart's, and which I prize
above everything."
"You must be mistaken in fancying it mine. Only old pictures are
prized. The moderns have no reputation."
"You will always jest. I assure you I am serious," said Pownal, who,
however, was obliged to smile.
"I see you are very serious. Oh, I hate seriousness ever since I was
frightened by the long face of Deacon Bigelow, when he discovered my
ignorance of the catechism. It was as long," she added, looking round
for something to compare it to, "as the tongs."
"Or as your lessons of a June day, when the sunshine and birds, and
flowers were inviting you to join them."
"Or as the time when I do not see Faith for twenty-four hours."
"Or as my absence will be to me in New York."
"I wonder how you," said Anne, "who are accustomed to the bustle and
excitement of a large city, can be contented with the quiet monotony
of a country town."
"I found something here not to be found in all country towns," said
Pownal. "Besides, the noise and confusion of a large place never were
agreeable to me, and when I return to them they lie like a weight upon
my spirits. Instead of a city I ought to have been born in a boundless
forest."
"You know I have said, I thought there was a wildness about you,"
replied Anne, laughing.
"Do you not consider the wild animal tamed?"
"Not entirely. It belongs to a species almost irreclaimable."
"He will never be tamed a second time."
"Then he must not be suffered to escape."
The words flew from the lips of the gay impulsive girl before she was
aware. The eloquent blood crimsoned her cheeks, and clapping both her
hands upon her face to conceal the blushes, she burst into a laugh as
musical as the song of the canary bird. Pownal's eyes sparkled with
delight, but before he could utter a word, she had sprung upon her
feet.
"It is too bad," she cried, "to compare you to a wild animal. Forgive
and forget my impertinence. I have been reading a novel," and as, she
said so she took a book from the table, "by an American author, which
interests me greatly. Have you seen it?"
Pownal took the book into his hands. It was one of Charles Brockden
Brown's.
"I read it some years ago," he said; "and I remember it made a great
impression upon me at the time. It appears to me to be written with
wonderful power of enchaining the attention. I could not lay it down
until it was finished."
"Exactly as I was affected," said Anne.
"Yet I wonder that one so lively and merry as Miss Bernard should
be pleased with such a book. The subjects of Brown's novels are all
gloomy. His imagination seems at home only in sombre scenes. His is
the fascination of horror."
"I wonder at it myself. But it shows the ability of the writer, in
being able to affect as thoughtless a person as I am."
"Not thoughtless. No one would say that of you but yourself. It is,
perhaps, because of your gaiety--on account of the contrast. The
sunshine loves to light up dark places."
"Very prettily expressed. Really, if you go on improving, we must
have you appointed valentine-manufacturer-general for the town of
Hillsdale."
"I suspect the valentines would all be addressed to one person."
"Then I shall oppose your appointment. But let that pass for the
present. You were telling me why I liked Brown's novels."
"I am not so presumptuous. I was only guessing. It is the Yankee's
privilege. The world concedes it to us. I suggest then that your mind
wanders through those dark scenes with an interest like that with
which a traveller contemplates a strange country. And may they ever
remain a strange region to you. May you ever continue to be what you
are now, a bright being, at whose approach sorrow and sadness fly
away."
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the Judge and
Mrs. Bernard, on their return from some neighborly call. Anne received
the bonnet and shawl from her mother, who was evidently accustomed to
such attentions, nor had the young lady ever appeared more beautiful
in the eyes of the young man, than when he saw her rendering those
little services of filial respect and affection. "She deserves," he
said to himself, "the richest gifts of Providence. One so bright, so
pure, so innocent, must be a favorite of the angels."
These were lover's thoughts, and our readers at the remembrance of
youthful dreams and fancies will pardon their extravagance. They come
at only one period of life, and oh, how quickly do they fly, leaving
behind a trail of light which may, indeed, be obscured, but never
quite extinguished.
Pownal informed the Judge of his intended departure, and, as usual,
received from him and Mrs. Bernard some commissions to execute on
their account. That of the former was for some books, while his
wife's, we are compelled to say, however undignified it may sound, was
for nothing more important than the last fashionable French bonnet.
But let us add that she took not more pleasure in wearing a becoming
head-dress (and what new fashion is not becoming?) than he in seeing
her handsome face in its adornment.
"My husband," she said, "Mr. Pownal, tries to Frenchify me a little,
sometimes, and I am obliged to indulge him, he is generally so good;
but he will never succeed in making anything else out of me than a
plain Yankee woman."
"Plain or beautiful, the highest title to my affection," said the
Judge, gallantly. "I have been a traveller, Thomas, and have seen
the Old World. This is a progressive world; and, believe me, the
productions of the New are not, to say the least, inferior to those of
the Old."
"I can well believe it," said Pownal, bowing to the ladies.
"A pleasant voyage, Thomas," said the Judge, as he bade his young
friend good-bye, "along the sandy shores of Long Island, and through
the perils of Hell Gate."