Oh my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have wakened death!
And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell's from heaven.
OTHELLO.
In accordance with the determination he had expressed, Holden began
soon to talk about putting his wild plan of roaming through the world
into execution, and was withheld from it only by the entreaties of
Pownal, that he would at least postpone it until after the arrival
of his uncle, who was daily expected, and until they had taken his
advice.
"I consent," said Holden, "both out of love to thee, and because
I would not willingly leave a roof that hath protected me, without
giving thanks to its owner."
A few days afterwards, Mr. Pownal returned with his family, by all
of whom the young man was welcomed with every evidence of the warmest
regard. Holden, too, as the friend of the younger Pownal, came in for
a share of attention. The family consisted of the father and mother,
and two children, a boy and girl, the former of whom could not be
more than ten years of age, while the latter was probably two years
younger.
Mr. Pownal himself was a fine, frank, hearty gentleman of some sixty
years, whose appearance indicated that the world had gone well with
him, and that he was satisfied with the world. The ordinary expression
of his face was that of quiet contentment, though at times it betrayed
a keen sagacity and shrewdness, partly the revelation of nature, and
partly the product of an intimate intercourse with that world with
which his business brought him, in various ways, in contact. It was
however apparent, that however much the associations and experiences
of trade had sharpened his intellect, they had not tarnished the
natural goodness of his heart. That spoke in the frank tones of his
manly voice and shone in the light of his clear blue eyes. One could
hardly look at him without a conviction that he was a man to be
trusted, and a desire to grasp his hand in friendship. Holden felt the
influence at the introduction, and no mean judge of character himself,
was glad to make the acquaintance.
Mrs. Pownal was by several years the junior of her husband, and in all
respects different from him. Her hair and eyes were raven-black, her
complexion dark and saturnine, and she wore an expression of care
inconsistent with enjoyment. She had been for many years a childless
wife, and it may be that early disappointment, occasioned by the want
of children, uniting with a melancholy temperament, had imparted an
appearance of dejection which the subsequent birth of a boy and girl
after she had given up the expectation of offspring, was unable to
remove. She seldom smiled, and when she did, the smile played over her
countenance like the sickly gleam of a wintry clay through clouds,
and seemed rather to chill than to warm what before was cold. It was a
formal tribute to the customs of society, not the spontaneous outburst
of joy. She presented the tips of her fingers with all the grace of
an accomplished lady, to Holden, and meant that her reception of him
should be kind, but the hand was cold, and apparently as unfeeling as
marble, and the Solitary dropped it as soon as touched. And yet Mrs.
Pownal had feeling.
The first few days after the return of the Pownals was spent by them
in gathering up those threads of relationship by which people are
connected with society. Even a short absence from home induces
sometimes the necessity of paying and receiving many visits,
proportioned to the extent of the circle in which the parties move.
The visiting circle of the Pownals was large, and hence the longer
time was required. Besides, the business pursuits of the merchant
engrossed some hours each day, though as the head of a large house in
which there were several younger partners, he claimed and enjoyed all
the leisure he desired. For these reasons young Pownal had found no
fitting opportunity to speak in the presence of Holden of the purpose
which brought the Solitary to the city, and besides, he did not
wish to do so, until the time should arrive for his own return
to Hillsdale, when he hoped, with the assistance of his uncle, to
persuade him to return home. But the business of the young man was at
last completed, and he was ready to retrace his steps.
It was then one evening when both Mr. and Mrs. Pownal were present,
and immediately preceding the day when he had announced his intention
to depart, that Holden, at the solicitation of young Pownal, supported
by the courteous entreaties of his uncle, narrated the events of his
life, which are already known to the reader, and avowed with that
unshaken trust in Providence, which in all circumstances sustained
him, his resolution to beg his way through the world on his sacred
search. His hosts had become, by this time, so accustomed to the fiery
enthusiasm and antique diction of his discourse, that they no longer
excited their surprise, but as he proceeded with his tale, the
attention of both seemed arrested by a strange fascination. Even the
figure of Mrs. Pownal lost its listlessness. Her black eyes became
riveted on the speaker. She bent forward, with parted lips, as
if unwilling to lose a word, while from time to time glances of
intelligence passed between the husband and wife, which neither Pownal
nor Holden were able to understand.
"Thus far," said the enthusiast, in conclusion, "the Lord hath led me
on. By flood and fire, and in battle He hath preserved a life, that
long was wearisome to me. But in these latter days, He hath awakened
a new hope, and given me an assurance thereof which I can better feel
than tell. He hath not prolonged my life for naught. Behold, I know
assuredly, that the child liveth, and that in my flesh, I shall see
His salvation. Therefore, in obedience to the inner voice, will I gird
up my loins, and after thanking you my friends, for the bread we have
broken together, and the roof that hath sheltered the wanderer's head,
will I proceed upon my way."
He rose and strode across the room, as if to put his design into
instant execution, but the voice of the elder Pownal arrested him.
"Stay," he said, "and listen. Your steps have indeed, been wonderfully
directed. I can give you, perhaps, some information, about this John
Johnson, with whom the boy was left."
Holden stopped but made no motion to return. He seemed to hear and
understand the words, but to be uncertain whence they proceeded. His
eyes were cast up and fixed on vacancy. At last he said, still gazing
in the air. "Speak Lord for thy servant heareth."
Mr. Pownal approached, and taking Holden by an arm, led him gently to
the sofa, and took a seat by his side. Mrs. Pownal said not a word,
but threw her arms round young Pownal's neck, and sobbed upon his
bosom.
The young man, unable to divine a reason for such unusual emotion,
could only silently return the caress and wait for an explanation.
"I knew a person of the name," said Mr. Pownal, "but he has been dead
many years."
"But the child, but the child," exclaimed Holden, "he is yet alive!"
"I do not doubt he is alive, I am confident we shall be able to
discover him. Your trust in Providence is not misplaced."
"Tell me," cried Holden, a little sternly, "what thou knowest of the
boy. My soul travaileth sore, and hope and doubt rend me in twain."
"Hold fast your hope my friend," said Mr. Pownal, "for all will yet
be well. Prepare yourself to hear what, without preparation, might
overcome your strength."
"Fear not," said Holden. "Yet alas! who knoweth his own heart? But a
moment ago, I thought myself as an iron mountain, and now am I weaker
than the untimely birth."
"Eliza," said Mr. Pownal turning to his wife, "bring the token you
preserved."
During the absence of his wife, Mr. Pownal endeavored to prepare the
mind of the Solitary for the joyful discovery he was about to make.
It was now, too, that Holden perceived, from the agitation of his
feelings, that he was weak, like other men, and that with whatever
hope and confidence and calmness he might contemplate the prospect
of distant happiness, its near approach shook him like a reed. Mrs.
Pownal presently returned, with a coral necklace in her hand, and
presented it to Holden.
"Do you recognize it?" she said.
He took it into his hands, and as if overcome by the violence of his
emotions, was unable to speak a word. He gazed steadily at it, his
lips moved but made no sound, and tears began to fall upon the faded
coral. At last, with broken utterance, he said:
"The last time my eyes beheld these beads they were upon the neck of
my dear child. They were the gift of his mother, and she hung them
around his neck. Examine the clasp and you will find S.B., the
initials of her maiden name, engraved upon it. My tears blind my
sight."
"They are, indeed, upon the clasp," said Mrs. Pownal, who appeared
to have a greater control over herself than her husband over his
feelings: "we have often seen them, but little did we expect they
would ever contribute to the discovery of the parentage of our
dear"----
She turned to young Pownal, and threw her arms again about his neck.
"Come hither, Thomas," said Mr. Pownal, "the necklace was taken from
your neck. This is your father. Mr. Holden, embrace your son."
The young man rushed to his father, and threw himself at his feet.
Holden extended his hands, but the sudden revulsion of high wrought
feeling was more than he could bear. The color fled face and lips, and
he fell forward insensible into the arms of his long lost son.
"I feared it would be so," said Mr. Pownal; "but joy seldom kills.
See," he added, after Mrs. Pownal had sprinkled some water in the face
of the gasping man, "he is recovering. He will soon be himself again."
Restored to consciousness, Holden clasped his recovered son to his
bosom, and kissed his cheeks, while the young man returned with warmth
his demonstrations of affection. Pownal, we have seen, had been from
the first attracted to the Solitary, either by the noble qualities he
discovered in him, or from the interest he felt in his romantic
mode of life, or from that mysterious sympathy of consanguinity, the
existence of which is asserted by some, and denied by others. He
was, therefore, prepared to receive with pleasure the relationship.
Besides, it was a satisfaction to find his father in one, who, however
poor his worldly circumstances, and whatever his eccentricities, was
evidently a man of education and noble mind. For the young man was
himself a nobleman of nature, who had inherited some of the romance
of his father, and, indeed, in whom were slumbering, unconsciously to
himself, many traits of character like those of the father, and which
needed only opportunity to be developed.
The first words Holden uttered, after recovering from his emotion
sufficiently to speak, were:
"Lord! now let thou thy servant depart, for mine eyes have seen thy
salvation."
"Do not talk of departing," said Mr. Pownal. "It seems to me now is
the very time to stay. Many years of happiness are in store for you."
"But," said Holden, "tell me, thou who hast conferred an obligation
that can never be repaid, and restored as it were the dead to life,
how didst thou become the preserver of my child?"
But a few words are necessary to answer Holden's questions. As the
happy father sat with his arm over his son's neck, Mr. Pownal related
the following particulars.
"The John Johnson, of whom Esther the squaw told you," said Mr.
Pownal, "was some nineteen or twenty years ago a porter in the employ
of our house. He was an honest, industrious man, who remained in our
service until his death, which happened two or three years after the
event I am about to relate, and enjoyed our confidence to the last. It
was in the Spring--the month I do not recollect--when he came to the
counting-room and desired to speak with me in private. He told me that
on the previous evening he had found a child, dressed in rags, asleep
upon the steps of his house, and that to preserve it from perishing he
had taken it in. His own family was large, and he was a poor man, else
he would willingly keep it. He knew not exactly what to do, and as he
was in the habit of consulting me when in any difficulty, he thought
he had better do so now. It was a pretty lively little boy, but so
young that though beginning to speak it was unable to give any account
of itself.
"While Johnson was speaking a plan came into my mind, which I had
thought of before, and it seemed as if the child were providentially
sent in order to enable me to accomplish it. The truth is, that I had
been married for several years, and the merry voice of no child of
my own had gladdened my home and I had given up the expectation of
children. Loving them dearly, it occurred to me to adopt some child,
and rear it as my own. The feelings of Mrs. Pownal were the same
as mine, and we had often talked over the subject together, but
one circumstance and another, I can hardly tell what they were, had
postponed the execution of our purpose from day to day. I therefore
said to Johnson that I would attend him home and see the child, after
which I should be better able to give him advice. Accordingly we
went together to his house, which I recollect was the very one you
described as having visited in your search in William street. There I
found the little waif, a bright eyed boy of some three or four years
of age, though his cheeks were pale and thin, as if he had already
known some suffering. He wore around his neck the coral beads you
have in your hand, which seemed to me at the time to have been left in
order to facilitate a recognition. The appealing look and sweet smile
with which he gazed into my eyes, as if demanding protection, was, in
the condition of my feelings, more than I could withstand, and I took
him home and gave him to my wife. She seemed equally pleased with
myself, and for a time we reared him as a child of our own. Richly has
he repaid our love, and you may well be proud of such a son. But some
ten years afterwards, to our surprise, for we had given up all hope
of such a blessing, Heaven gave us a son, and two years after that
a daughter. The birth of the children altered, in some respects, our
calculations, and I thought it necessary to communicate to Thomas the
fact that he was not my son, but promising that he should ever be to
me as one, and leaving it to be inferred from the identity of name,
for I had given him my own, that he was a relative. He has more than
once endeavored to penetrate the mystery, but I have always shrunk
from revealing it, although determined that at some time or another
he should be made acquainted with it, and with that view, to guard
against the contingencies of sudden death, prepared a narrative of the
events I am relating, which is at this moment in my desk addressed to
him. Mr. Holden," concluded Mr. Pownal, and his voice choked for an
instant, "I can wish you no higher good fortune than that the youth,
who, if not the offspring of my loins, is the son of my affection, may
be to you a source of as much happiness as he has been to me."
Moved to tears the young man threw himself into the arms of his
benefactor, and in broken words murmured his gratitude.
"Ah!" cried he, "you were always so indulgent and so kind, dear sir!
Had it not been for, you, what should I have been to day?"
"Nay, Thomas," said Mr. Pownal, "you have conferred a benefit greater
than you received. You filled a void in hearts that were aching for
an object of parental love, and for years were the solitary beam of
sunshine in a household that would else have been desolate and dark.
And had I not interposed, other means would have been found to restore
you to your proper sphere. There is that in you, my son--let me still
call you by the dear name--that under any circumstances would have
forced its way, and elevated you from darkness into light, from
obscurity into distinction."
Young Pownal cast his eyes upon the carpet, and blushed like a girl at
the recital of his praises. No words came to his assistance, but the
deep voice of his father relieved him from his embarrassment.
"It may be true what thou sayest, angel of the Lord," he said,
addressing Mr. Pownal, "thou who hast been even as a cloud by day, and
a pillar of fire by night, to guide the lad through the wilderness of
the world, but not the less are our thanks and eternal gratitude
due to thee as the chosen instrument to accomplish His will. May
the blessing of the Lord God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, of Him who
called unto Moses out of the burning bush, of Him who is the root and
the offspring of David, the bright and morning Star, rest and
abide with thee and thy house for ever. And thou, madam," he added,
approaching Mrs. Pownal with a dignity and grace that caused his
singular appearance to be quite overlooked, "how shall he, who is an
outcast no longer, thank thee?" He pressed his hand upon his heart, as
if to restrain its beating, then bending over and taking her hand into
his own, kissed it with the devotion of a devotee. "Blessed be thou
above women. The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble, and fulfill all
thy desire. Thou didst pity and shalt be pitied: thou wast merciful
and shalt receive mercy. 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of
these little ones, ye did it unto me,' saith Christ."
"We are abundantly compensated, Mr. Holden," observed Mrs. Pownal,
feeling it incumbent to say something, and yet at a loss what to say.
"Mr. Pownal has expressed my feelings better than I can myself. But,
Thomas, you shall still be our son, for all these disclosures."
"Mother! mother!" cried Pownal, kneeling by her side, and kissing the
lips she offered to his, "you shall always be my dear mother, as long
as you permit me to call you so. Oh, how little have I known how
much I was indebted to you, and my second father. I have dreamed and
wondered, but the imagination still fell short of the truth."
"Thou hast received an obligation, my son," said Holden, "which
all thy love and devotedness can never repay, and the claims of thy
parents by kindness are stronger than mine. To me thou owest life,
to them its preservation and honorable station. Thou wilt give me the
love thou hast to spare, but to them belongs the greater portion."
"We will be content with equal parts," said Mr. Pownal, smiling. "In
this partnership of affection none must claim a superior share."
"Strange!" exclaimed Holden, fastening his eyes on his son, and
speaking, as was his wont sometimes, as to himself, "that the full
truth broke not on me before. The heart yearned to him, he was as a
bright star to me; his voice was the music of the forest to my ears;
his eyes were as a sweet dream, a vanished happiness, but I understood
not. It is plain now. It was the voice of my Sarah I heard: they were
her eyes that looked into my heart through his. And was it not thy
prompting, mysterious Nature, that inclined him to me? Was there not
a dim revelation, that I was more to him than other men? Else why
delighted he in the society of a lone, wayward man like me? Lord God
Almighty, no man knoweth the ordinances of heaven, nor can he set the
dominion thereof upon the earth!"