"So you set yourself up for a preacher of righteousness," he said; "do ye? Well, you may preach away without asking my leave, or I'll give it to ye gratis, for nothing. That's cheap enough, I guess. Most of your sort, though, don't like to preach for nothing. So here's my contribution to set you a going." So saying, he held out a cent. "There's value received," he added, "and, mind ye, ye give us a preachment equal to the consideration. But first, beloved brother, I've a question to ask. Up to the tip top of your judgment, now do you think your regimentals is just the right thing, and no mistake? Did Saint Paul and Saint, Saint, d——n the fellows, I forget their names"——

"Saint Tammany," suggested his companion.

"I owe you a drink for that, Bill," said Haxall. "Yes, Saint Tammany. Now, do you think them gentlemen, who I've heard, was real respectable men, though it was rather a comedown to take to preaching, ever sported such an infernal broadbrim as that, or turned out a tail as broad as yours?"

The Quaker gentleman, who, at the commencement of the young scamp's speech, as if frightened at the prospect of a colloquy he had provoked, had betrayed a desire to escape from the crowd, seemed, as the other proceeded, to have changed his mind, and listened to him with the utmost calmness and imperturbable good humor. When the boy had got through with his impertinences, which he ran over with great volubility, garnishing them with many epithets we have omitted, and, at the close, had received the applause of those like him, who stood around, and, now, seemed waiting for a reply, the Quaker, with great sweetness, answered—

"My young friend, it would ill become me to return a harsh word for thy rather rude address, nor will my feelings towards thee and all in thy unhappy condition, permit me to speak to thee, except in pity and in sorrow."

"Go to h——l with your pity. Nobody asks you for it," exclaimed Haxall, fiercely.

"Gently, boy, gently, and do not profane thy lips with such language. Alas! thou hast been allowed to grow up like a wild animal, and canst not be expected to know there are those who regard thee with affection. But, surely, goodness can never be quite extinguished in one who has the form of humanity. I see thou dost not know me?"

"Never set eyes on ye before, old square toes, and be d——d to you."

"Yet, I know thee, and, perhaps, the guilt is partly mine that thou art even now what thou art. Thou hast, then, forgotten the man who, only a year ago, jumped off Coenties Slip, and, by the kindness of Providence, rescued a boy from drowning?"

"Have I forgot!" exclaimed Haxall, with a sudden revulsion of feeling. "No, d——d me, not altogether. I thought there was something devilish queer in your voice. So you was the man, and I am the b'hoy. Oh, what a cussed beast I am to insult you! Give us your hand. I ask your pardon, sir. I ask your pardon. And," he added, looking fiercely round, "if there's a man here who crooks his thumb at ye, I swear I'll whip him within an inch of his life."

"Swear not at all," said the mild Quaker, "nor talk of fighting, as if thou wert a dog. I see, notwithstanding thy coarseness and vile language, thou art not all evil, and, if thou wilt come with me, I will endeavor to repair my former neglect, by putting thee in a situation where thou mayst become an useful man."

The boy hesitated. Two impulses seemed to be drawing him in opposite directions. He was afraid of the ridicule of his companion, and of the sneer which he saw on his face, and who, now, was urging him to leave with him. Yet, there was something peculiarly attractive about the Quaker that was difficult to resist.

The good Quaker read the indecision of his mind, and understood the cause. "Come," he said, "be a man, and choose for thyself like a man. Thou shalt remain with me only so long as thou wilt, and shalt be free to leave at thy pleasure."

"That's fair," said Haxall. "I'll go with you, sir. Goodbye, Bill," he exclaimed, turning to his companion, and extending his hand. But Bill, thrusting both his hands into his pockets, refused the hand, and answered contemptuously—

"If you've turned sniveller, go and snivel with Broadbrim. I've nothing to say to such a mean-spirited devil."

"You're a mean devil yourself," retorted Haxall, all his fiery passions kindling at the other's taunt.

"Come, my young friend," said the gentleman, drawing him away gently, "return not railing for railing. I trust the time may yet come, when reproach, instead of exciting anger, will only be an incentive to examine thy bosom more closely, to see if thou dost not deserve it."

Long before the conclusion of this conversation, the original cause of it had entered the house with Pownal, and, upon his departure, the little crowd had gradually dispersed, so that, when the benevolent Quaker left, with the boy whom he hoped should be a brand plucked from the burning, very few persons remained. Bill followed his departing companion with a scornful laugh, but the latter—as if his good angel stood by his side to strengthen him—had resolution enough to disregard it.

When Holden and Pownal entered the house, the front part of which was used as a shop, they were received with great civility by a woman who was officiating at the counter, and, upon their desire to speak with her husband, were shown by her into a back room, used as a parlor, and requested to be seated. Her husband, she said, had stepped out a short time since, though, already, gone longer than she expected, and would certainly be back in a few moments. Her prophecy was correct, for, sure enough, they were hardly seated before he made his appearance.

He appeared to be an intelligent person, and answered without suspicion or hesitation to the best of his ability, all the questions addressed to him, so soon as he understood their object. But his information was exceedingly limited. He knew nothing at all about a person who had occupied the house more than twenty years before—nor was it, indeed, reasonable to suppose he should. In all probability the number of tenants was almost as great as of the years that had since elapsed: the name mentioned to him was a very common one: many such were to be found in the Directory, and the chances were that the house itself had repeatedly changed owners in a community so changeable and speculating. If the gentlemen would allow him to suggest, the best course would be to examine the records in the Register's office, and trace the title down to the time desired. In this way the name of the owner could, without difficulty, be discovered, and if he were alive he might, perhaps, be able to inform them what had become of the person who was his tenant at the time, although that was hardly probable.

The suggestion was plainly sensible, and had, indeed, occurred to Pownal from the beginning, and he had accompanied Holden that morning more for the purpose of determining whether the house described by Esther, still existed, than with the expectation of making any further discovery. His anticipations had been more than realized; a favorable beginning had been made; there was every inducement to prosecute the search. When, therefore, Holden and Pownal thanked the obliging shopkeeper for his politeness, and took their leave, both felt that their morning had not been thrown away, though the condition of their minds was somewhat different, the former being confident of success, the latter hoping for it.

"I will call at the Register's office," said the young man, "and direct an examination to be made of the records. We shall be able to obtain the result to-morrow, and until then you must endeavor to amuse yourself, my dear friend, as well as possible. You know I sympathize with your impatience, and shall expedite our search with all diligence, and heaven grant it a happy termination."

Pownal saw that the search was made at the office of the Register, and the title traced through several persons to the period when the house was occupied by the man named by Esther. Upon further inquiry it was ascertained that the proprietor at that time was still alive, and one of the principal citizens of the place. Holden lost no time in calling upon him, but was doomed to disappointment. He was received, indeed, with great urbanity by the gentleman, one of the old school, who proffered every aid in his power, and made an examination of his papers to discover the name of his tenant. He was successful in the search, and found that the name was the same given by Esther, but what had become of the man he was unable to say.

Holden now determined to make the inquiry of every one of the same name as that of the person sought. The search he pursued with all the ardor of a vehement nature, stimulated by the importance of an object that lay so near his heart. There was no street, or alley, or lane, where there was the slightest chance of success, unvisited by his unwearied feet. And varied was the treatment he received in that persevering search: by some met with contempt and insult as a crazy old fool, whose fittest place was the lunatic asylum, and who ought not to be allowed to prowl about the streets, entering people's houses at unseasonable hours and plaguing them with foolish questions: by others with a careless indifference, and an obvious desire to be rid of him as soon as possible, but to the honor of human nature, be it said, by most with sympathy and kindness. It was, moreover, usually among the poorer, that when it was necessary to mention the reason of his inquiry, he was treated with the most gentleness and consideration. Whether it is that suffering had taught them feeling for others' woes, while prosperity and worldly greed had hardened the hearts of the richer, let the reader determine. And, again, it was upon the women his tale made the tenderest impression. Whatever maybe the condition of woman, however sad her experience in life, however deplorable her lot, however low she may be sunk in degradation, it is hard to find one of her sex in whom sensibility is extinguished. With her, kindness is an instinct. The heart throbs of necessity to a story of sorrow, and the eye overflows with pity.

But the diligence of Holden was in vain, and, at last, he was obliged to confess that he knew not what further to do, unless he took his staff in hand and wandered over the world in prosecution of his search.

"And that will I do, Thomas," he said, as one day he returned from his inquiry, "if naught else can be done. My trust is in the Lord, and He doth not mock. He despiseth not the sighing of the heart, nor hath He made the revelation and put this confidence into my mind in vain. I know in whom I have trusted, and that He is faithful and true."

Whatever might have been the opinion of Pownal, he was incapable of uttering a word to discourage Holden, or of inflicting unnecessary pain. "Why should I," he said, "dampen his enthusiasm? Small, as seems to me, the chance of ever discovering his son, it is, after all, mere opinion. Things more wonderful than such a discovery have happened. By me, at least, he shall be sustained and encouraged. Disappointment, if it comes, will come soon enough. I will not be its ill-omened herald." He, therefore, said, in reply—

"Esther's story is certainly true. Our researches corroborate its truth. We have found the house, and a person of the name she gave, did live in it at the time she mentioned."

"They satisfy thee, Thomas; but I have a more convincing proof—an internal evidence—even as the sure word of prophecy. It speaks to me like a sweet voice, at mine uprising and lying down, and bids me be strong and of good cheer, for the day of deliverance draweth nigh. Doubt not, but believe that, in His good time, the rough places shall be made smooth, and the darkness light. And yet, shall I confess it unto thee, that, sometimes, a sinful impatience mastereth me? I forget, that the little seed must lie for a time in the earth, and night succeed day and day night, and the dew descend and the rain fall, and the bright sun shine, and his persuasive heat creep into the bosom of the germ before its concealed beauty can disclose itself, and the lovely plant—the delight of every eye—push up its coronal of glory. But, it is a transitory cloud, and I cry, Away! and it departeth, and I say unto my heart, Peace, be still, and know that I am God!"

"It would seem," said Pownal, "that there is often a connection between the presentiments of the mind and an approaching event. How frequently does it happen, for instance, that one, without knowing why, begins to think of a person, and that, almost immediately, the person will present himself.

"It is the shadow of approaching destiny, and men have moulded the fact into a proverb. There is a world of truth in proverbs. They enclose, within a small space, even as a nut its kernel, a sum of human experience. In the case thou citest, may it not be that the man doth project a sphere of himself, or subtle influence, cognizable by spirit, albeit, the man be himself thereof unconscious? But know that it is no vague and uncertain emotion that I feel. I tell thee young man, I have heard the voice as I hear thee, and seen the vision clearer than in dreams. Naught may stay the wheel of destiny. An Almighty arm hath whirled it on its axis, and it shall revolve until He bids it stop."

Thus, unfaltering in his confidence, secure of the result, believing that to himself a revelation had been made, the Solitary expressed himself. As the blood mounted into his ordinarily pale cheeks, his lips quivered and his eyes were lighted up with a wild enthusiasm, Pownal could not but admire and acknowledge the omnipotence of that faith which regards no task as arduous, and can say unto the mountains, Be ye cast into the sea! and it is done.



CHAPTER XXXI.

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!"



CHAPTER XXXII.

Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves. These guests, these courts my soul most dearly loves: Now the winged people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring.

QUOTED BY IZAAK WALTON, AS BY SIR HARRY WOTTON.

No reason seemed now to exist for Holden's impatience to depart, yet he longed for the quiet of his hut on the island. The excitement of his feelings, which, while it acted as a stimulus, sustained him, had passed away, and the ordinary consequences of overtasking nature followed. Besides, he had lived so long in solitude, that any other mode of life was to him unnatural, and especially the roar and tumult of a populous place, disturbed him. The loudest sounds to which he had been accustomed were the rippling of the tide on the beach, or the sigh of the wind, and the songs of birds; and the difference between them and the noises he now heard, formed a contrast equally harsh and discordant. But by no word did he betray his wish. Both Mr. and Mrs. Pownal were desirous to delay the departure of himself and son, and it seemed to him ingratitude to act in any respect in opposition to the inclinations of persons to whom he was so greatly indebted. Several days, therefore, passed after the happening of the events recapitulated in the last chapter, and yet he remained in New York. But his feelings could not escape the observation of his son. Better acquainted than their host and hostess with the peculiarities of his father, he seized an opportunity to speak of the necessity of a speedy farewell.

"You are right, I do not doubt, Thomas," said Mr. Pownal, in reply to the observation of the young man, "and yet I never felt so loth to let you go. While with me you seem still in some wise to belong to me, and I feel a reluctance to lose you out of my sight."

"Do you think it possible," exclaimed young Pownal—whom his father, out of a sentiment of delicacy towards his friends, had insisted should be called by the name of his preserver, he had so long borne, for which reason we shall continue to use it—"do you think it possible I can ever forget how deeply I am indebted, that I shall ever cease to love you with all the affection of a son, on whom you have lavished every possible kindness?"

"No; I have no fear of that. It is only the pain of parting from which I shrink. As we grow older we cling with the greater tenacity, and, perhaps, selfishness, to the enjoyments that are left. But this will never do. I must think more of you, and less of myself. I have some questions to ask, and something besides to say before you leave for Hillsdale, and this is as good an opportunity, probably, as we shall have, so take a seat by me, and we will enter upon business."

Pownal, who hitherto had remained standing, now took a seat by the side of his benefactor, and waited for him to continue the conversation.

"Are you satisfied," inquired Mr. Pownal, "with your situation at Hillsdale?"

"Perfectly," replied the young man. "My time has passed very happily there."

"I meant it," continued Mr. Pownal, "only as an interlude. I sent you thither for the purpose of making you better acquainted with the branches of our business, intending to leave it to your choice either to remain or return to the city, and resume your place in the counting-house. I confess, the latter would suit me better, because you would be nearer to me; but consult your inclinations, and I shall be satisfied."

"My dear sir," said Pownal, with some little hesitation, "you are always kind, and since you leave it to my choice, I hope it will not offend you if I say, that for the present I should prefer to remain at Hillsdale."

"It is not at all surprising that you should wish to be with your father, whom, in so wonderful a manner, you have discovered," answered Mr. Pownal. "I am delighted with him, and his noble qualities must be restored to the world. We must find means to induce him to conquer his repugnance to society and its habits."

"I hope for such a result," said the young man, "but he is evidently now uneasy and pining for solitude."

"'Time and I against any two,' says the Spanish proverb. I'll be bound we will metamorphose him yet. Do you think the business at Hillsdale is capable of much extension?"

"I am sure of it. It may easily be doubled, and safely. I will give you my reasons for the opinion now, if you wish."

"Never mind for the present. It after all can make no difference in what I am about to say. I have been looking at your balance-sheet, and must say that, for a first year's business, you have done remarkably well. You have made very few bad debts, the sales are large, and profits satisfactory. You have the merchant in you, Thomas, and I must try to secure you for us beyond the power of loss. How would you like to become a member of the firm?"

"Sir," said Pownal, "your goodness overpowers me. No father could be more generous. You will do with me as you please. But what say your partners?"

"I have consulted with them, and they are of the same opinion as myself, and desire your admission. I have drawn up the terms, which, I hope, will please you, on this slip of paper, and that you may start to a little better advantage, have directed a small sum to be carried to your credit on the books, which you will also find jotted down on the paper."

"How can I thank you, sir?" said Pownal, receiving the paper, and preparing, without examining it, to place it in his pocket.

"But that is not like a merchant," exclaimed Mr. Pownal smiling, "to accept of a contract without looking at it. Read it, Thomas, and see if you wish to suggest any change."

"I am willing to trust my interests, my life, to you, sir, and it is unnecessary. But it is your command and I obey you."

We must allow, that the thought of becoming at some time a member of the firm, wherein he had received his mercantile education, had passed before through the mind of Pownal, but the conditions upon which he was now admitted were favorable beyond his most sanguine expectations. The sum of money, too, carried to the credit of his account as a capital, on which to commence, deserved a better name than that of a small sum, which the opulent merchant had called it. Pownal saw himself now at once elevated into a condition, not only to supply the wants of his father and himself, but to warrant him to cherish hopes for the success of other plans that lay very near his heart. As the thought of Anne Bernard occurred to him, and he reflected upon the goodness of his generous benefactor, it seemed, to his ingenuous mind, as if he were half guilty of a wrong in withholding any part of his confidence from Mr. Pownal, and he felt strongly tempted to admit him into the inner sanctuary of his soul. But a feeling natural in such cases, and the consideration that he was not perfectly sure his affection was returned by Anne, restrained him, and he contented himself with repeating his thanks for a generosity so much exceeding his hopes.

"Nay," said the merchant, "I must be the judge of these things. This may do to begin with. When you are married I will double it."

The tell-tale cheeks of Pownal excited the suspicions of the old gentleman, whose eyes were fastened on him as he spoke.

"Ah, ha!" cried he, laughing, "have I found you out, Thomas? I do not believe, on the whole, the bribe will be necessary. I understand now your enthusiasm about the beauties of Hillsdale. But never blush. There's no harm in possessing good taste. I was in love twenty times before I was your age. When shall the wedding be, eh?"

"My dear sir," said Pownal smiling, "it will be time enough years hence, to think of these things. In a matter of this kind, I know of no better example to follow, than your own."

"No, no, no, Thomas, do not imitate me there; I postponed my happiness too long, and were I to commence life again, I should not crawl with such a snail's pace towards it as formerly. But I have no fear of you or that my joints will be too stiff to dance on the joyful occasion."

The parting was such as might be expected between persons brought together under circumstances so singular, where on the one side there was a sense of obligation, it was a pleasure to cherish, and on the other, the yet higher gratification of conferring happiness. As Holden wrung the hand of Mr. Pownal who accompanied them to the vessel, that was to take them home, he invoked, in his enthusiastic way, a blessing upon his head. "The Almighty bless thee," he exclaimed, "with blessings of Heaven above, and blessings of the deep that lieth under. May thy bow abide in strength, and the arms of thy hands be made strong by the hands of the mighty God of Jacob."

Knowing how little his father prized the things of this world. Pownal had not communicated to him before their departure the liberal conduct of the noble merchant they had just left, but now, in a conversation one day, in which they reviewed the past, and, notwithstanding the Solitary's faith in the speedy coming of a mighty change, speculated on the future, he disclosed the last evidence of the affection of his preserver. Holden listened with a gratified air, for how could he be otherwise than pleased that the worth and amiable qualities of his son, had awakened so deep an interest in the heart of another, but replied,

"It was well meant, but unnecessary. Thou hast no need of the gold and silver of others."

The young man, supposing his father had reference to his peculiar religious notions, was silent, for it was a subject which could not be adverted to without great delicacy, and danger of vehement bursts of enthusiasm.

"Thou comprehendest me not," said Holden. "I say thou art in no want of the dross with which men buy, to their grief and shame, the deluding vanities of the world."

"If it is your wish, father, I will return the gift," said Pownal, "though I know it will hurt the generous heart of the giver."

"I interpose not. No voice calleth me thereto. But my meaning is still dark, and I know not whether it is best to admit thee fully to my counsels. Yet, thus much mayest thou now know, and more shalt thou know hereafter, that thy father is no pauper, to crave the wealth of others, and that his poverty is voluntary. The body is kept poor, that divine grace may the more readily enrich the soul."

"Believe me, sir, I do not wish to intrude into anything which it is your desire to keep secret."

"There is nothing secret that shall not be revealed," exclaimed Holden, catching at the last word, "but everything in its own order. Let it satisfy thee, therefore, my son, to know for the present that thy father hath but to stretch forth his hand and it shall be filled, but to knock and it shall be opened. But this is not the day, nor for my own sake, should the clock of time ever strike the hour, when that which was thrown away shall be taken again, that which was despised shall be valued. Yet because of thee may I not lawfully withhold the hand, and as I gaze upon thy fair young face, thou seemest one whose spirit is so balanced that what men call prosperity will not hurt thee. But affection is blind, and my heart may deceive me, and therefore will I wait until He speaks who cannot lead astray or deceive."

It was partly to himself, and partly to his son, that the Solitary spoke, nor was Pownal at all certain that he comprehended his meaning. He had at first fancied, his father was offended at his acceptance of the rich merchant's bounty, but he soon saw that Holden regarded money too little to consider the mere giving or receiving of it as of much consequence. Upon further reflection, and a consideration of the manner in which his father had lived for so many years, the idea which yet seemed shadowed forth by his language, that he was possessed of property, appeared utterly chimerical. He was therefore disposed to attach to his father's words some mystical sense, or to suppose that he imagined himself in possession of a secret, by means of which he could command the wealth he scorned. Of course the young man considered such anticipations as visionary as the immediate coming of that millenium for which the longing eyes of the enthusiast daily looked forth.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

From yon blue heavens, above us bent, The gard'ner Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent: Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good; Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

TENNYSON.

The news of the discovery of the relationship between Holden and Pownal had reached Hillsdale before their arrival, and the friends and acquaintances of both, comprising pretty much the whole village, hastened to present their congratulations. Many supposed now they had obtained a clue to the singularities of the Solitary, and expected that since he had recovered his son, he would resume the habits of ordinary life. But nothing seemed further from Holden's intention. In spite of the entreaties of his son, and the remonstrances of those few who ventured to speak to him on the subject, he returned on the very day of their arrival to his cabin. It was, however, with no harshness, but with gentle and even exculpatory language, he refused their request.

"Think not hard of me, my son, nor you, kind friends," he said, "if my ears are deaf to your solicitations. The old man is weary and seeketh rest. The trembling nerves still quiver to the cries of the horsemen and the rattling of chariots, nor may the tumult pass away till old sights and sounds stealing in with soft ministry compose the excited yet not unpleased spirit. I would gladly in solitude lay my tired head on the bosom of the Father, and thank Him in the silence of His works for mercies exceeding thought."

Holden, however, could not refuse to allow his son to accompany him, and to provide such little necessaries, as were esteemed essential to his comfort. But he permitted the young man to remain only a short time. "Go," he said, "the world is bright before thee; enjoy its transient sunshine. The time may come when even thou, with hope and confidence in thy heart, and heaven in thine eyes, shalt say, 'I have no pleasure therein.'" Pownal therefore returned to Hillsdale, without reluctance it may be supposed, when we add, that the same evening found him at the house of Mr. Bernard. It will be recollected he had commissions to execute for both the Judge and his wife, but if the reader thinks that not a sufficient reason why he should call upon them so soon, we have no objection to his adopting any other conjecture, even to the extravagant supposition, that there was some magnet to attract the young man's wandering feet.

It was a happy evening Pownal spent at the Judge's house. All seemed glad to see him again, and expressed their delight and wonder at the discovery of his parent. And yet the young man could not help fancying there was a greater difference between his reception by the members of the family, than he had been accustomed to. Mr. and Mrs. Bernard, indeed, were equally cordial as of old, but Anne, though she tendered him her hand with her usual frankness, and allowed it to linger in his, appeared graver, and less disposed to indulge an exuberance of spirits, while William Bernard was evidently more distant, and formal. There was, however, no want of politeness on his part, for he mingled with his usual grace and intelligence in the conversation, and the change was perceptible rather in the omission of old terms of familiarity, than in any manifestation of coldness. He seemed to pay the same attention, and evince a like interest with the rest, in the particulars of the adventures of Pownal, which, at the request of Mrs. Bernard, he narrated. Had a stranger, or one who saw the two young men together for the first time, been present, he would have noticed nothing inconsistent with ordinary friendship, but Pownal compared the present with the past, and his jealous sensitiveness detected a something wanting. But for all that, his enjoyment, though it might be lessened, was not, as we have intimated, destroyed. He half suspected the cause, and his proud spirit rose with resentment. But so long as he enjoyed the esteem of the parents, and was a welcome visitor at their house, and Miss Bernard treated him with unabated regard, he could well afford, he thought, to pass by without notice humors, which, in his changed condition, he considered equally unreasonable and absurd. For, he was no longer a mere clerk, without position in society, but the member of a long-established and wealthy firm, and a favorite of its head, who seemed to have taken the fortunes of his young partner into his own hands, with a determination to secure their success. True, he was the son of a poor and eccentric man, but no dishonor was attached to his father's name, and so far as education and genuine refinement were concerned, he was the equal of any, and the superior of most, by whom he was surrounded. With far different feelings, therefore, from those in the earlier period of his acquaintance with Miss Bernard, when he discovered she was becoming dearer to him than prudence permitted, did he now approach her. He dared to look forward to the time when it would be no presumption to avow his feelings.

The cause of William Bernard's coldness will be better understood by a reference to a conversation between him and his sister, shortly before the return of Pownal to Hillsdale. Rumor, with her thousand tongues, had been busy, and, as is not unusual on such occasions, embellished the story with innumerable fanciful ornaments. The brother and sister had both heard the reports, and they were the subject of their discussion.

"Why, Anne!" said William, "this is more wonderful than Robinson Crusoe, or the Children of the Abbey. How do you think Pownal, or Mr. Holden, as I suppose we must call him now, relishes the relationship?"

"How, William, can he be otherwise than glad to find a father?" replied his sister.

"A vast deal depends upon who the father is."

"What! is it you who speak so?" cried Anne, with sparkling eyes. "What is there in the father unworthy of the son?"

"Were I now in Pownal's place, I should have preferred to discover a parent in some one else than in a half crazy man, who supports himself by basket-making."

"And can you not," said his sister, indignantly, "under the mask which circumstances have imposed upon him, detect the noble-hearted gentleman? This is not at all like you, William, and I think his very misfortunes ought to be a passport to your kindness."

"So they should be, and so they are, but the facts, which I will not repeat, because it offends you, remain. Think you, it can be very pleasant, for a young man, to have precisely—precisely such a connection?"

"I should despise Thomas Pownal, if he felt anything but pride in his father. I am the daughter of a republican, and care little for the distinctions which the tailor makes. The noblest hearts are not always those which beat under the finest broadcloth."

"The rank is but the guinea stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that."

"Well, Anne," said her brother, "I never expected to take a lesson, in democracy, from you, nor fancied you were a politician before; but, it seems to me you have become lately very sharp-sighted, to detect Holden's merits. What is it that has so improved your vision?"

"You are trying to tease me, now, but I will not be angry. You know, as well as I do, that from the first I took a liking to Mr. Holden. So far from being frightened at him, when I was a child, nothing pleased me better that when he took Faith and me into his arms, and told us stories out of the Bible. I do believe I had then a presentiment he was something different from what he seemed."

"But you have shown an extraordinary interest in him lately. Even now, your voice trembles, and your color is raised beyond the requirements of the occasion."

"How is it possible to avoid being excited, when my brother speaks disparagingly of one who has every title to compassion and respect? Is it not enough to soften your heart, to think of the wretchedness he suffered so many years, and which shattered his fine understanding? And now, that his—Oh, William!" she cried, bursting into tears, "I did not think you were so hard-hearted."

"My dear Anne! my dear sister!" exclaimed her brother, putting his arm around her and drawing her towards him, "forgive me. I never meant to hurt your feelings, though I am sorry they are so much interested."

"I will not affect to misunderstand you, brother," she said, recovering herself; "but you are mistaken, if you suppose that Mr. Pownal has ever—has ever—spoken to me in a manner different from the way in which he is in the habit of conversing with other ladies."

"Heaven be praised for that," said her brother. "But I ought to have known you never would permit it."

"You ought to have known that, had he done so, I should not have kept it a secret. My father and mother, and you, would have been made acquainted with it."

"And, now, dear Annie, since things are as they are, I hope you will not give Pownal any encouragement. Whatever may be your present feelings, he cannot disguise the fact, that he loves dearly to visit here."

"Encouragement!" cried Anne, her natural vivacity flashing up at the imputation. "What do you take me for, William Bernard, that you venture to use such a word? Am I one of those old maids whom some wicked wag has described as crying out in despair, 'Who will have me?' or a cherry, at which any bird can pick?"

"There spoke the spirit of my sister. I hear, now, Anne Bernard. You will not forget the position of our family in society, and that upon you and myself are centered the hopes of our parents."

"I trust I shall never forget my love and duty, or have any secrets from them. They have a right to be acquainted with every emotion of my heart, nor am I ashamed they should be seen."

"The accomplishments of Pownal entitle him to move in the first society, I cannot deny that," continued young Bernard, "but, in my judgment, something more is necessary in order to warrant his boldness in aspiring to connect himself with one of the first families in the country."

"You will continue to harp on that string, William, but my opinion differs from yours. In our country there should be no distinctions but such as are created by goodness and intelligence."

"It all sounds very well in theory, but the application of the rule is impossible. The dreamers of Utopian schemes may amuse themselves with such hallucinations, but practical people can only smile at them."

"Class me among the dreamers. Nor will I believe that whatever is true and just is impracticable. Does redder blood flow in the veins of the child cradled under a silken canopy, than in those of one rocked in a kneading-trough?"

"You have profited to some purpose by the French lessons of our father," said Bernard, bitterly. "Principles like these may yet produce as much confusion in our family on a small scale, as they did in France on a mighty theatre."

"You are losing yourself in the clouds, dear brother. But there can be no danger in following the guidance of one so wise and experienced as our father, nor does it become you to speak slightingly of any opinion he may adopt."

"I did not mean to do so. I should be the last one to do so, though I cannot always agree with him. But you take an unfair advantage of the little excitement I feel, to put me in the wrong. Do you think I can look on without being painfully interested, when I see my only sister about to throw herself away upon this obscure stranger, for you cannot conceal it from me that you love him?"

"Throw myself away! Obscure stranger! You are unkind William. Love him! it will be time enough to grant my love when it is asked for. It does not become me, perhaps, to say it, but Mr. Pownal is not here to answer for himself, and for that reason I will defend him. There lives not the woman who might not be proud of the love of so noble and pure a heart. But you are not in a humor to hear reason," she added, rising, "and I will leave you until your returning good sense shall have driven away suspicions equally unfounded and unjust."

"Stay, Anne, stop, sister," cried Bernard, as with a heightened color she hastened out of the room. "She is too much offended," he said to himself, "to heed me, and I must wait for a more favorable opportunity to renew the conversation. I have seen this fancy gradually coming on, and, fool that I was, was afraid to speak for fear of making things worse. I thought it might be only a passing whim, like those which flutter twenty times through girls' silly heads before they are married, and was unwilling to treat it as of any consequence. But does Anne mean to deceive me? It is not at all like her. She never did so before. No, she has courage enough for anything, and is incapable of deception. But these foolish feelings strangely affect young women and—young men, too. She must, herself, be deceived. She cannot be acquainted with the state of her own heart. Yet it may not have gone so far that it cannot be stopped. I had other plans for her, nor will I give them up. Father! mother! Pooh! nothing can be done with them. He would not see her lip quiver or a tear stand in her eye, if it could be prevented at the expense of half his fortune, and mother always thinks both perfection. No, if anything is to be done it must be with Anne herself, or Pownal, perhaps. Yet I would not make the little minx unhappy. But to be the brother-in-law of the son of an insane basket-maker! It is too ridiculous."

No two persons could be more unlike in temperament, and in many respects in the organization of their minds, than William Bernard and his sister. She, the creature of impulse, arriving at her conclusions by a process like intuition: he, calm, thoughtful, deliberately weighing and revising every argument before he made up his mind: she, destitute of all worldly prudence and trusting to the inspirations of an ingenuous and bold nature: he, worldly wise, cautious, and calculating the end from the beginning. Yet were his aspirations noble and untainted with a sordid or mean motive. He would not for a world have sacrificed the happiness of his sister, but he thought it not unbecoming to promote his personal views by her means, provided it could be done without injury to herself. He was a politician, and young as he was his scheming brain already formed plans of family and personal aggrandizement, extending far into the future. Anne was mixed up with these in his mind, and he hoped, by the marriage connection she might form, to increase a family influence in furtherance of his plans. These seemed likely to be defeated by Anne's partiality for Pownal, and the young man felt the disappointment as keenly as his cool philosophical nature would permit. But let it not be thought that William Bernard brought worldly prudence into all his plans. His love of Faith Armstrong had no connection with any such feelings, and she would have been equally the object of his admiration and choice, had she been a portionless maiden instead of the heiress of the wealthy Mr. Armstrong. We will not say that her prospect of succeeding to a large fortune was disagreeable to her lover, but though when he thought of her it would sometimes occur to his mind, yet was it no consideration that corrupted the purity of his affection.

Anne, when she left her brother, hastened to her chamber and subjected her heart to a scrutiny it had never experienced. She was startled upon an examination her brother's language had suggested, to find the interest Pownal had awakened in her bosom. She had been pleased to be in his company, and to receive from him those little attentions which young men are in the habit of rendering to those of the same age of the other sex: a party never seemed complete from which he was absent: there was no one whose hand she more willingly accepted for the dance, or whose praise was more welcome when she rose from the piano: but though the emotions she felt in his presence were so agreeable, she had not suspected them to be those of love. Her brother had abruptly awakened her to the reality. In the simplicity of her innocence, and with somewhat of a maiden shame, she blamed herself for allowing any young man to become to her an object of so much interest, and shrunk from the idea of having at some time unwittingly betrayed herself. She determined, whatever pain it might cost, to reveal to her mother all her feelings, and to be guided by her advice.

True hearted, guileless girl! instinctively she felt that the path of duty leads to peace and happiness.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

Oh, how this tyrant, doubt, torments my breast! My thoughts, like birds, who're frighten'd from their nest, Around the place where all was hush'd before, Flutter, and hardly nestle any more.

OTWAY.

Our story now reverts to the Indians, of whom we have for so long made little or no mention. It is in vain for us to attempt to control the course of our tale, and to compel it, as it were, to be content with the artificial banks of a canal, stealing insensibly on, with uniform smoothness, to its terminus. Whatever we may do, it will assert its liberty, and wander in its own way, foaming down rocks and rugged precipices, like a mountain stream, at one moment, at the next, stagnating into a pool, and afterwards gliding off in erratic windings, roaming like Ceres, searching through the world for her lost Proserpine. Not ours to subject the succession of events to our will, but to narrate them with such poor skill as nature and a defective education concede, trusting that a homely sincerity, if it cannot wholly supply the place of art, may palliate its want.

Peena, the partridge, or Esther, as she was more commonly called by the whites, heard, with an exquisite delight, that the little boy; whom she had left on the steps of the house, in New York, and now discovered to be Pownal, was the son of Holden. Nothing could have happened more calculated to deepen the reverence she had long felt for the Solitary, and to convince her—though no such argument was necessary—that he was a "great medicine," or one peculiarly the favorite, and under the guardianship, of Superior Powers. She herself seemed controlled by the Manito that watched over Holden, and compelled, even unknown to herself, to guard his interests. For was it not she who had preserved the child? Was it not she who had placed him in a situation to become a great and rich man?—for such, to her simplicity, Pownal seemed to be—was it not she who had brought father and son together, and revealed each to the other? As these reflections and the like passed through her mind, a shudder of superstition thrilled her frame, and she turned her attention to the consideration of how she might best fulfill the designs of the Manito. For it will be remembered, that, although nominally a Christian, she had not wholly cast off the wild notions of her tribe, if it be, indeed, possible for an adult Indian to do so. The maxim of Horace:

"Quo semel est imbuta recens servabit odorem Testa diu,"

is of universal application, nor has it ever greater force than when reference is had to ideas, connected with the terrors of an unseen world, and where the mind that entertains them is destitute of the advantages of education.

Esther, it may readily then be supposed, did not delay after their arrival, to go to see both Holden and his son. She could not behold again, and recognize the child she had preserved, in the young man who stood before her, without strong feeling, nor could Pownal look unmoved upon the gentle and timid woman, to whom he was so much indebted. Esther knew again the string of coral beads she had left upon the boy's neck, and ascribed it to the whispers of the Great Spirit, that she had allowed them to remain. She did not return from her visit to Pownal empty handed. In fact, she was loaded with as many presents, of such articles as suited her condition and half-civilized taste, as she and the boy, Quadaquina, who commonly accompanied her, could carry. It was the mode which naturally suggested itself to Pownal, as alike most pleasing to Peena, and most calculated to impress her mind with a sense of his estimate of her services, especially as there was connected with the gifts a promise, that during his life her wants and wishes should all be supplied. Peena now felt herself the happiest and richest of her tribe, and her heart glowed with devotion towards those who had been the means of investing her with wealth, and the consequence attached to it.

"Hugh!" ejaculated Ohquamehud, in amazement, as the squaw and her son threw down upon the floor of the cabin the rich red and blue cloths, and hats, and shoes, and other articles which Pownal had pressed upon them. The exclamation escaped involuntarily, but, with a natural politeness, the Indian asked no questions, but waited till it should please the squaw to furnish an explanation.

The sweet-tempered Peena saw his desire, and turning to the boy, she said, in their native language, in which the three always conversed together:

"Speak, Quadaquina, that the eyes of thy father's brother may be opened."

The boy, in obedience to the command of his mother, and without looking at the Indian, tersely replied:

"They are the gifts of my white brother with the open hand, the son of the Longbeard."

Ohquamehud appeared offended, and he asked, in a sharp tone:

"Is Quadaquina ashamed, when he speaks to a warrior, to look him in the eyes, and did he learn his manners from the pale faces?"

The boy turned round, and gazed full at the other, and his eyes glistened, yet it was in a low, soft tone he replied:

"Quadaquina is a child, and knows not the customs of warriors, and children turn away their eyes from what they do not wish to see."

Ohquamehud's face darkened as he said:

"The arts of the Longbeard have blown a cloud between me and my kindred, so that they cannot see me, and it is time my feet were turned towards the setting sun."

"It is the fire-water that puts out the eyes of Ohquamehud, and makes him forget what he owes to the wife of Huttamoiden," exclaimed the boy, with suppressed passion.

"Peace, Quadaquina," said his mother. "Ohquamehud is not now the slave of the fire-water. Go," she added, detecting, with a mother's sagacity, the tumult in the mind of the high-spirited boy, "and return not until thou hast tamed thine anger. Wolves dwell not in the cabin of Peena."

The boy, with downcast eyes, and obedient to his mother, left the hut.

In explanation of this scene we may say, that, unhappily, like most Indians, Ohquamehud was addicted to the use of spirituous liquors, his indulgence in the fiery gratification being limited only by his inability at all times to obtain it. Although unable to indulge his appetite in the cabin of Esther, he occasionally procured strong liquors in the huts of the other Indians, with whom the practice of taking stimulants was almost universal, and sometimes in such quantities as utterly to lose his reason. Returned on one of these occasions, he demanded rum from Esther, and, upon her refusal to give it, struck her a blow. This so exasperated the boy, Quadaquina, who was present, that, with a club, he prostrated the drunken man, which, indeed, in the condition he was in, was not difficult, and would, had he not been restrained by Peena, have inflicted a serious injury, if not killed him. Ohquamehud never knew that he had been struck, but ascribed the violent pain in his head the next day to the fire-water, and the contusion to a fall. Peena, while lamenting the excesses of her relative, felt little or no resentment towards him; but not so with the boy. He despised Ohquamehud for the miserable exhibitions of imbecility he made in his cups, and hated him for the violence to his mother.

"Look," said Peena, pointing to the articles, and desirous to remove the rising discontent from the mind of the Indian, "the heart of the young Longbeard (for she had no other name for Pownal in her language) is large. All these he took out of it for Peena."

"Accursed be the gifts of the pale faces!" exclaimed Ohquamehud. "For such rags our fathers sold our hunting-grounds, and gave permission to the strangers to build walls in the rivers so that the fish cannot swim up."

"Peena sold nothing for these," said the squaw, mildly. "Because the young Longbeard loved Peena he gave them all to her."

"Did not Peena preserve his life? But she is right. The white face has an open hand, and pays more for his life than it is worth."

"The words of my husband's brother are very bitter. What has the boy whom Huttamoiden's arm saved from the flames, done, that blackness should gather over the face of Ohquamehud?"

"Quah! Does Peena ask? She is more foolish than the bird, from which she takes her name, when it flies into a tree. Is he not the son of Onontio?"

"Peena never saw Onontio. She has only heard of him as one, who like the red men, loves scalps. The Longbeard is a man of peace, and loves them not. The eyes of Ohquamehud are getting dim."

"The eyes of Ohquamehud are two fires, which throw a light upon his path, and he sees clearly what is before him. It is only blood that can wash out from the eyes of a warrior the remembrance of his enemy, and nothing but water has cleansed Ohquamehud's. Thrice have I meet Onontio, once on the yellow Wabash: again, where the mighty Mississippi and Ohio flow into each other's bosoms, and a third time on the plains of the Upper Illinois. Look," he cried suddenly, throwing open his shirt, and exposing his breast, "the bullet of Onontio made that mark like the track of a swift canoe in the water. It talks very plain and will not let Ohquamehud forget."

"If the Longbeard be Onontio, his son has done my brother no injury."

"The gifts of the pale face have blinded the eyes, and stopped the ears of my sister, so that she can neither see nor hear the truth. Who, when he kills the old panther, lets the cubs escape?"

"There is peace between the red man and the white on the banks of the Sakimau. The long knives are as plenty as the leaves of the western forests. Ohquamehud must forget the bullet of Onontio until he finds him on the prairie, or where the streams run towards the setting sun."

"My sister is very wise," said the savage, his whole manner changing from the ferocity, which had at first characterized it, to a subdued and even quiet tone. "But," added he, as it were despondingly, "let her not fear for the safety of the Longbeard. Ohquamehud is weak and cannot contend with so great a medicine." He turned away, as if unwilling to continue the conversation, nor did Peena manifest any disposition to renew it.

There was, however, something about the Indian, that alarmed the squaw, as she had never been before, notwithstanding the pacific language, with which he concluded. The time was drawing nigh for Ohquamehud's return to the West, and, knowing his brutal temper, she feared that under the influence of the spirituous liquors he indulged in to excess, he might attempt to signalize his departure by some act of wrong and revenge, which would bring down destruction on himself, and disastrously affect the fortunes of the tribe. He evidently cherished a bitter animosity toward Holden, whom he had recognized as a formidable enemy, and although a cool and wary savage when himself, and as capable of appreciating the consequences of an act as clearly as any one and therefore likely to be deterred from violence, there was no knowing what he might do, when stimulated by the frenzy that lurks in the seductive draught. Peena knew the difficulty, with which an Indian foregoes revenge, and her apprehensions were the more excited by the attachment she felt for the two white men. Fears, vague and unformed had before floated through her mind, but they now assumed consistency, and she determined to take such precautions until the departure of her kinsman as should prevent harm either to himself or others. With this view, the moment she was alone with her son, she seized the opportunity to speak on the subject of her alarm. But, first she thought it necessary to reprove him for his feelings towards his uncle.

"Whose blood," she inquired, "flows in the veins of Quadaquina?"

"It is the blood of Huttamoiden," answered the boy, erecting his head, and drawing himself up proudly.

"And who gave the bold heart and strong arm to Huttamoiden?"

"It was the mighty Obbatinuua, whose name men say is still mentioned in the song on the great fresh water lakes."

"He had two sons?"

"Huttamoiden and"—He stopped as if unwilling to pronounce the name, and turned with a gesture of contempt from his mother.

Peena supplied the omission. "Ohquamehud," she said. "He is a brave warrior, and the Shawnees are proud of his exploits."

"He is a dog!" exclaimed the boy, fiercely. "The blood of Obbatinuua has leaked out of his veins, and the fire-water taken its place."

"He is the kinsman of Quadaquina, and it does not become a child to judge harshly of any member of his tribe."

"Mother," said the boy, gravely, as if he thought it incumbent on him to justify his conduct, "listen. The hearts of Obbatinuua and of Huttamoiden both beat in my bosom. They tell me that the son should remember the glory of his father. Quadaquina is very sick when he sees Ohquamehud lying on the ground, a slave of the fire-water, with his tongue lolling out like a dog's, and he disdains to acknowledge him as of his blood."

Peena was not disposed to blame the boy for his disgust at drunkenness. It was a feeling she had herself most sedulously cultivated by every means in her power, pointing out, as occasion offered, like the Lacedemonians, its exhibitions in its worst forms, and contrasting the wretched drunkard falling, from degradation to degradation, into a dishonored grave, with the sober and vigorous man. She had succeeded in imparting to Quadaquina her own abhorrence of the vice, and was cautious not to weaken the impression.

"Enough," said Peena; "my son will grow up into a brave and good man; but if he despises Ohquamehud for his drunkenness, let him not forget he is his kinsman. Hearken," she added, earnestly, and drawing the boy nearer, while she lowered her voice; "does Quadaquina know that Ohquamehud hates the Longbeard?"

"Quadaquina's ears and eyes are open," said the boy.

"Ohquamehud's feet will soon chase the setting sun," continued Peena, "but before he starts the fire-water may try to make him do some foolish thing. Quadaquina must have love enough for his kinsman to prevent the folly."

"Not because Quadaquina loves, but because Ohquamehud is his father's brother."

"It is well. Ohquamehud must do the Longbeard no harm, and Quadaquina must watch them both, and, if need be, warn the Longbeard of the danger."

The boy, proud of the trust committed to him, promised to obey his mother and be watchful, and from that time commenced a system of patient vigilance, of which a white child would scarcely be capable, but which seems to be a part of the nature of an Indian. Whenever Ohquamehud left the cabin Quadaquina sought no more to avoid him, but accompanied him whenever invited, and if not, generally followed, so as not to lose him long out of sight. There was something about the trust that agreed well with the cunning of the child. It had for him a kind of fascination, like that which induces the hunter patiently, day after day, to pursue the track of the flying game, looking forward to the moment of success, when all his toil is to be repaid.

As for Esther, she lost no time in starting off to apprise Holden and Pownal of the danger she feared. As the canoe glided along under the strokes of the paddle, which she knew how to use as well as any man, she reflected upon the proper manner of communicating her apprehensions; but the more she thought on the subject, the more difficult it appeared. She could not mention the name of her kinsman as the person whom she suspected of an evil design. That seemed to her a sort of treason, a violation of the rights of relationship and of hospitality. He might be innocent. She herself might be to blame for cherishing such suspicions. She knew not what evils the disclosure of Ohquamehud's name connected with the charge might occasion. He might be arrested and put in prison, perhaps, executed. The white people, in the opinion of the Indians, had never exercised much forbearance towards them, and regarded them as an inferior race. The liberty or life of an Indian was, probably, with them, but of little consequence. Besides, might she not be running some risk herself? But this reflection weighed but little with the affectionate creature. While such considerations occurred to the ignorant and timid woman, she was half tempted to turn back, and trust to the Manito or protecting genius, who had thus far borne the Solitary triumphantly through all perils, but her fears at last prevailed over these scruples, and she resolved to give the warning without making allusion to any person.

But Holden, a man naturally of great courage, and familiarized from his earliest years with danger, and the means of avoiding it, paid but little attention to the obscure hints of Esther. He did not even take the trouble to inquire to what direction her allusions pointed. From whom, from what, had he to apprehend danger to his life? He had voluntarily embraced poverty; there was nothing about him to tempt cupidity; he loved all the world, and would hardly, indeed, hesitate to sacrifice, if need were, his life for that of an another. What motive could there be to injure him? He was not in the boundless forest of the West, roamed by predatory savages, but in a land of law, and order, and religion. Were he, indeed, in those regions which had witnessed the fiery trials and perils of his youth, caution would be necessary; but even then, he would have relied with confidence on his own resources, controlled and directed by a shaping Providence. It was not probable that Holden thought at all of Ohquamehud, but if his mind rested for a moment on the Indian, it could not be with an emotion of fear. The western pioneers feel their superiority too greatly to be accessible to such apprehensions, and Holden had been too long a hunter of savages, to dread either their cunning or their force. Had he reflected on the subject, he would have seemed to himself to stand in pretty much the same relation to a red skin that a grown man does to a child; or, if the Indian were hostile, as the hunter does to the bears, and wolves, and catamounts, he pursues.

"Peena," said Holden, "I thank thee. It is not in human nature to be ungrateful for affection, whatever be the color of the skin that covers the heart which offers it. But dismiss thy fears, and think of them as unsubstantial as the morning mist. And know that at all times doubt and fear are in vain. Thou canst not make one hair white and another black. It is appointed unto all men once to die, but of the times and seasons, though fixed by the Master of Life with infallible wisdom, and by a decree that may not be gainsaid, no man knoweth. The arrow shot by the hand of Jehovah must reach its mark, though thou seest not its track in the clouds."

Somewhat more effect attended Esther's visit to Pownal, not that, indeed, she felt the same apprehensions for him as for his father, or was able to inspire him with fears on his own account. Living in the village, and with habits so different from those of Holden, he was vastly less exposed to a danger of the kind she apprehended. The bullet or the knife of the savage would not be likely to reach him in the streets of Hillsdale. For it is no part of the tactics of an American Indian to expose his own life. On the contrary, he is considered a fool who does so unnecessarily. Stratagem is prized above force, and he is the greatest warrior who, while inflicting an injury, takes care not to expose himself to harm. Esther knew all this, and for these reasons, perhaps, if with Holden she was vague, with his son she was oracular. Consequently, Pownal only laughed at her, when she spoke of himself, as well, indeed, he might, but when she referred to his father, the case was altered. Not that any clear, well-defined danger presented itself, but as in low, monotonous tones the squaw proceeded, darkly hinting at what she would not explain, an oppression fell upon his spirits as strange as it was painful. We can liken it to nothing with more propriety than to that dim sense of terror and discomfort which is sometimes observed in the inferior animals at the approach of an eclipse or the bursting of a hurricane. Yielding to the mysterious monitor, and prompt in action as he was rapid in judgment, Pownal proceeded instantly to seek his father.



CHAPTER XXXV.

And with him thousand phantoms joined Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind, And those the fiends who, near allied, O'er Nature's wounds and wrecks preside; While Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lifts his right arm, exposed and bare.

COLLINS.

Ohquamehud, with all his burning passion for revenge, dared not undertake anything against his enemy, in opposition to the commands of the Manito. After the signal interposition, as he conceived it to be, in favor of Holden at the cabin of the latter, he thought it not prudent to renew the attempt at the same place. The terror of that moment was too deeply impressed to allow him to hazard its repetition. But the power of that Manito might not extend elsewhere, and there were other Manitos who, perhaps, were more powerful, and might be more propitious. He would endeavor to conciliate one of them, and so arrive at the accomplishment of his wishes.

It has been observed that the falls of the Yaupaae were a favorite place of resort for the Solitary. Especially at this season of the year (for it was now the delicious month of June, the loveliest of the twelve) did he love to haunt its neighborhood. There was something in the wild scenery, in the dash and tumult of the water, and in its ceaseless shout, that harmonized well with his feelings in their various moods. His was a grand soul, and felt itself allied to the grandeur of nature. As the air, driven through the pipes of a mighty organ, issues out in solemn concords and divine harmonies, of power to lift the spirit on wings of cherubim and seraphim above "the mists of this dim spot which men call earth" and recall its contemplations to its heavenly origin, so these sights and sounds, playing through the soul of the Solitary, chased away whatever would clog its upward flight, soothing while they elevated, and bridging over the chasm that separates the lower from the upper spheres. This habit of Holden was well known to the Indian, for he had often seen the Solitary musing on a rock that overhung the falls. The retirement of the place, likewise, was favorable to the purpose of an assassin. It was seldom in those days, except tempted by its romance, that a person visited the spot. There were other reasons, also, that had an influence over the superstitious mind of the Indian, in determining his choice.

A child of nature, cradled in her wild bosom and reared in her arms, he, too, felt her awful charms. He could not listen to the voice of the majestic torrent, or gaze upon the grey rocks without a reverent admiration. And in proportion to this feeling was his awe of the Manito who presided over the scene. How prodigious must be His power! The irresistible sweep of the cataract resembled his strength; its roar, his voice; and the hoary rocks were indicative of his age. Could he obtain the favor of so mighty a Being—could he induce him to aid his design, it could be easy of execution. He would make the trial. He would approach him with offerings, and acquaint him with his wishes. The Genius of the Fall ought not to love the white man. The pale faces never offered him gifts, while the red men, long before the arrival of the fatal stranger and since, had covered the shores with presents. He would not be disregardful or turn a deaf ear to one of his children who sought a just revenge.

Animated by these considerations and such hopes, Ohquamehud left the hut of Esther on the afternoon of the following day, to propitiate the Manito of the Falls. His way led through the wood, along the margin of the Severn for a few miles and then crossed the high-road and some open fields and another belt of woods, before he reached the Yaupaae. Arrived at his destination, he looked with a solemn air around as if half expecting to see the Genius of the place. But he beheld nothing, save the wild features of nature, and the moss-grown roof of the old mill, almost hid by the intervening trees: he heard no sound except the uninterrupted roaring of the torrent. In the hot rays of that June sun, not even the birds emitted a note, waiting under their leafy shelters in the darkest recesses of the woods, until the pleasant coolness of approaching evening should tempt them out and reawaken their songs. The Indian, seeing that no one was in sight, commenced collecting brush and sticks of dry wood that lay about, which he heaped up into a pile upon a rock close to the water's edge. After he had gathered together a quantity that appeared to him sufficient, he selected from the stones lying around, a couple of flints which seemed fittest for his purpose, and by striking them violently together, soon succeeded in producing a shower of sparks, which falling on the thoroughly dried and combustible matter, instantly set it on fire, and shot a tongue of flame into the air. Reverently then inclining his body towards the cataract, as in an attitude of supplication, Ohquamehud addressed the Manito, and explained his wishes. He spoke with dignity, as one who, though standing in the presence of a superior, was not unmindful of his own worth. The sounds at first were those of lamentation, so low as scarcely to be audible, and plaintive and sweet as the sighs of the wind through the curled conch shell. "Oh Manito," he said, "where are thy children, once as plenty as the forest leaves? Ask of the month of flowers for the snows that 'Hpoon scatters from his hand, or of the Yaupaae for the streams he pours into the great Salt Lake. The sick-skinned stranger, with hair like the curls of the vine, came from the rising sun. He was weak as a little child: he shivered with the cold: he was perishing with hunger. The red man was strong: he wrapped himself in bear skins and was warm; he built his wigwam of bark, and defied the storm, and meat was plenty in his pot. He pitied the dying stranger; he brought him on his back out of the snow, and laid him by the fire; he chafed his limbs and clothed him in furs; he presented venison with his own hands, and the daughters of the tribes offered honey and cakes of maize, and wept for compassion. And the pale face saw that our land was better than his own, and he envied us, and sent messengers to his people to come and strip us of our heritage. Then they came as the flights of pigeons in the spring, innumerable: in multitudes as the shad and salmon, when they ascend the thawed rivers. They poisoned the air with their breaths, and the Indians died helpless in the pestilence. They made war upon us, and drove us from our cornfields; they killed our old men, and sent away our young men and maidens into slavery. O, Manito, thus hath the accursed pale faces requited our kindness.