The Lost Hunter Page 28

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  I cannot think of sorrow now: and doubt If e'er I felt it--'tis so dazzled from My memory by this oblivious transport.

  BYRON

  "Here come that strange old man," said Felix, the next morning,looking out of the kitchen window, which commanded a view of the road."I do believe he's bewitched the boss."

  Rosa, to whom the remark was addressed, ran to the window, and saw theRecluse coming up the street.

  "I'm 'stonished," she said, "that Mr. Armstrong and Miss Faith giveso much encouragement to these low pussons. They always take so muchliberty."

  "Give 'em an inch and they take two feet," said Felix. "I wish histwo feet take him away from this house for the last time," he added,laughing.

  "Ha, ha, ha, you so 'musing Felix," said Rosa. "There is something toovery genteel in your laugh."

  "You do me proud, sweet Rosa," answered Felix, bowing with his handupon his breast.

  Holden was no favorite of the black. The well-dressed and well-fedservant of a wealthy family, with the feeling common to all who judgefrom outside appearances, had at first been disposed to look down uponthe coarsely-dressed anchorite, who supported himself by so mean alabor as the manufacture of baskets, and to consider him as littlebetter than a beggar-man. No sooner, however, did Holden detect thefeeling, and it was instantly, than he corrected it, so that it nevermade its appearance again in his presence. In fact, a feeling of fearsuperseded the impertinence of the negro. There was something in theburning glare of Holden's eyes, and the deep tones of his voice, thatexerted an inexplicable power over Felix. Much he turned it over inhis mind, why, in spite of himself, he was obliged to be as civilto Holden as to white gentlemen, and at last concluded, the Solitarypossessed some magic art, by which he controlled others. He the morereadily adopted the opinion because he considered his master and youngmistress under the spell of the same glamourie to which he himself hadsuccumbed.

  When, therefore, Holden struck with the knocker on the door, theobsequious Felix was at hand to open it, and show him into the parlor.

  "Tell your master I am here," said Holden, entering.

  "How does he know Mr. Armstrong is at home?" said Felix, to himself."But I'm a free man, and it is very onpolite to talk about my master."

  "The Lord hath raised up a mighty salvation for us," was the addressof Holden, as Mr. Armstrong entered the room. "I come to bid theefarewell for a time."

  "Farewell!" repeated Mr. Armstrong, without comprehending the meaningof the other.

  "Sit thee down, dear friend, and listen to what will give thee joy formy sake now, and thine own hereafter. My son, who was dead, is aliveagain.".

  Armstrong was at a loss to divine the meaning of his visitor. He tookit for some figurative form of expression, and, without making anyreply, passed his hand over his forehead, as if trying to recall someidea.

  Holden read his thoughts. "Thou dost not understand," he said. "Knowthen that the child perished not with the mother."

  "My friend," said Armstrong, who had now complete command of himself,"you do not reflect that I cannot understand your allusions. Explainto me, that I may participate in your joy."

  "The child of my youth, he whom I lost, whom I mourned for so manyyears as dead, is alive," exclaimed Holden, in tones of irrepressibleemotion.

  "I give you joy," said Armstrong, grasping his hand. "But you nevermentioned you had a son. How have you lost, and how found him?"

  "It is the Lord's doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes," saidHolden. "Not long since thou didst tell of an unhappy man, round whomafflictions had gathered. Now will I tell thee of another not lesswretched, the clouds of whose sorrow the setting sun is gilding. Be itunto thee for a lesson of hope, for I tell thee, James, that assuredlythou shalt be comforted."

  We will endeavor to compress into a few words the more diffusenarrative of the Recluse, confining ourselves to the substance.

  It will be recollected that before Holden's constrained retirementamong the Indians, he had attached to him the squaw, Esther, by theties of both gratitude and respect. But it was only at a distance shelooked up to him whom she regarded as a sort of superior being. Shewould not have ventured to speak to him of herself, for how could hetake an interest in so insignificant a creature? The nearer relations,however, into which they were thrown, while he was an inmate ofher cabin, without diminishing her affection, abated her awe. Theteachings of Holden, and the strong interest he manifested for herselfand tribe so affected her, that one day she made to him a confessionof the events of her life. It is only necessary to recount those whichhave a connection with this story. Some twenty years previous she hadaccompanied her husband on a visit to a tribe in Kentucky, into whichsome of her own relatives had been received. While there an expeditionhad been undertaken by the Indians, which her husband joined, againstthe white settlements, then inconsiderable, and exposed. After a fewdays the warriors returned in triumph, bringing with them manyscalps, but no prisoner, except a little boy, saved by her husband,Huttamoiden. He delivered the child to her, and having none herself,she soon learned to love it as her own. Huttamoiden described to herwith that particularity which marks the description of natural objectsby an Indian, whose habits of life in the forest compel him to a closeobservation, the situation of the log-hut from which the child wastaken, the hut itself before which leaped a mountain stream, theappearance of the unfortunate woman who was murdered, and thedesperate resistance of the master of the cabin, who, at the time, wassupposed to have perished in the flames, but was afterwards known bythe name of Onontio--as the scourge and terror of the tribe whichhad destroyed his family. She had shortly afterwards started with herhusband, taking with them the little boy, for the east, but they foundthe innumerable questions and suspicions occasioned by the possessionof the white child so annoying, and dreaded so the inquiries andinvestigation that would be made upon their return home, that theydetermined to get rid of him upon the first opportunity. As theirroute lay through New York, the streets of a populous city furnishedthe very chance they desired. It was with great reluctance Estherfelt herself compelled to this course, and she was unwilling the childshould fall into unkind hands. While reflecting upon what was to bedone, she remembered a family which had come from that part of thecountry whence she came, and whom she had known as worthy people,and determined to entrust to them the boy. She dared not to dothis openly. So one night she placed the child on their door-step,enjoining him not to stir until some one took him into the house,while she herself watched close by, until she saw him taken in. Sincethen, not daring to make inquiries, for fear of bringing on herselfsome unknown punishment, she had not heard of the boy. She rememberedthe name of the people with whom he was left, and also the street, andthe number, and gave them to Holden.

  Upon this foundation it was the Recluse built up the hope that his sonwas yet alive.

  "I am Onontio," he said. "The Being who touched the heart of theferocious savage to spare the life of the child, hath preserved him.Mine eyes shall yet behold him."

  Armstrong was deeply touched, and in the contemplation of thebrightening prospects of his friend, he forgot the clouds that hungaround his own horizon. Perhaps he was not so sanguine of successas Holden, whose eagle eyes seemed penetrating the future, but herespected too deeply the high raised hopes and sacred feelings of thefather, to drop a word of doubt or discouragement.

  "Myself, my purse," he said, "are at your service."

  "Thomas Pownal goeth to the city to-morrow," replied Holden. "I willspeak unto him, and accompany him. Nor do I refuse thy assistance, butfreely as it is offered as freely do I accept it. They who are worthyto be called my friends, regard gold and silver only as it ministersto their own and others' wants."

  He took the proffered bank-bills with quite as much an air of oneconferring, as one of receiving a favor, and, without even looking atthe amount, put them in his pocket.

  It was so long since Holden had been in the great world, or mingledin the ordina
ry pursuits of men--and his appearance and mode of speechwere so different from those of others--that Armstrong had some fearsrespecting his researches. It was, perhaps, this latent apprehensionof his fitness to appear in the world--an apprehension, however,only dimly cognizable by himself--that induced Holden to seek thecompanionship of Pownal. With these feelings, and believing he mightbe of advantage to this strange man, for whom this new developmentawakened additional interest in his mind, Armstrong offered to be hiscompanion, in the search for his son; but, to his surprise, his offerwas hastily rejected.

  "No," said Holden; "it befitteth not. Stay, to take care of Faith.Stay, to welcome me when I shall return with a crown of rejoicing uponmy head."

  Armstrong shrunk within himself at the repulse. He would not haveregarded or hardly noticed it once, but, his mind had become morbidlysensitive. A word, a look, a tone had now power to inflict a wound.He was like the Sybarite whose repose was disturbed by a wrinkledrose-leaf; with this difference, that they were spiritual, notmaterial hurts he felt. Did the forecast of Holden penetrate thefuture? Did he, as in a vision, behold the spectres of misfortune thatdogged Armstrong's steps? Was he afraid of a companionship thatmight drag him down and entangle him in the meshes of a predestinedwretchedness? He is right, thought Armstrong. He sees the whirlpoolinto which, if once drawn, there is no escape from destruction.

  Holden succeeded better in communicating a portion of his confidenceto Pownal. In the morning of life, before experience has dimmed oursky with clouds, we readily perceive the sun of joy. The bright eyesof youth catch his rays on the mountain tops, before the drooping lidsof age are raised from the ground. The ardent temperament of theyoung man entered with delight into the hopes of his elder. He evenanticipated the request Holden intended to make, and asked permissionto accompany him. With a very natural feeling he endeavored to effectsome change in the costume of the Recluse, but here he met withdecided opposition.

  "I have nothing to do with the world or its follies," said Holden."Let it pass on its way as I will on mine. It will reck but little ofthe garments of an unknown man."

  It was more for the sake of his friend than himself that Pownalproposed the change. Perceiving the feelings of the other, he forboreto press a proposal further, which, after all, was of but littleconsequence. A sloop was to sail the next day--the wind favoring--fromHillsdale, and it was agreed between the two to take passage together.

  We may judge of the feelings of Pownal at this time, from the factthat the last evening he spent at Hillsdale, before he left for NewYork, where, indeed, he expected to remain but a short time, found himat the house of Judge Bernard. He was fortunate, whether beyond hisexpectations or not we cannot say, in finding Miss Bernard alone. Atleast it was a fortunate coincidence with his wishes, and might wejudge, from the raised color of the cheeks, and the smiles that playedround the lips of the beautiful girl, not displeasing to her. It iswonderful, when we look back, how frequently these charming accidentsof youth occur.

  It was unnecessary that Pownal should speak of his intended trip tothe commercial capital. He seemed to assume that Anne was alreadyacquainted with his purpose, but of Holden's discovery she had notbeen informed.

  "Beautiful!" cried Anne, clapping her hands. "We shall have a_denouement_ fit for a novel yet. Oh, I do hope he may find his son.And," added she, with a warm quick feeling, "I can see now reason forthe strange habits of our poor dear prophet. Oh, to think of the longyears of lonesome misery he must have passed!"

  "He seems to have no doubt," said Pownal, "of discovering his lostson. I confess that when I heard him in his animated way tell hisstory, with eyes raised in thankfulness to heaven, I was swept alongby his enthusiasm, and felt no more doubt than himself of his success;but when I reflect more calmly on the circumstances the prospect isnot so brilliant."

  "Do not doubt: the prospect _is_ brilliant: Jeremiah shall cease hislamentations: our prophet shall be made happy. Ah, why anticipateanything but good!"

  "I accept the omen, dear Miss Bernard," said Pownal, looking withadmiration upon her beaming countenance, "Men arrive at conclusions,how often false, by a fallible process of reasoning, while truth comesto your more fortunate sex by a happy inspiration."

  "And I accept the compliment, since you accept the inspiration. I hopeit is with more than the ordinary sincerity of those in the habit ofmaking compliments."

  "I wish you could see into my heart."

  "You would wish the window closed immediately. What do you suppose Ishould see there?"

  "Yourself."

  "Then it is a looking-glass," said Anne, blushing. "A valuable pieceof furniture certainly, in which any lady may view her face!"

  "No! a portrait more true to life than Stuart's, and which I prizeabove everything."

  "You must be mistaken in fancying it mine. Only old pictures areprized. The moderns have no reputation."

  "You will always jest. I assure you I am serious," said Pownal, who,however, was obliged to smile.

  "I see you are very serious. Oh, I hate seriousness ever since I wasfrightened by the long face of Deacon Bigelow, when he discovered myignorance of the catechism. It was as long," she added, looking roundfor something to compare it to, "as the tongs."

  "Or as your lessons of a June day, when the sunshine and birds, andflowers were inviting you to join them."

  "Or as the time when I do not see Faith for twenty-four hours."

  "Or as my absence will be to me in New York."

  "I wonder how you," said Anne, "who are accustomed to the bustle andexcitement of a large city, can be contented with the quiet monotonyof a country town."

  "I found something here not to be found in all country towns," saidPownal. "Besides, the noise and confusion of a large place never wereagreeable to me, and when I return to them they lie like a weight uponmy spirits. Instead of a city I ought to have been born in a boundlessforest."

  "You know I have said, I thought there was a wildness about you,"replied Anne, laughing.

  "Do you not consider the wild animal tamed?"

  "Not entirely. It belongs to a species almost irreclaimable."

  "He will never be tamed a second time."

  "Then he must not be suffered to escape."

  The words flew from the lips of the gay impulsive girl before she wasaware. The eloquent blood crimsoned her cheeks, and clapping both herhands upon her face to conceal the blushes, she burst into a laugh asmusical as the song of the canary bird. Pownal's eyes sparkled withdelight, but before he could utter a word, she had sprung upon herfeet.

  "It is too bad," she cried, "to compare you to a wild animal. Forgiveand forget my impertinence. I have been reading a novel," and as, shesaid so she took a book from the table, "by an American author, whichinterests me greatly. Have you seen it?"

  Pownal took the book into his hands. It was one of Charles BrockdenBrown's.

  "I read it some years ago," he said; "and I remember it made a greatimpression upon me at the time. It appears to me to be written withwonderful power of enchaining the attention. I could not lay it downuntil it was finished."

  "Exactly as I was affected," said Anne.

  "Yet I wonder that one so lively and merry as Miss Bernard shouldbe pleased with such a book. The subjects of Brown's novels are allgloomy. His imagination seems at home only in sombre scenes. His isthe fascination of horror."

  "I wonder at it myself. But it shows the ability of the writer, inbeing able to affect as thoughtless a person as I am."

  "Not thoughtless. No one would say that of you but yourself. It is,perhaps, because of your gaiety--on account of the contrast. Thesunshine loves to light up dark places."

  "Very prettily expressed. Really, if you go on improving, we musthave you appointed valentine-manufacturer-general for the town ofHillsdale."

  "I suspect the valentines would all be addressed to one person."

  "Then I shall oppose your appointment. But let that pass for thepresent. You were telling me why I liked Brown's novels.
"

  "I am not so presumptuous. I was only guessing. It is the Yankee'sprivilege. The world concedes it to us. I suggest then that your mindwanders through those dark scenes with an interest like that withwhich a traveller contemplates a strange country. And may they everremain a strange region to you. May you ever continue to be what youare now, a bright being, at whose approach sorrow and sadness flyaway."

  The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the Judge andMrs. Bernard, on their return from some neighborly call. Anne receivedthe bonnet and shawl from her mother, who was evidently accustomed tosuch attentions, nor had the young lady ever appeared more beautifulin the eyes of the young man, than when he saw her rendering thoselittle services of filial respect and affection. "She deserves," hesaid to himself, "the richest gifts of Providence. One so bright, sopure, so innocent, must be a favorite of the angels."

  These were lover's thoughts, and our readers at the remembrance ofyouthful dreams and fancies will pardon their extravagance. They comeat only one period of life, and oh, how quickly do they fly, leavingbehind a trail of light which may, indeed, be obscured, but neverquite extinguished.

  Pownal informed the Judge of his intended departure, and, as usual,received from him and Mrs. Bernard some commissions to execute ontheir account. That of the former was for some books, while hiswife's, we are compelled to say, however undignified it may sound, wasfor nothing more important than the last fashionable French bonnet.But let us add that she took not more pleasure in wearing a becominghead-dress (and what new fashion is not becoming?) than he in seeingher handsome face in its adornment.

  "My husband," she said, "Mr. Pownal, tries to Frenchify me a little,sometimes, and I am obliged to indulge him, he is generally so good;but he will never succeed in making anything else out of me than aplain Yankee woman."

  "Plain or beautiful, the highest title to my affection," said theJudge, gallantly. "I have been a traveller, Thomas, and have seenthe Old World. This is a progressive world; and, believe me, theproductions of the New are not, to say the least, inferior to those ofthe Old."

  "I can well believe it," said Pownal, bowing to the ladies.

  "A pleasant voyage, Thomas," said the Judge, as he bade his youngfriend good-bye, "along the sandy shores of Long Island, and throughthe perils of Hell Gate."