CHAPTER XIX.
I could endure
Chains nowhere patiently: and chains at home
Where I am free by birthright, not at all.
COWPER.
Bright and beautiful broke the morning after that night of storm. The weather had cleared up towards midnight, and when the rejoicing sun surveyed the scene, his golden glances fell on a wide expanse of pure, unsullied white. A slight breeze had arisen, which, gently agitating the bent and laden boughs of the evergreens, shook off the fleecy adornment that fell like blossoms from the trees. The air was soft and almost balmy, as is not unfrequently the case even in "the dead of winter" in our variable climate, lovelier and dearer for its very variableness, like a capricious beauty, whose smile is the more prized for the pout that precedes it. It was a day to seduce the old man into the sunshine in the stoop on the south side of the house, and to bring out the girls and young men, and swift trotting horses and pungs and jingling bells in gay confusion in the streets.
In the course of the forenoon, a bright crimson sleigh, the bottom filled with clean straw, and the seats covered with bear and buffalo robes, the horse ornamented around the neck and back with strings of bells that jangled sweet music every step he took, drove up to the door of Judge Bernard. A young man stepped out, whom we recognize as Pownal. He entered the house, and in a few minutes returned with Anne Bernard, muffled in cloak and boa, and carrying a muff upon her arm. Health glowed in her cheek and happiness lighted up her eyes. Pownal assisted her into the sleigh, and carefully disposing the robes about her, took his seat by her side and drove off.
They drove at first into the older part of the town, as yet undescribed by us, nor do we now intend a description, save that the road was wide, and a considerable part of the way bordered by elms and maples, glorious with beauty in summer, but now standing like mourners shivering in the wintry air, and as they passed hailed with special looks and expressions of admiration those two fraternal elms, towering over all, like patriarchs of the vegetable world, which, once seen, none will forget.
"Huge trunks, and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres, serpentine,
Upcoiling, and inveterately convolved—
Nor uninformed with Phantasy and looks
That threaten the profane."
Thence, following the street that winds around the village green, and greeted by the joyous shouts of acquaintances in passing sleighs, and joining, now and then, in friendly races, they crossed the upper bridge of the Yaupáae, and leaving the shouts and merriment behind, struck into a more secluded road.
Whatever charms the conversation that passed between the young people might have for them, it would not interest the reader, and we therefore pass it over. It was such as might be expected between two youthful beings, one of whom knew he was in love, and the other began to suspect, from emotions never felt before, the commencement of a partiality that was as sweet as it was strange. To two hearts thus attached, and tuned to vibrate in harmony, all nature ministers with a more gracious service. The sun is brighter, the sky bluer, the flower more fragrant, the chime of the brook has a deeper meaning, and a richer music swells the throat of the bird. Things unobserved before, and as unconnected with the new emotion, indifferent, now assume importance. A look, a tone of the voice, a pressure of the hand, are events to dream about and feast upon. In the presence of the beloved object all things else are either unheeded or dwindle into comparative insignificance.
It will occasion no surprise, then, that Anne, engrossed with her own happiness, should hardly have observed the road taken by Pownal, or been conscious of how far they had driven, until some remark of his attracted her attention to the scenery. She then perceived that they were in the midst of the Indian settlement on the Severn, and to a playful question of Pownal, inquiring how she would like to leave her card with Queen Esther, she replied by expressing her delight at the proposition. Esther's cabin stood some little distance off from the main road, towards which a long and narrow winding track led, seldom travelled by any other vehicles than ox carts and sleds. Over the yet unbroken snow, Pownal directed the horse, the light pung plunging with every motion of the animal, and threatening to upset, causing merriment, however, rather than alarm to the occupants of the conveyance. In this manner, straining through the snow-drifts, they finally reached the dwelling of Esther. She herself, attracted by the sound of the bells, came to the door, and welcomed them with great cordiality.
"Mr. Pownal and I," cried the lively Anne, "are come to make a New-Year's call, Esther. I have not your presents with me, but the next time you are at our house, you shall have them."
"Miss Anne more'n all present," replied the pleased Esther. "She cold; she must come to the fire."
"No," said Anne, as she was being ushered by the squaw into the cabin,
"I am not cold. Why, what a nice"—but the sentence was not concluded.
Her eyes had fallen on the stately form of Holden, who sat on a bench
near to the fire.
"O, father Holden!" exclaimed the lovely girl, running up to him, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing his forehead, "is it you? How glad I am you escaped from those abominable men. Tell me all about it. How was it? Did they do you any harm?"
At this moment, Pownal entered, and advancing, grasped the old man's hand, and congratulated him on his escape.
"My God," said Holden, in his wild way, "hath sent His angel and shut the lions' mouths that they have not hurt me. He raiseth the poor out of the dust, and lifteth the needy out of the mire."
"But," urged Anne, with feminine curiosity, "we are anxious to hear how you escaped."
The Recluse did not seem to consider it necessary to make any secret—at least to those present—of the events of the past night, and, with the frankness that characterized him, spoke of them without hesitation.
After stating what we already know, he said he was led away rapidly by a man dressed in a sailor's suit, whose face he did not see, and who accompanied him until they had passed the last house on the street. They met no one, and, on parting, the man forced a purse into his hand, and entreated him to make his way to the cabin of Esther, where he would be safe and welcome, and there to remain until his friends should be apprised of his retreat.
"To me," concluded the Solitary, "a dungeon or a palace ought to be alike indifferent; but I will not thwart the minds of those who love me, however vain their desires. The Lord hath brought this light affliction upon me for His own good purpose, and I await the revelation of His will."
"I do not doubt we shall be able soon to release you from your confinement," said Pownal; "meanwhile, tell us what we can do to make your condition tolerable."
"I lack nothing," said Holden. "These hands have ever supplied my necessities, and I am a stranger to luxury. Nor liveth man by bread alone, but on sweet tones, and kind looks, and gracious deeds, and I am encompassed by them. I am rich above gold, and silver, and precious stones."
"If there is anything you desire, you will let me know? Command me in all things; there is nothing I am not ready to do for you," said Pownal.
"The blessing of one who is ready to depart be upon thee, for thy kind words and loving intentions; and should real trouble arise, I will call upon thee for aid. I know not now," he continued, "why I should hide like a wounded beast. I fear 'tis but for a visionary point of honor. Why should not a gentleman,"—this he said sarcastically—"occupy the workhouse as well as a boor. In the eyes of One, we are all equal. Ah, it might do this hard heart good."
"You have promised to respect the prejudices of your friends," said
Pownal, "whatever you may think of their weakness."
"You shall never endure the disgrace," said Anne, with kindling cheeks. "See how Providence itself interposes to protect you!"
"Your suggestions, my children, find an echo, alas! too truly in my own heart to be rejected," said Holden, dejectedly. "I repeat, I will obey you."
The young people remained for an hour or more at the hut, conversing with the Solitary, to whom their presence appeared to give great pleasure; and, before parting, Pownal exchanged some words apart with Esther, having for their object the promotion of her guest's and her own comfort. The kind heart of the squaw needed no incentives to conceal and protect Holden, but Pownal felt he had no right to encroach upon her slender means, and such arrangements were made as would more than compensate her.
As the sleigh started from the door, Anne said to Pownal, with some tenderness in the tone of her voice:
"You need not tell me, Mr. Pownal, the name of one of the strange Paladins last night. How will Faith thank and admire you. But, O, let me beg you to be prudent, lest you fall into the power of these bad men."
It would have better suited the feelings of Pownal, had Anne uttered her own thanks more directly. His inexperience and distrust of himself did not comprehend that it was in reality the way in which the modest girl expressed the admiration that swelled her heart.