CHAPTER XXX.
I met with scoffs, I met with scorns
From youth, and babe, and hoary hairs,
They called me in the public squares,
The fool that wears a crown of thorns.
TENNYSON'S "IN MEMORIAM."
It was without delay that Holden applied himself to the purpose of his visit to New York, in which he was seconded, to the best of his ability, by Pownal. All the time the young man could spare from his own business he devoted to his friend, though fearful that there was little probability of succeeding in the search. But who, however, convinced of the futility of the inquiries, could refuse his assistance to one engaged in an investigation of so deep and sacred an interest, and who believed with an implicit faith in ultimate success? And such is the nature of enthusiasm, or a high-wrought faith, that Pownal himself could not refrain from entering with some degree of spirit into an inquiry, which he felt would probably be in vain.
Together they sought out, in the first place, the street indicated by Esther. Formerly an obscure part of the city, it had now become, by those mutations which are constantly occurring, and nowhere with such rapidity as in this country, a considerable rendezvous of trade. By rare good luck, the name of the street had been preserved, and by luck still rarer, the house itself, corresponding in all respects to the description by Esther. It was one of those ancient Dutch houses, of which mention has been made, built of a yellowish brick, and standing with its gable-end toward the street, its steep-pointed roof, constituting at least one-half of the building, rising with an air of command, dominating the whole, and seeming, indeed, to be that portion to which all the other parts were only subsidiary, and constructed for its honor and glory. Neither Holden nor Pownal had, for an instant, doubted the honesty and truth of Esther, and yet it must be confessed, that the discovery of a building, so exactly corresponding with her description, added fresh fuel to the hopes of the former, and was not without influence on the latter. And yet, at a moment when, as it seemed to himself, he was about to realize his dear hopes—for the imagination of the Solitary leaped over all intervening difficulties, and, in the confusion of his mind, it almost appeared as if when the door opened, he should see and recognize his son—Holden laid his hand on Pownal's arm, and arrested his steps.
"Stay," he said, "let me pause a moment, and recover my wandering thoughts. There is a sound as of a tempest in my brain, and a confused noise, as of a trampling of men and horses."
He sat down on the stone step, as if unable to support himself, and rested his head on his hand.
"Here," he said, speaking to himself, with a trembling voice, "the merciful savage whose heart the Lord touched, left my child. Here his little feet trod, and against this wall his head rested. Would that these inanimate things could know my gratitude! But thou knowest it, O, all Merciful, my goodness, and my fortress, my high tower, and my deliverer, my shield, and he in whom I trust. Lord, what is man that thou takest knowledge of him! or the son of man, that thou makest account of him! Didst thou not, in the olden time, hear the voice of the perishing child, Ishmael, and say, by thine angel, unto his weeping mother, Fear not, for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is. Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand, for I will make him a great nation? Even so now hast thou done unto me and remembered me in my low estate, for thy mercy endureth for ever."
Thus the father poured out his heart, alike unconscious of the gathering crowd, which his unusual appearance and strange language had collected around him, and of the observations they made.
"I say, Haxall," said a stout boy, whose dirty and ragged clothing, and vicious expression of face, proclaimed him one of those predestined candidates for the State Prison and gallows, bred to their fate by the criminal neglect of the State, "I say," he said, addressing his companion, as wicked looking as himself, "isn't it a rum old covey."
"Why the old cuss is a crying," answered Haxall, "or, perhaps, it's the whisky leaking out he took for his morning bitters."
"Whisky be d——d," said the other. "He never got as far as that. It's nothing but sour cider. I can smell it."
Here there was a brutal laugh, in which some of the bystanders, equally degraded, joined.
"For shame, young men," said a respectable-looking person, whose broad-brimmed hat, and formal and amply cut clothing, proclaimed him a Quaker; "is an old man, in tears, a proper subject for ribaldry? It were better ye were engaged in some honest employment, than idling away your time, and disgracing yourselves by the use of profane language."
"Smoke the old quiz, Haxall," cried the boy who had first spoken. "He opens rich. Let's see what's in the prig."
"Smoke him, smoke him," cried several voices.
Thus exhorted, Haxall jerking his cap jauntily on one side of his head, throwing an additional quantity of impudence into his face, and placing his hands on the hips, so that the elbows stuck out on each side, approached the Quaker.
"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.