The lost hunter: A tale of early times

by John Turvill Adams

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.