The lost hunter: A tale of early times

by John Turvill Adams

CHAPTER IX.

He was a man
Whom no one could have passed without remark,
Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs
And his whole figure breathed intelligence.
Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek
Into a narrow circle of deep red,
But had not tamed his eye; that under brows,
Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought
From years of youth.

WORDSWORTH'S EXCURSION.

There were certain seasons of the year when the malady of the Solitary assumed a more serious character than at others. From what circumstance this proceeded was unknown. It might arise from an association of ideas, connected in some manner with the events of his life, the particulars of which, although curious persons had, at various times, endeavored to draw them from him, he had never revealed more plainly than in the conversations with Ohquamehud and the doctor. The imagination was left to wander, therefore, among whatever speculations respecting him it chose to indulge in, and, accordingly, there was no hypothesis that could be started, however absurd, that did not find advocates.

By some, he was supposed to be a murderer, whom remorse had driven from the haunts of men, and who was endeavoring to expiate his crimes by self-denial and suffering; others, asserted that he was the Wandering Jew, though his long residence at the island militated a little with the idea: however, that was balanced by his marked reverence for the New Testament, and frequent references to the coming of the Son of Man; while others insisted he was a pirate, who had buried treasure on the lonely island, and there watched over its security. This last opinion was received with especial favor by the gaping vulgar, and further confirmed by the fact that the Solitary never asked alms or was destitute of money, of which, indeed, he gave away to those whom he considered poorer than himself. But whatever was the truth, or however anxious the good people of Hillsdale might be to discover the secret, no one ventured to meddle with him, though more than one old woman had hinted that it was a shame he should be allowed to run about with so long a beard, and a resolute fellow even once suggested the expediency of arresting him on suspicion. As, however, his life was perfectly harmless, and he had never been, nor seemed likely to become, a burden to the town, nor had committed any act of violence, such counsels were considered too harsh, especially as the attempt to execute them might involve the town in expense and other unpleasant consequences. Besides, it was known he had strong friends in influential families, who would not permit him to be wronged or quietly see the least of his rights invaded. The curiosity of the place, therefore, was obliged to content itself with surmises, and to wait until some more favorable period for its gratification.

The time of the year had now arrived when Holden was wont to show himself more than usually restless and excitable. He had been wandering one day since early in the morning, shooting partridges and squirrels, until late in the afternoon he found himself at the Falls of the Yaupáae. This was for him a favorite place of resort, and here, stretched on the ground, he would lie for hours, with his eyes fastened on the foaming water, listening to the cataract's roar, as if it soothed his humor. Holden threw himself on the moss that exuberantly covers the rocks, and essayed the spell. But this time, in vain. He lay but a moment, when, starting up, he seized the rifle he had laid aside, and making a considerable detour, in order to reach a small bridge higher up the stream, he crossed it, and pursued his way to the village.

Holden, notwithstanding he had lived so long in the vicinity and had often been in the village, never made his appearance without attracting attention. The little boys and girls, and even their elders, seldom passed him without turning to look again. The singularity of his dress, and fine tall person, as straight as his rifle, and a beard, that waved like a prophet's, on his breast, would have commanded observation anywhere. Joined to this was an air of dignity and gravity that, in spite of the coarseness of his apparel, insured respect. However much the rude and vulgar might feel disposed to insult, they were too much awed by his presence to attempt it. They might speak disrespectfully, indeed, of him in his absence, but before him they were cowed and mute. The mystery, besides, with which their imaginations surrounded him, invested him with a power the greater, perhaps, on account of its indefiniteness. They forgot in gazing at him, that his only means of living they were acquainted with was derived from the sale of the oysters and fish he caught in the river, and of the large baskets he made with his own hands. The meanness of the occupation was lost sight of when they saw his majestic appearance and heard the grand tones of his deep voice.

Holden proceeded down the street, hardly recognizing—though such was not his wont—the friendly greetings with which he was sainted by many that passed, until he arrived opposite the house of Mr. Armstrong. Here his progress was arrested by a tap on a window, and looking up he saw the bright face of Miss Armstrong, who was beckoning to him. He stopped; the face disappeared to re-appear at the door, and Faith invited him to come in. He hesitated, but the irresolution was only momentary, for instantly he turned and entered the house.

"I doubted," he said, "whether it were right to inflict the gloom of an old man on one so young. What have age and despondency in common with youth and happiness?"

"But you do not doubt my sympathy? Is there anything I would not do to make you happy, Father Holden?"