The Lost Hunter Part 34

We may judge of the feelings of Pownal at this time, from the fact that the last evening he spent at Hillsdale, before he left for New York, where, indeed, he expected to remain but a short time, found him at the house of Judge Bernard. He was fortunate, whether beyond his expectations or not we cannot say, in finding Miss Bernard alone. At least it was a fortunate coincidence with his wishes, and might we judge, from the raised color of the cheeks, and the smiles that played round the lips of the beautiful girl, not displeasing to her. It is wonderful, when we look back, how frequently these charming accidents of youth occur.

It was unnecessary that Pownal should speak of his intended trip to the commercial capital. He seemed to a.s.sume that Anne was already acquainted with his purpose, but of Holden's discovery she had not been 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 for the strange habits of our poor dear prophet. Oh, to think of the long years of lonesome misery he must have pa.s.sed!"

"He seems to have no doubt," said Pownal, "of discovering his lost son. I confess that when I heard him in his animated way tell his story, with eyes raised in thankfulness to heaven, I was swept along by his enthusiasm, and felt no more doubt than himself of his success; but when I reflect more calmly on the circ.u.mstances the prospect is not so brilliant."

"Do not doubt: the prospect _is_ brilliant: Jeremiah shall cease his lamentations: our prophet shall be made happy. Ah, why antic.i.p.ate anything but good!"

"I accept the omen, dear Miss Bernard," said Pownal, looking with admiration upon her beaming countenance, "Men arrive at conclusions, how often false, by a fallible process of reasoning, while truth comes to your more fortunate s.e.x by a happy inspiration."

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

"I wish you could see into my heart."

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

"Yourself."

"Then it is a looking-gla.s.s," said Anne, blus.h.i.+ng. "A valuable piece of furniture certainly, in which any lady may view her face!"

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

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

"You will always jest. I a.s.sure 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 was frightened by the long face of Deacon Bigelow, when he discovered my ignorance of the catechism. It was as long," she added, looking round for something to compare it to, "as the tongs."

"Or as your lessons of a June day, when the suns.h.i.+ne and birds, and flowers 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 and excitement of a large city, can be contented with the quiet monotony of a country town."

"I found something here not to be found in all country towns," said Pownal. "Besides, the noise and confusion of a large place never were agreeable to me, and when I return to them they lie like a weight upon my spirits. Instead of a city I ought to have been born in a boundless forest."

"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 was aware. The eloquent blood crimsoned her cheeks, and clapping both her hands upon her face to conceal the blushes, she burst into a laugh as musical as the song of the canary bird. Pownal's eyes sparkled with delight, but before he could utter a word, she had sprung upon her feet.

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

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

"I read it some years ago," he said; "and I remember it made a great impression upon me at the time. It appears to me to be written with wonderful power of enchaining the attention. I could not lay it down until it was finished."

"Exactly as I was affected," said Anne.

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

"I wonder at it myself. But it shows the ability of the writer, in being 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. The suns.h.i.+ne loves to light up dark places."

"Very prettily expressed. Really, if you go on improving, we must have you appointed valentine-manufacturer-general for the town of Hillsdale."

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

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

"I am not so presumptuous. I was only guessing. It is the Yankee's privilege. The world concedes it to us. I suggest then that your mind wanders through those dark scenes with an interest like that with which a traveller contemplates a strange country. And may they ever remain a strange region to you. May you ever continue to be what you are now, a bright being, at whose approach sorrow and sadness fly away."

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

These were lover's thoughts, and our readers at the remembrance of youthful dreams and fancies will pardon their extravagance. They come at only one period of life, and oh, how quickly do they fly, leaving behind a trail of light which may, indeed, be obscured, but never quite extinguished.

Pownal informed the Judge of his intended departure, and, as usual, received from him and Mrs. Bernard some commissions to execute on their account. That of the former was for some books, while his wife's, we are compelled to say, however undignified it may sound, was for nothing more important than the last fas.h.i.+onable French bonnet.

But let us add that she took not more pleasure in wearing a becoming head-dress (and what new fas.h.i.+on is not becoming?) than he in seeing her 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 a plain Yankee woman."

"Plain or beautiful, the highest t.i.tle to my affection," said the Judge, gallantly. "I have been a traveller, Thomas, and have seen the Old World. This is a progressive world; and, believe me, the productions of the New are not, to say the least, inferior to those of the Old."

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

"A pleasant voyage, Thomas," said the Judge, as he bade his young friend good-bye, "along the sandy sh.o.r.es of Long Island, and through the perils of h.e.l.l Gate."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Then lock thee fast Alone within thy chamber, there fall down On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground: Cry to thy heart: wash every word thou utter'st In tears (and if't be possible) of blood: Beg Heaven to cleanse the leprosy."

FORD'S PLAYS.