The Lost Hunter. John Turvill Adams
for Anne tells me he has been to see you."
"My preserver has been here several times to make inquiries after my health," answered Pownal. "He was here this morning."
"And preaching about the kingdom," said Judge Bernard. "What a strange infatuation to look for the end of the world each day."
"He errs in the interpretation of the prophecies," said Mr. Armstrong, "when he finds in them prognostics of the speedy destruction of the world, but does he mistake the personal application? Who knows when he may be called to face his judge? Youth, and health, and strength, furnish no immunity against death."
"But what a gloom this daily expectation of an event which the wisest and stoutest hearted are unable to contemplate without trepidation, casts over life," said the Judge.
"Not in his case," replied Armstrong. "On the contrary, I am satisfied he would hail it with a song of thanksgiving, and I think I have observed he is sometimes impatient of the delay."
"It is well his notions are only crazy fancies as absurd as his beard.
His appearance is very heathenish," said Mrs. Bernard.
"Taste, my dear," exclaimed the Judge, "all taste. Why, I have a great mind to wear a beard myself. It would be a prodigious comfort to dispense with the razor in cold winter mornings, to say nothing of the ornament. And now that I think of it, it is just the season to begin."
"You would look like a bear, Mr. Bernard," said his wife.
"It would be too near an imitation of the old Puritans for you,
Judge," said Faith.
"You, at least, my little Puritan," cried the Judge, "would not object. But do not fancy that in avoiding Scylla I must run upon Charybdis. Be sure I would not imitate the trim moustaches and peaked chins of those old dandies, Winthrop and Endicott. I prefer the full flowing style of Wykliffe and Cranmer."
"We should then have two Holdens," exclaimed Mrs. Bernard, "and that would be more than our little village could live through."
"Fancy papa running an opposition beard against Mr. Holden!" said
Anne.
The idea was sufficiently ludicrous to occasion a general laugh, and even Armstrong smiled.
"I am a happy man," said the Judge; "not only mirthful, myself, but the cause of mirth in others. What a beam of light is a smile, what a glory like a sunrise is a laugh!"
"That will do, Judge Bernard, that will do," said his wife; "do not try again, for you cannot jump so high twice."
"Tut, tut, Mary; what do you know about the higher poetics? I defy you to find such sublimities either in Milton or Dante."
"I can easily believe it," said Mrs. Bernard.
At this moment some other visitors entering the room, the conversation took another turn; and Mr. Armstrong and his daughter having remained a short time longer, took leave and returned home. Let us follow the departing visitors.
Upon his return, Mr. Armstrong sank upon a seat with an air of weariness.
"Come, Faith," he said, "and sit by me and hold my hand. I have been thinking this evening of the insensibility of the world to their condition. How few perceive the precipice on the edge of which they stand!"
His daughter, who was accustomed to these sombre reflections, bent over, and bringing his hand to her lips, kissed it without saying anything, knowing that he would soon explain himself more perfectly.
"Which," continued Armstrong, "is wiser, the thoughtless frivolity of
Judge Bernard, or the sad watchfulness of Holden?"
"I am not competent to judge, dear father; but if they both act according to their convictions of right, are they not doing their duty?"
"You ask a difficult question. To be sure men must act according to their ideas of right, but let them beware how they get them, and what they are. Yet, can one choose his ideas? These things puzzle me?"
"What else can we do," inquired his daughter, "than live by the light we have? Surely I cannot be responsible for my involuntary ignorance."
"How far we may be the cause of the ignorance we call involuntary, it is impossible to determine. A wrong act, an improper thought, belonging to years ago and even repented of since, may project its dark shadow into the present, and pervert the judgment. We are fearfully made."
"Why pain yourself, dearest father, with speculations of this character? Our Maker knows our weakness and will pardon our infirmities."
"I am an illustration of the subject of our conversation," continued Armstrong, after a pause of a few minutes, during which he had remained meditating, with his head resting on his hand. "I know I would not, willingly, harshly judge another—for who authorized me to pass sentence? Yet these ideas would force themselves into my mind; and how have I spoken of our kind and excellent neighbor! There is something wrong in myself which I must struggle to correct."
We communicate only enough of the conversation to give an idea of the state of Mr. Armstrong's mind at the time. At the usual family devotions that night he prayed fervently for forgiveness of his error, repeatedly upbraiding himself with presumption and uncharitableness, and entreating that he might not be left to his own vain imaginations.
CHAPTER IV.
O! I could whisper thee a tale,
That surely would thy pity move,
But what would idle words avail,
Unless the heart might speak its love?
To tell that tale my pen were weak,
My tongue its office, too, denies,
Then mark it on my varying cheek,
And read it in my languid eyes.
ANONYMOUS.
After the expiration of a fortnight, Pownal could find no excuses to satisfy even himself with remaining longer at Judge Bernard's. The visit had been, indeed, one of great enjoyment, and gladly would he have availed himself of the pressing invitation of his host to prolong it, could he have conjured up any reason for doing so. Lightly would he have esteemed and cheerfully welcomed another wound like that from which he was recovering, could the pleasure have been thus purchased. The truth is that within a few days he had been conscious of a feeling of which he had never before suspected himself, and it was this feeling that made him so reluctant to depart. And yet, when, in the silence of his chamber, and away from the blue eyes of Anne Bernard, he reflected upon his position, he was obliged to confess, with a sigh, that prudence required he should leave a society as dangerous as it was sweet. To be in the same house with her, to breathe the same air, to read the same books, to hear her voice was a luxury it was hard to forego, but in proportion to the difficulty was the necessity. Besides he could not avoid fancying that young Bernard, though not cold, was hardly as cordial as formerly, and that he would regard with satisfaction a separation from his sister. Nor had he reason to suppose that she looked upon him with feelings other than those which she entertained for any other acquaintance standing to her in the same relation as himself. Beyond the ordinary compliments and little attentions which the manners of the day permitted, nothing had passed between them, and though satisfied he was not an object of aversion, he knew as well that she had never betrayed any partiality for him. Meanwhile, his own feelings were becoming interested, beyond, perhaps, the power of control, the sooner, therefore, he weaned himself from the delightful fascination, the better for his peace of mind.
Thomas Pownal was comparatively a stranger in the neighborhood, only two or three months having elapsed since he had been sent by the mercantile firm of Bloodgood, Pownal, & Co., of New York, to take charge of a branch of their business at Hillsdale. Even in that short space of