Ici il fallut que j’en divinasse plus qu’on ne m’en disoit.
Mémoires de Sully.

A week after the events narrated in the preceding chapters, a small company was collected in a parlor of one of the houses of Hillsdale. It consisted of a gentleman, of some fifty years of age; his wife, a fine-looking matron, some years his junior; their daughter, a bright blue-eyed flaxen-haired girl, rounding into the most graceful form of womanhood, and a young man, who is not entirely a stranger to us.

The judgment of the doctor, respecting the wound of Pownal for it is he had proved to be correct, and, on the second day after the hurt, he had returned to the village, with his friend William Bernard, in the house of whose father he was, for the present, domiciliated. The young men had been acquainted before, and the accident seemed to have established a sort of intimacy between them. It was, therefore, with no feeling of reluctance, that Pownal accepted an invitation to desert his boarding-house for a while, for the hospitality of his friend. Perhaps, his decision was a little influenced by the remembrance of the blue eyes of Miss Bernard, and of the pleasant effect which, from their first acquaintance, they had exerted upon him. However that may be, it is certain, that, although somewhat paler than usual, he appeared to be quite contented with his condition.

It was evening, and candles were lighted, and Mr. Bernard, or as he was more commonly, or, indeed, almost universally, called, Judge Bernard, from having been one of the judges of the Superior Court, was sitting in an arm-chair, reading a newspaper; Mrs. Bernard was busy with her knitting; the young lady employed upon one of those pieces of needle-work, which, in those days, were seldom out of female hands, and Pownal looking at her all he dared, and listening to an occasional paragraph read by the Judge from his newspaper.

“You are the cause of quite a sensation in our little community, Thomas,” said the Judge, laying down his spectacles and newspaper at the same time. “Mr. Editor Peters and the gossips ought to be infinitely obliged to you for wounding yourself, and affording him an opportunity to display his inventive genius and the brilliancy of his imagination, and giving them something to talk about. Here, Anne, read the article aloud for our edification.”

The young lady ran her eye hastily down the column, and could not restrain her laughter.

“Excuse me, papa,” she said, “it is too much for my poor nerves. Only think of it; Mr. Peters loads Mr. Pownal’s gun with sixteen buck-shot, topples him off a precipice twenty feet high, breaks three of his ribs, and makes a considerable incision in his skull. Never was there such a wonderful escape. It is too horrible.”

“How the newspapers are given to big stories!” said Mrs. Bernard.

“I dare say,” cried Anne, “the editor has authority for what he says, for now that my attention is drawn to it, I think there must be something in the incision. Have you not remarked, mamma, that Mr. Pownal is at times light-headed?”

“Anne!” exclaimed her mother, smiling, “I am ashamed to hear a young girl rattle on so.”

“I am not aware of being more light-headed than usual,” said Pownal, “but I am certain no one can be in Miss Bernard’s company, and not be light-hearted.”

“Very prettily spoken! Mr. Thomas Pownal is practising his wit upon a country maiden, in order to be in training when he returns to open the campaign among the New York ladies.”

“I am too happy here,” said Pownal, in a low tone, “to wish to return to the city.”

An almost imperceptible blush suffused the cheeks of Miss Bernard. She looked up from the newspaper, but her eyes encountering those of the young man, instantly fell.

“What fine speeches are you making to one another?” broke in the Judge. “My dear, do not hold down your head. It throws the blood into your face.”

“Papa,” cried his daughter, desirous to divert attention from herself, “can you find nothing instructing in the paper to read to us? Is there no report of any speech?”

“Speeches, indeed! Thank Heaven, there is no speech in this paper. The session of Congress has not commenced, and the deluge of words, in comparison with which Noah’s flood was a summer’s shower, therefore, not begun. Why, my dear little daughter, do you remind me of the national calamity?”

“To atone for the offence, papa, let me tell you that Mr. Armstrong and Faith promised to come to see us this evening, and from the sound of the opening of the front gate, I suspect they are close at hand.”

Anne’s conjecture proved true, for shortly after the expected visitors were announced, and the usual greetings having passed, they were all soon seated.

But before proceeding further, it may not be amiss to give some description of persons destined to play a not unimportant part in our story.

Mr. Armstrong was of middle age, of the ordinary stature, and with a face which still possessed great beauty. A noble brow, hair originally black, but prematurely grey, large dark eyes, a straight nose, and a well-formed mouth, over which played an expression of benevolence, made an exterior of exceeding attractiveness, and it would have been an unmixed pleasure to gaze upon his gracious presence, but for an air of dejection amounting to suffering, which had of late been increasing upon him. He seldom smiled, and when he did the smile was often succeeded by a dark shadow, as if he felt compunction for trespassing on the precints of gaiety.

Faith strongly resembled her father, as well in externals as in the character of her mind. Her figure was slender, approaching even to delicacy, though without any appearance of sickliness. Her face, pale and thoughtful usually, was sometimes lighted up with an enthusiasm more angelic than human. Her mother having died when she was too young to appreciate the loss, she had concentrated upon her father all that love which is generally divided between two parents. Nor was it with a feeling of love only she regarded him. With it was mixed a sentiment of reverence amounting almost to idolatry. No opinion, no thought, no word, no look of his but had for her a value. And richly was the affection of the child returned by the father, and proud was he of her, notwithstanding his struggles against the feeling as something sinful.

It was the first time since the accident to Pownal that Mr. Armstrong or his daughter had seen him, and the conversation naturally turned upon the danger he had incurred.

“It was a providential escape,” said Mr. Armstrong. “It is astonishing how many dangers we run into, and our escapes may be considered as so many daily miracles to prove the interposition of a controlling Providence. There are few persons who cannot look back upon several such in the course of their lives.”

“You are right, my friend,” said the Judge. “I can recall half a dozen in my own experience; and if some have had fewer, some, doubtless, have had more.”

“These accidents are, I suspect, the consequences of our own carelessness in nine cases out of ten,” said Pownal. “At any rate, I am sure it was my carelessness that occasioned mine.”

“You speak as if it could have been avoided,” said Mr. Armstrong.

“Certainly. Do you not think so?”

“I am not sure of it,” said Mr. Armstrong. “There appears to be a chain which links events together in an inevitable union. The very carelessness of which you accuse yourself may be the means purposely used to bring about important events.”

“It has brought about very agreeable events for me,” said Pownal. “I am only afraid, from the care lavished upon me, I shall be tempted to think too much of myself.”

“It has scattered pleasure all around, then,” said Mrs. Bernard, kindly.

“Yes,” said the Judge; “any attention we can render is more than repaid by the pleasure Mr. Pownal’s presence imparts. If he should ever think more highly of himself than we do, he will be a very vain person.”

The young man could only bow, and with a gratified countenance return his thanks for their kindness.

“Your adventure was also the means,” said Mr. Armstrong, “of making you acquainted with our anchorite. Did you not find him an interesting person?”

“More than interesting,” replied Pownal. “From the moment he took me into his arms as if I had been a child, and with all the tenderness of a mother, I felt strangely attracted to him. I shall always remember with pleasure the two days I spent in his cabin, and mean to cultivate his acquaintance if he will permit me.”

“He is evidently a man of refinement and education,” said Armstrong, “who, for reasons of his own, has adopted his peculiar mode of life. It was a long time before I could be said to be acquainted with him, but the more I know him, the better I like him. He and Faith are great friends.”

“I value his friendship highly and am glad he made so favorable an impression on you, Mr. Pownal,” said Faith.

“I do believe,” cried Anne, “Faith could not reverence him more if he were one of the old prophets.”

“If not a prophet,” said Faith, “he is at least a noble and good man, and that is the highest title to respect. He takes an interest in you, too, Mr. Pownal, 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.