Oh my soul’s joy!

If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have wakened death!
And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell’s from heaven.

OTHELLO.

In accordance with the determination he had expressed, Holden began soon to talk about putting his wild plan of roaming through the world into execution, and was withheld from it only by the entreaties of Pownal, that he would at least postpone it until after the arrival of his uncle, who was daily expected, and until they had taken his advice.

“I consent,” said Holden, “both out of love to thee, and because I would not willingly leave a roof that hath protected me, without giving thanks to its owner.”

A few days afterwards, Mr. Pownal returned with his family, by all of whom the young man was welcomed with every evidence of the warmest regard. Holden, too, as the friend of the younger Pownal, came in for a share of attention. The family consisted of the father and mother, and two children, a boy and girl, the former of whom could not be more than ten years of age, while the latter was probably two years younger.

Mr. Pownal himself was a fine, frank, hearty gentleman of some sixty years, whose appearance indicated that the world had gone well with him, and that he was satisfied with the world. The ordinary expression of his face was that of quiet contentment, though at times it betrayed a keen sagacity and shrewdness, partly the revelation of nature, and partly the product of an intimate intercourse with that world with which his business brought him, in various ways, in contact. It was however apparent, that however much the associations and experiences of trade had sharpened his intellect, they had not tarnished the natural goodness of his heart. That spoke in the frank tones of his manly voice and shone in the light of his clear blue eyes. One could hardly look at him without a conviction that he was a man to be trusted, and a desire to grasp his hand in friendship. Holden felt the influence at the introduction, and no mean judge of character himself, was glad to make the acquaintance.

Mrs. Pownal was by several years the junior of her husband, and in all respects different from him. Her hair and eyes were raven-black, her complexion dark and saturnine, and she wore an expression of care inconsistent with enjoyment. She had been for many years a childless wife, and it may be that early disappointment, occasioned by the want of children, uniting with a melancholy temperament, had imparted an appearance of dejection which the subsequent birth of a boy and girl after she had given up the expectation of offspring, was unable to remove. She seldom smiled, and when she did, the smile played over her countenance like the sickly gleam of a wintry clay through clouds, and seemed rather to chill than to warm what before was cold. It was a formal tribute to the customs of society, not the spontaneous outburst of joy. She presented the tips of her fingers with all the grace of an accomplished lady, to Holden, and meant that her reception of him should be kind, but the hand was cold, and apparently as unfeeling as marble, and the Solitary dropped it as soon as touched. And yet Mrs. Pownal had feeling.

The first few days after the return of the Pownals was spent by them in gathering up those threads of relationship by which people are connected with society. Even a short absence from home induces sometimes the necessity of paying and receiving many visits, proportioned to the extent of the circle in which the parties move. The visiting circle of the Pownals was large, and hence the longer time was required. Besides, the business pursuits of the merchant engrossed some hours each day, though as the head of a large house in which there were several younger partners, he claimed and enjoyed all the leisure he desired. For these reasons young Pownal had found no fitting opportunity to speak in the presence of Holden of the purpose which brought the Solitary to the city, and besides, he did not wish to do so, until the time should arrive for his own return to Hillsdale, when he hoped, with the assistance of his uncle, to persuade him to return home. But the business of the young man was at last completed, and he was ready to retrace his steps.

It was then one evening when both Mr. and Mrs. Pownal were present, and immediately preceding the day when he had announced his intention to depart, that Holden, at the solicitation of young Pownal, supported by the courteous entreaties of his uncle, narrated the events of his life, which are already known to the reader, and avowed with that unshaken trust in Providence, which in all circumstances sustained him, his resolution to beg his way through the world on his sacred search. His hosts had become, by this time, so accustomed to the fiery enthusiasm and antique diction of his discourse, that they no longer excited their surprise, but as he proceeded with his tale, the attention of both seemed arrested by a strange fascination. Even the figure of Mrs. Pownal lost its listlessness. Her black eyes became riveted on the speaker. She bent forward, with parted lips, as if unwilling to lose a word, while from time to time glances of intelligence passed between the husband and wife, which neither Pownal nor Holden were able to understand.

“Thus far,” said the enthusiast, in conclusion, “the Lord hath led me on. By flood and fire, and in battle He hath preserved a life, that long was wearisome to me. But in these latter days, He hath awakened a new hope, and given me an assurance thereof which I can better feel than tell. He hath not prolonged my life for naught. Behold, I know assuredly, that the child liveth, and that in my flesh, I shall see His salvation. Therefore, in obedience to the inner voice, will I gird up my loins, and after thanking you my friends, for the bread we have broken together, and the roof that hath sheltered the wanderer’s head, will I proceed upon my way.”

He rose and strode across the room, as if to put his design into instant execution, but the voice of the elder Pownal arrested him.

“Stay,” he said, “and listen. Your steps have indeed, been wonderfully directed. I can give you, perhaps, some information, about this John Johnson, with whom the boy was left.”

Holden stopped but made no motion to return. He seemed to hear and understand the words, but to be uncertain whence they proceeded. His eyes were cast up and fixed on vacancy. At last he said, still gazing in the air. “Speak Lord for thy servant heareth.”

Mr. Pownal approached, and taking Holden by an arm, led him gently to the sofa, and took a seat by his side. Mrs. Pownal said not a word, but threw her arms round young Pownal’s neck, and sobbed upon his bosom.

The young man, unable to divine a reason for such unusual emotion, could only silently return the caress and wait for an explanation.

“I knew a person of the name,” said Mr. Pownal, “but he has been dead many years.”

“But the child, but the child,” exclaimed Holden, “he is yet alive!”

“I do not doubt he is alive, I am confident we shall be able to discover him. Your trust in Providence is not misplaced.”

“Tell me,” cried Holden, a little sternly, “what thou knowest of the boy. My soul travaileth sore, and hope and doubt rend me in twain.”

“Hold fast your hope my friend,” said Mr. Pownal, “for all will yet be well. Prepare yourself to hear what, without preparation, might overcome your strength.”

“Fear not,” said Holden. “Yet alas! who knoweth his own heart? But a moment ago, I thought myself as an iron mountain, and now am I weaker than the untimely birth.”

“Eliza,” said Mr. Pownal turning to his wife, “bring the token you preserved.”

During the absence of his wife, Mr. Pownal endeavored to prepare the mind of the Solitary for the joyful discovery he was about to make. It was now, too, that Holden perceived, from the agitation of his feelings, that he was weak, like other men, and that with whatever hope and confidence and calmness he might contemplate the prospect of distant happiness, its near approach shook him like a reed. Mrs. Pownal presently returned, with a coral necklace in her hand, and presented it to Holden.

“Do you recognize it?” she said.

He took it into his hands, and as if overcome by the violence of his emotions, was unable to speak a word. He gazed steadily at it, his lips moved but made no sound, and tears began to fall upon the faded coral. At last, with broken utterance, he said:

“The last time my eyes beheld these beads they were upon the neck of my dear child. They were the gift of his mother, and she hung them around his neck. Examine the clasp and you will find S.B., the initials of her maiden name, engraved upon it. My tears blind my sight.”

“They are, indeed, upon the clasp,” said Mrs. Pownal, who appeared to have a greater control over herself than her husband over his feelings: “we have often seen them, but little did we expect they would ever contribute to the discovery of the parentage of our dear”

She turned to young Pownal, and threw her arms again about his neck.

“Come hither, Thomas,” said Mr. Pownal, “the necklace was taken from your neck. This is your father. Mr. Holden, embrace your son.”

The young man rushed to his father, and threw himself at his feet. Holden extended his hands, but the sudden revulsion of high wrought feeling was more than he could bear. The color fled face and lips, and he fell forward insensible into the arms of his long lost son.

“I feared it would be so,” said Mr. Pownal; “but joy seldom kills. See,” he added, after Mrs. Pownal had sprinkled some water in the face of the gasping man, “he is recovering. He will soon be himself again.”

Restored to consciousness, Holden clasped his recovered son to his bosom, and kissed his cheeks, while the young man returned with warmth his demonstrations of affection. Pownal, we have seen, had been from the first attracted to the Solitary, either by the noble qualities he discovered in him, or from the interest he felt in his romantic mode of life, or from that mysterious sympathy of consanguinity, the existence of which is asserted by some, and denied by others. He was, therefore, prepared to receive with pleasure the relationship. Besides, it was a satisfaction to find his father in one, who, however poor his worldly circumstances, and whatever his eccentricities, was evidently a man of education and noble mind. For the young man was himself a nobleman of nature, who had inherited some of the romance of his father, and, indeed, in whom were slumbering, unconsciously to himself, many traits of character like those of the father, and which needed only opportunity to be developed.

The first words Holden uttered, after recovering from his emotion sufficiently to speak, were:

“Lord! now let thou thy servant depart, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.”

“Do not talk of departing,” said Mr. Pownal. “It seems to me now is the very time to stay. Many years of happiness are in store for you.”

“But,” said Holden, “tell me, thou who hast conferred an obligation that can never be repaid, and restored as it were the dead to life, how didst thou become the preserver of my child?”

But a few words are necessary to answer Holden’s questions. As the happy father sat with his arm over his son’s neck, Mr. Pownal related the following particulars.

“The John Johnson, of whom Esther the squaw told you,” said Mr. Pownal, “was some nineteen or twenty years ago a porter in the employ of our house. He was an honest, industrious man, who remained in our service until his death, which happened two or three years after the event I am about to relate, and enjoyed our confidence to the last. It was in the Spring the month I do not recollect when he came to the counting-room and desired to speak with me in private. He told me that on the previous evening he had found a child, dressed in rags, asleep upon the steps of his house, and that to preserve it from perishing he had taken it in. His own family was large, and he was a poor man, else he would willingly keep it. He knew not exactly what to do, and as he was in the habit of consulting me when in any difficulty, he thought he had better do so now. It was a pretty lively little boy, but so young that though beginning to speak it was unable to give any account of itself.

“While Johnson was speaking a plan came into my mind, which I had thought of before, and it seemed as if the child were providentially sent in order to enable me to accomplish it. The truth is, that I had been married for several years, and the merry voice of no child of my own had gladdened my home and I had given up the expectation of children. Loving them dearly, it occurred to me to adopt some child, and rear it as my own. The feelings of Mrs. Pownal were the same as mine, and we had often talked over the subject together, but one circumstance and another, I can hardly tell what they were, had postponed the execution of our purpose from day to day. I therefore said to Johnson that I would attend him home and see the child, after which I should be better able to give him advice. Accordingly we went together to his house, which I recollect was the very one you described as having visited in your search in William street. There I found the little waif, a bright eyed boy of some three or four years of age, though his cheeks were pale and thin, as if he had already known some suffering. He wore around his neck the coral beads you have in your hand, which seemed to me at the time to have been left in order to facilitate a recognition. The appealing look and sweet smile with which he gazed into my eyes, as if demanding protection, was, in the condition of my feelings, more than I could withstand, and I took him home and gave him to my wife. She seemed equally pleased with myself, and for a time we reared him as a child of our own. Richly has he repaid our love, and you may well be proud of such a son. But some ten years afterwards, to our surprise, for we had given up all hope of such a blessing, Heaven gave us a son, and two years after that a daughter. The birth of the children altered, in some respects, our calculations, and I thought it necessary to communicate to Thomas the fact that he was not my son, but promising that he should ever be to me as one, and leaving it to be inferred from the identity of name, for I had given him my own, that he was a relative. He has more than once endeavored to penetrate the mystery, but I have always shrunk from revealing it, although determined that at some time or another he should be made acquainted with it, and with that view, to guard against the contingencies of sudden death, prepared a narrative of the events I am relating, which is at this moment in my desk addressed to him. Mr. Holden,” concluded Mr. Pownal, and his voice choked for an instant, “I can wish you no higher good fortune than that the youth, who, if not the offspring of my loins, is the son of my affection, may be to you a source of as much happiness as he has been to me.”

Moved to tears the young man threw himself into the arms of his benefactor, and in broken words murmured his gratitude.

“Ah!” cried he, “you were always so indulgent and so kind, dear sir! Had it not been for, you, what should I have been to day?”

“Nay, Thomas,” said Mr. Pownal, “you have conferred a benefit greater than you received. You filled a void in hearts that were aching for an object of parental love, and for years were the solitary beam of sunshine in a household that would else have been desolate and dark. And had I not interposed, other means would have been found to restore you to your proper sphere. There is that in you, my son let me still call you by the dear name that under any circumstances would have forced its way, and elevated you from darkness into light, from obscurity into distinction.”

Young Pownal cast his eyes upon the carpet, and blushed like a girl at the recital of his praises. No words came to his assistance, but the deep voice of his father relieved him from his embarrassment.

“It may be true what thou sayest, angel of the Lord,” he said, addressing Mr. Pownal, “thou who hast been even as a cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night, to guide the lad through the wilderness of the world, but not the less are our thanks and eternal gratitude due to thee as the chosen instrument to accomplish His will. May the blessing of the Lord God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, of Him who called unto Moses out of the burning bush, of Him who is the root and the offspring of David, the bright and morning Star, rest and abide with thee and thy house for ever. And thou, madam,” he added, approaching Mrs. Pownal with a dignity and grace that caused his singular appearance to be quite overlooked, “how shall he, who is an outcast no longer, thank thee?” He pressed his hand upon his heart, as if to restrain its beating, then bending over and taking her hand into his own, kissed it with the devotion of a devotee. “Blessed be thou above women. The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble, and fulfill all thy desire. Thou didst pity and shalt be pitied: thou wast merciful and shalt receive mercy. ’Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these little ones, ye did it unto me,’ saith Christ.”

“We are abundantly compensated, Mr. Holden,” observed Mrs. Pownal, feeling it incumbent to say something, and yet at a loss what to say. “Mr. Pownal has expressed my feelings better than I can myself. But, Thomas, you shall still be our son, for all these disclosures.”

“Mother! mother!” cried Pownal, kneeling by her side, and kissing the lips she offered to his, “you shall always be my dear mother, as long as you permit me to call you so. Oh, how little have I known how much I was indebted to you, and my second father. I have dreamed and wondered, but the imagination still fell short of the truth.”

“Thou hast received an obligation, my son,” said Holden, “which all thy love and devotedness can never repay, and the claims of thy parents by kindness are stronger than mine. To me thou owest life, to them its preservation and honorable station. Thou wilt give me the love thou hast to spare, but to them belongs the greater portion.”

“We will be content with equal parts,” said Mr. Pownal, smiling. “In this partnership of affection none must claim a superior share.”

“Strange!” exclaimed Holden, fastening his eyes on his son, and speaking, as was his wont sometimes, as to himself, “that the full truth broke not on me before. The heart yearned to him, he was as a bright star to me; his voice was the music of the forest to my ears; his eyes were as a sweet dream, a vanished happiness, but I understood not. It is plain now. It was the voice of my Sarah I heard: they were her eyes that looked into my heart through his. And was it not thy prompting, mysterious Nature, that inclined him to me? Was there not a dim revelation, that I was more to him than other men? Else why delighted he in the society of a lone, wayward man like me? Lord God Almighty, no man knoweth the ordinances of heaven, nor can he set the dominion thereof upon the earth!”