Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves.
These guests, these courts my soul most dearly loves:
Now the winged people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring.

QUOTED BY IZAAK WALTON, AS BY SIR HARRY WOTTON.

No reason seemed now to exist for Holden’s impatience to depart, yet he longed for the quiet of his hut on the island. The excitement of his feelings, which, while it acted as a stimulus, sustained him, had passed away, and the ordinary consequences of overtasking nature followed. Besides, he had lived so long in solitude, that any other mode of life was to him unnatural, and especially the roar and tumult of a populous place, disturbed him. The loudest sounds to which he had been accustomed were the rippling of the tide on the beach, or the sigh of the wind, and the songs of birds; and the difference between them and the noises he now heard, formed a contrast equally harsh and discordant. But by no word did he betray his wish. Both Mr. and Mrs. Pownal were desirous to delay the departure of himself and son, and it seemed to him ingratitude to act in any respect in opposition to the inclinations of persons to whom he was so greatly indebted. Several days, therefore, passed after the happening of the events recapitulated in the last chapter, and yet he remained in New York. But his feelings could not escape the observation of his son. Better acquainted than their host and hostess with the peculiarities of his father, he seized an opportunity to speak of the necessity of a speedy farewell.

“You are right, I do not doubt, Thomas,” said Mr. Pownal, in reply to the observation of the young man, “and yet I never felt so loth to let you go. While with me you seem still in some wise to belong to me, and I feel a reluctance to lose you out of my sight.”

“Do you think it possible,” exclaimed young Pownal whom his father, out of a sentiment of delicacy towards his friends, had insisted should be called by the name of his preserver, he had so long borne, for which reason we shall continue to use it “do you think it possible I can ever forget how deeply I am indebted, that I shall ever cease to love you with all the affection of a son, on whom you have lavished every possible kindness?”

“No; I have no fear of that. It is only the pain of parting from which I shrink. As we grow older we cling with the greater tenacity, and, perhaps, selfishness, to the enjoyments that are left. But this will never do. I must think more of you, and less of myself. I have some questions to ask, and something besides to say before you leave for Hillsdale, and this is as good an opportunity, probably, as we shall have, so take a seat by me, and we will enter upon business.”

Pownal, who hitherto had remained standing, now took a seat by the side of his benefactor, and waited for him to continue the conversation.

“Are you satisfied,” inquired Mr. Pownal, “with your situation at Hillsdale?”

“Perfectly,” replied the young man. “My time has passed very happily there.”

“I meant it,” continued Mr. Pownal, “only as an interlude. I sent you thither for the purpose of making you better acquainted with the branches of our business, intending to leave it to your choice either to remain or return to the city, and resume your place in the counting-house. I confess, the latter would suit me better, because you would be nearer to me; but consult your inclinations, and I shall be satisfied.”

“My dear sir,” said Pownal, with some little hesitation, “you are always kind, and since you leave it to my choice, I hope it will not offend you if I say, that for the present I should prefer to remain at Hillsdale.”

“It is not at all surprising that you should wish to be with your father, whom, in so wonderful a manner, you have discovered,” answered Mr. Pownal. “I am delighted with him, and his noble qualities must be restored to the world. We must find means to induce him to conquer his repugnance to society and its habits.”

“I hope for such a result,” said the young man, “but he is evidently now uneasy and pining for solitude.”

“‘Time and I against any two,’ says the Spanish proverb. I’ll be bound we will metamorphose him yet. Do you think the business at Hillsdale is capable of much extension?”

“I am sure of it. It may easily be doubled, and safely. I will give you my reasons for the opinion now, if you wish.”

“Never mind for the present. It after all can make no difference in what I am about to say. I have been looking at your balance-sheet, and must say that, for a first year’s business, you have done remarkably well. You have made very few bad debts, the sales are large, and profits satisfactory. You have the merchant in you, Thomas, and I must try to secure you for us beyond the power of loss. How would you like to become a member of the firm?”

“Sir,” said Pownal, “your goodness overpowers me. No father could be more generous. You will do with me as you please. But what say your partners?”

“I have consulted with them, and they are of the same opinion as myself, and desire your admission. I have drawn up the terms, which, I hope, will please you, on this slip of paper, and that you may start to a little better advantage, have directed a small sum to be carried to your credit on the books, which you will also find jotted down on the paper.”

“How can I thank you, sir?” said Pownal, receiving the paper, and preparing, without examining it, to place it in his pocket.

“But that is not like a merchant,” exclaimed Mr. Pownal smiling, “to accept of a contract without looking at it. Read it, Thomas, and see if you wish to suggest any change.”

“I am willing to trust my interests, my life, to you, sir, and it is unnecessary. But it is your command and I obey you.”

We must allow, that the thought of becoming at some time a member of the firm, wherein he had received his mercantile education, had passed before through the mind of Pownal, but the conditions upon which he was now admitted were favorable beyond his most sanguine expectations. The sum of money, too, carried to the credit of his account as a capital, on which to commence, deserved a better name than that of a small sum, which the opulent merchant had called it. Pownal saw himself now at once elevated into a condition, not only to supply the wants of his father and himself, but to warrant him to cherish hopes for the success of other plans that lay very near his heart. As the thought of Anne Bernard occurred to him, and he reflected upon the goodness of his generous benefactor, it seemed, to his ingenuous mind, as if he were half guilty of a wrong in withholding any part of his confidence from Mr. Pownal, and he felt strongly tempted to admit him into the inner sanctuary of his soul. But a feeling natural in such cases, and the consideration that he was not perfectly sure his affection was returned by Anne, restrained him, and he contented himself with repeating his thanks for a generosity so much exceeding his hopes.

“Nay,” said the merchant, “I must be the judge of these things. This may do to begin with. When you are married I will double it.”

The tell-tale cheeks of Pownal excited the suspicions of the old gentleman, whose eyes were fastened on him as he spoke.

“Ah, ha!” cried he, laughing, “have I found you out, Thomas? I do not believe, on the whole, the bribe will be necessary. I understand now your enthusiasm about the beauties of Hillsdale. But never blush. There’s no harm in possessing good taste. I was in love twenty times before I was your age. When shall the wedding be, eh?”

“My dear sir,” said Pownal smiling, “it will be time enough years hence, to think of these things. In a matter of this kind, I know of no better example to follow, than your own.”

“No, no, no, Thomas, do not imitate me there; I postponed my happiness too long, and were I to commence life again, I should not crawl with such a snail’s pace towards it as formerly. But I have no fear of you or that my joints will be too stiff to dance on the joyful occasion.”

The parting was such as might be expected between persons brought together under circumstances so singular, where on the one side there was a sense of obligation, it was a pleasure to cherish, and on the other, the yet higher gratification of conferring happiness. As Holden wrung the hand of Mr. Pownal who accompanied them to the vessel, that was to take them home, he invoked, in his enthusiastic way, a blessing upon his head. “The Almighty bless thee,” he exclaimed, “with blessings of Heaven above, and blessings of the deep that lieth under. May thy bow abide in strength, and the arms of thy hands be made strong by the hands of the mighty God of Jacob.”

Knowing how little his father prized the things of this world. Pownal had not communicated to him before their departure the liberal conduct of the noble merchant they had just left, but now, in a conversation one day, in which they reviewed the past, and, notwithstanding the Solitary’s faith in the speedy coming of a mighty change, speculated on the future, he disclosed the last evidence of the affection of his preserver. Holden listened with a gratified air, for how could he be otherwise than pleased that the worth and amiable qualities of his son, had awakened so deep an interest in the heart of another, but replied,

“It was well meant, but unnecessary. Thou hast no need of the gold and silver of others.”

The young man, supposing his father had reference to his peculiar religious notions, was silent, for it was a subject which could not be adverted to without great delicacy, and danger of vehement bursts of enthusiasm.

“Thou comprehendest me not,” said Holden. “I say thou art in no want of the dross with which men buy, to their grief and shame, the deluding vanities of the world.”

“If it is your wish, father, I will return the gift,” said Pownal, “though I know it will hurt the generous heart of the giver.”

“I interpose not. No voice calleth me thereto. But my meaning is still dark, and I know not whether it is best to admit thee fully to my counsels. Yet, thus much mayest thou now know, and more shalt thou know hereafter, that thy father is no pauper, to crave the wealth of others, and that his poverty is voluntary. The body is kept poor, that divine grace may the more readily enrich the soul.”

“Believe me, sir, I do not wish to intrude into anything which it is your desire to keep secret.”

“There is nothing secret that shall not be revealed,” exclaimed Holden, catching at the last word, “but everything in its own order. Let it satisfy thee, therefore, my son, to know for the present that thy father hath but to stretch forth his hand and it shall be filled, but to knock and it shall be opened. But this is not the day, nor for my own sake, should the clock of time ever strike the hour, when that which was thrown away shall be taken again, that which was despised shall be valued. Yet because of thee may I not lawfully withhold the hand, and as I gaze upon thy fair young face, thou seemest one whose spirit is so balanced that what men call prosperity will not hurt thee. But affection is blind, and my heart may deceive me, and therefore will I wait until He speaks who cannot lead astray or deceive.”

It was partly to himself, and partly to his son, that the Solitary spoke, nor was Pownal at all certain that he comprehended his meaning. He had at first fancied, his father was offended at his acceptance of the rich merchant’s bounty, but he soon saw that Holden regarded money too little to consider the mere giving or receiving of it as of much consequence. Upon further reflection, and a consideration of the manner in which his father had lived for so many years, the idea which yet seemed shadowed forth by his language, that he was possessed of property, appeared utterly chimerical. He was therefore disposed to attach to his father’s words some mystical sense, or to suppose that he imagined himself in possession of a secret, by means of which he could command the wealth he scorned. Of course the young man considered such anticipations as visionary as the immediate coming of that millénium for which the longing eyes of the enthusiast daily looked forth.