Pownal, upon parting with Esther, sought his father.  But the expression of his apprehensions was so vague, he was so incapable of giving his fears any definite shape, that he made no more impression than the woman.  The calm austerity of the Solitary’s face almost melted into a smile at the idea that any event could occur except in the determined course of things.  It was the pride of the human heart; it was the presumption of the human intellect that dreamed of freedom of choice or of action.  If individual wills were permitted to cross and jostle each other, the universe would be a scene of confusion.  Freedom was only in appearance.  One grand, serene, supreme will embraced the actual and the ideal in its circle, and all things were moved by a law as certain and irresistible as that which impels worlds in their orbits.  The conviction was a part of Holden’s self.  He could no more be convinced of its fallacy than of his own non-existence, and his son left him with the full assurance that, even were he to know that his life was menaced, he would be the last one to take any precautionary measures for its protection.  But, in truth, the fears of Pownal were so slight, that after an allusion to them, he forbore to dwell upon the subject, especially as the conversation took a turn as interesting to him as it was unexpected.

“Thou art of an age, my son,” said Holden, abruptly, “to take to thee a wife, and the bounty of the good man whose name I permit thee still to bear, hath placed thee in a condition to gratify an innocent and natural desire.  Hath thy heart moved at all in this matter?”

The question was excessively embarrassing, and the young man blushed and hesitated as he replied, that there was yet abundant time to think of such things.

“Think not,” said the Solitary, observing his son’s hesitation, “that I desire to intrude into thy confidence, though the heart of a son should be like a clear stream, the bottom of which may be seen by a father’s eye.  I speak, because partly common fame, and partly my own observation, connect thy name in some wise with a young lady’s.”

“And who is the lady,” inquired Pownal, laughing, “whom my indiscreet gallantry has so compromised?”

“Nay, if thou wilt not be frank with me, or choosest to reply in the language of trifling, we will drop the subject.”

“I will be frank.  I will answer any question you may ask.”

“Tell me, then, is there any relation between thee and Anne Bernard tenderer than that of common acquaintance?”

Pownal expected the question, and was therefore prepared.

“I esteem Miss Bernard highly,” he said.  “I am acquainted with no young lady who is her superior.  I should consider myself fortunate to attract her attention.  But nothing, except the language of friendship, has passed betwixt us.”

“I am satisfied,” said Holden, “and it is evidence of excellence in thyself that one possessing the lovable and noble qualities of Anne should attract thee.  But though, in the limited circle of the small town, thy presence may be acceptable in the withdrawing room of the wealthy lawyer, thinkest thou he will be willing to give thee the hand of his only daughter?”