University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE ENTHUSIAST.

The cheeks of the youth glowed. He felt how much he
had suppressed in his conference with his venerable counsellor.
Mr. Calvert did not press the topic, and the two
remained silent, looking down, from the shaded spot where
they lay, upon the progress of Margaret Cooper and her
present attendant, Stevens. The eminence on which they
rested was sufficiently lofty, as we have seen, to enable
them, though themselves almost concealed from sight, to
take in the entire scene, not only below but around them;
and the old man, sharing now in the interest of his young
companion, surveyed the progress of the new-comers with a
keen sense of curiosity which, for a time, kept him silent.
The emotions of William Hinkley were such as to deprive
him of all desire for speech; and each, accordingly, found
sufficient employment in brooding over his own awakened
fancies. Even had they spoken in the ordinary tone of
their voices, the sounds could not have reached the persons
approaching on the opposite side. They drew nigh, evidently
unconscious that the scene was occupied by any other
than themselves. Ned Hinkley was half-shrouded in the
shrubbery that environed the jutting crag upon which his
form was crouched, and they were not yet sufficiently nigh
to the tarn to perceive his projecting rod, and the gaudy
fly which he kept skipping about upon the surface. The
walk which they pursued was an ancient Indian footpath,

which had without doubt conducted the red warriors, a
thousand times before, to a spot of seclusion and refreshment
after their long day's conflict on the “dark and
bloody ground.” It was narrow and very winding, and
had been made so in order to lessen the fatigue of an ascent
which, though gradual enough, was yet considerable,
and would have produced great weariness, finally, had the
pathway been more direct.

The circuitousness of this route, which lay clear enough
before the eyes of our two friends upon the eminence —
crawling, as it did, up the woodland slopes with the sinuous
course of a serpent — was yet visible to Ned Hinkley,
on his lowlier perch, only at its starting-point, upon the
very margin of the lake. He, accordingly, saw as little of
the approaching persons as they had seen of him. They
advanced slowly, and seemed to be mutually interested in
their subject of conversation. The action of Stevens was
animated. The air and attitude of Margaret Cooper was
that of interest and attention. It was with something little
short of agony that William Hinkley beheld them pause
upon occasion, and confront each other as if the topic was
of a nature to arrest the feet and demand the whole fixed
attention of the hearer.

It will be conjectured that Alfred Stevens had pressed
his opportunities with no little industry. Enough has been
shown to account for the readiness of that reception which
Margaret Cooper was prepared to give him. Her intelligence
was keen, quick, and penetrating. She discovered
at a glance, not his hypocrisy, but that his religious enthusiasm
was not of a sort to become very tyrannical. The
air of mischief which was expressed upon his face when
the venerable John Cross proposed to purge her library of
its obnoxious contents, commended him to her as a sort of
ally; and the sympathy with herself, which such a conjecture
promised, made her forgetful of the disingenuousness
of his conduct if her suspicions were true. But there were

some other particulars which, in her mind, tended to dissipate
the distance between them. She recognised the individual.
She remembered the bold, dashing youth, who, a
few months before, had encountered her on the edge of the
village, and, after they had parted, had ridden back to the
spot where she still loitered, for a second look. To that
very spot had she conducted him on their ramble that afternoon.

“Do you know this place, Mr. Stevens?” she demanded
with an arch smile, sufficiently good-humored to convince
the adventurer that, if she had any suspicions, they were
not of a nature to endanger his hopes.

“Do I not!” he said, with an air of empressement which
caused her to look down.

“I thought I recollected you,” she said, a moment
after.

“Ah! may I hope that I did not then offend you with
my impertinence? But the truth is, I was so struck — pardon
me if I say it — with the singular and striking difference
between the group of damsels I had seen and the one
— the surprise was so great — the pleasure so unlooked
for — that—”

The eye of Margaret Cooper brightened, her cheek
glowed, and her form rose somewhat proudly. The arch-hypocrite
paused judiciously, and she spoke:—

“Nay, nay, Mr. Stevens, these fine speeches do not pass
current. You would make the same upon occasion to any
one of the said group of damsels, were you to be her escort.”

“But I would scarcely ride back for a second look,” he
responded, in a subdued tone of voice, while looking with
sad expressiveness into her eyes. These were cast down
upon the instant, and the color upon her cheeks was heightened.

“Come,” said she, making an effort, “there is nothing
here to interest us.”

“Except memory,” he replied; “I shall never forget the
spot.”

She hurried forward, and he joined her. She had received
the impression which he intended to convey, without
declaring as much — namely, that his return to Charlemont
had been prompted by that one glimpse which he had then
had of her person. Still, that nothing should be left in
doubt, he proceeded to confirm the impression by other
suggestions:—

“You promise to show me a scene of strange beauty, but
your whole village is beautiful, Miss Cooper. I remember
how forcibly it struck me as I gained the ascent of the opposite
hills coming in from the east. It was late in the
day, the sun was almost setting, and his faintest but loveliest
beams fell upon the cottages in the valley, and lay
with a strange, quiet beauty among the grass-plats, and the
flower-ranges, and upon the neat, white palings.”

“It is beautiful,” she said with a sigh, “but its beauty
does not content me. It is too much beauty; it is too soft;
for, though it has its rocks and huge trees, yet it lacks
wildness and sublimity. The rocks are not sufficiently abrupt,
the steeps not sufficiently great; there are no chasms,
no waterfalls — only purling brooks and quiet walks.”

“I have felt this already,” he replied; “but there is yet
a deficiency which you have not expressed, Miss Cooper.”

“What is that?” she demanded.

“It is the moral want. You have no life here; and that
which would least content me would be this very repose —
the absence of provocation — the strife — the triumph!
These, I take it, are the deficiencies which you really feel
when you speak of the want of crag, and chasm, and waterfall.”

“You, too, are ambitious, then!” she said quickly; “but
how do you reconcile this feeling with your profession?”

She looked up, and caught his eye tenderly fixed upon
her.

“Ah!” said he, “Miss Cooper, there are some situations
in which we find it easy to reconcile all discrepancies.”

If the language lacked explicitness, the look did not.
He proceeded:—

“If I mistake not, Miss Cooper, you will be the last one
to blame me for not having stifled my ambition, even at the
calls of duty and profession.”

“Blame you, sir? Far from it. I should think you
very unfortunate indeed, if you could succeed in stifling
ambition at any calls, nor do I exactly see how duty should
require it.”

“If I pursue the profession of the divine?” he answered
hesitatingly.

“Yes — perhaps — but that is not certain?” There was
some timidity in the utterance of this inquiry. He evaded it.

“I know not yet what I shall be,” he replied with an air
of self-reproach; “I fear I have too much of this fiery ardor
which we call ambition to settle down into the passive character
of the preacher.”

“Oh, do not, do not!” she exclaimed impetuously; then,
as if conscious of the impropriety, she stopped short in the
sentence, while increasing her forward pace.

“What!” said he, “you think that would effectually
stifle it?”

“Would it not — does it not in most men?”

“Perhaps; but this depends upon the individual. Churchmen
have a great power — the greatest in any country.”

“Over babes and sucklings!” she said scornfully.

“And, through these, over the hearts of men and women.”

“But these, too, are babes and sucklings — people to be
scared by shadows — the victims of their own miserable
fears and superstitions!”

“Nevertheless, these confer power. Where there is
power, there is room for ambition. You recollect that
churchmen have put their feet upon the necks of princes.”

“Yes, but that was when there was one church only in
Christendom. It was a monopoly, and consequently a tyranny.
Now there are a thousand, always in conflict, and serving
very happily to keep each other from mischief. They
no longer put their feet on princes' necks, though I believe
that the princes are no better off for this forbearance —
there are others who do. But only fancy that this time
was again, and think of the comical figure our worthy
brother John Cross would make, mounting from such a
noble horse-block!”

The idea was sufficiently pleasant to make Stevens
laugh.

“I am afraid I shall have greater trouble in converting
you, Miss Cooper, than any other of the flock in Charlemont.
I doubt that your heart is stubborn — that you are
an insensible!”

“I insensible!” she exclaimed, and with such a look!
The expression of sarcasm had passed, as with the rapidity
of a lightning-flash, from her beautiful lips; and a silent
tear rose, tremulous and large, with the same instantaneous
emotion, beneath her long, dark eyelashes. She said
nothing more, but, with eyes cast down, went forward.
Stevens was startled with the suddenness of these transitions.
They proved, at least, how completely her mind
was at the control of her blood. Hitherto, he had never
met with a creature so liberally endowed by nature, who
was, at the same time, so perfectly unsophisticated. The
subject was gratifying as a study alone, even if it conferred
no pleasure, and awakened no hopes.

“Do not mistake me,” he exclaimed, hurrying after, “I
had no purpose to impute to you any other insensibility except
to that of the holy truths of religion.”

She looked up and smiled archly. There was another
transition from cloud to sunlight.

“What! are you so doubtful of your own ministry?”

“In your case, I am.”

“Why?”

“You will force me to betake myself to studies more
severe than any I have yet attempted.”

She was flattered but she uttered a natural disclaimer.

“No, no! I am presumptuous. I trust you will teach me.
Begin — do not hesitate — I will listen.”

“To move you I must not come in the garments of methodism.
That faith will never be yours.”

“What faith shall it be?”

“That of catholicism. I must come armed with authority.
I must carry the sword and keys of St. Peter. I
must be sustained by all the pomps of that church of pomps
and triumphs. My divine mission must speak through signs
and symbols, through stately stole, pontifical ornaments, the
tiara of religious state on the day of its most solemn ceremonial;
and with these I must bring the word of power,
born equally of intellect and soul, and my utterance must
be in the language of divinest poesy!”

“Ah! you mistake! That last will be enough. Speak
to me in poesy — let me hear that — and you will subdue
me, I believe, to any faith that you teach. For I can not
but believe the faith that is endowed with the faculty of
poetic utterance.”

“In truth it is a divine utterance — perhaps the only divine
utterance. Would I had it for your sake.”

“Oh! you must have it. I fancy I see it in some things
that you have said. You read poetry, I am sure — I am
sure you love it.”

“I do! I know not anything that I love half so well.”

“Then you write it?” she asked eagerly.

“No! the gift has been denied me.”

She looked at him with eyes of regret.

“How unfortunate,” she said.

“Doubly so, as the deficiency seems to disappoint you.”

She did not seem to heed the flattery of this remark, nor
did she appear to note the expression of face with which it

was accompanied. Her feelings took the ascendency. She
spoke out her uncommissioned thoughts and fancies musingly,
as if without the knowledge of her will.

“I fancy that I could kneel down and worship the poet,
and feel no shame, no humility. It is the only voice that
enchants me — that leads me out from myself; that carries
me where it pleases and finds for me companions in the
solitude; songs in the storm; affections in the barren desert!
Even here, it brings me friends and fellowships. How
voiceless would be all these woods to me had it no voice
speaking to, and in, my soul. Hoping nothing, and performing
nothing here, it is my only consolation. It reconciles
me to this wretched spot. It makes endurance tolerable.
If it were not for this companionship — if I heard
not this voice in my sorrows, soothing my desolation, I
could freely die! — die here, beside this rock, without
making a struggle to go forward, even to reach the stream
that flows quietly beyond!”

She had stopped in her progress while this stream of enthusiasm
poured from her lips. Her action was suited to
her utterance. Unaccustomed to restraint — nay, accustomed
only to pour herself forth to woods, and trees, and
waters, she was scarcely conscious of the presence of any
other companion, yet she looked even while she spoke, in
the eyes of Stevens. He gazed on her with glances of unconcealed
admiration. The unsophisticated nature which
led her to express that enthusiasm which a state of conventional
existence prompts us, through fear of ridicule, industriously
to conceal, struck him with the sense of a new
pleasure. The novelty alone had its charm; but there were
other sources of delight. The natural grace and dignity
of the enthusiastic girl, adapting to such words the appropriate
action, gave to her beauty, which was now in its first
bloom, all the glow which is derived from intellectual inspiration.
Her whole person spoke. All was vital, spiritual,
expressive, animated; and when the last word lingered

on her lips, Stevens could scarcely repress the impulse
which prompted him to clasp her in his embrace.

“Margaret!” he exclaimed — “Miss Cooper! — you are
yourself a poet!”

“No, no!” she murmured, rather than spoke; — “would
I were! — a dreamer only — a self-deluded dreamer.”

“You can not deceive me!” he continued, “I see it in
your eyes, your action; I hear it in your words. I can not
be deceived. You are a poet — you will, and must be
one!”

“And if I were!” she said mournfully, “of what avail
would it be here? What heart in this wilderness would
be touched by song of mine? Whose ear could I soothe in
this cold and sterile hamlet? Where would be the temple
— who the worshippers — even were the priestess all that
her vanity would believe, or her prayers and toils might
make her? No, no! I am no poet; and if I were, better
that the flame should go out — vanish altogether in the
smoke of its own delusions — than burn with a feeble light,
unseen, untrimmed, unhonored — perhaps, beheld with the
scornful eye of vulgar and unappreciating ignorance!”

“Such is not your destiny, Margaret Cooper,” replied
Stevens, using the freedom of address, perhaps unconsciously,
which the familiarity of country life is sometimes
found to tolerate. “Such is not your destiny, Margaret.
The flame will not go out — it will be loved and worshipped!”

“Ah! never! what is here to justify such a hope — such
a dream?”

“Nothing here; but it was not of Charlemont I spoke.
The destiny which has endowed you with genius will not
leave it to be extinguished here. There will come a worshipper,
Margaret. There will come one, equally capable
to honor the priestess and to conduct her to befitting altars.
This is not your home, though it may have been your place
of trial and novitiate. Here, without the restraint of cold,

oppressive, social forms, your genius has ripened — your
enthusiasm has been kindled into proper glow — your heart,
and mind, and imagination, have kept equal pace to an
equal maturity! Perhaps this was fortunate. Had you
grown up in more polished and worldly circles, you would
have been compelled to subdue the feelings and fancies
which now make your ordinary language the language of
a muse.”

“Oh! speak not so, I implore you. I am afraid you
mock me.”

“No! on my soul, I do not. I think all that I say,
More than that, I feel it, Margaret. Trust to me — confide
in me — make me your friend! Believe me, I am not altogether
what I seem.”

An arch smile once more possessed her eyes.

“Ah! I could guess that! But sit you here. Here is
a flower — a beautiful, small flower, with a dark blue eye.
See it — how humbly it hides amid the grass. It is the
last flower of the season. I know not its name. I am no
botanist: but it is beautiful without a name, and it is the
last flower of the season. Sit down on this rock, and I
will sing you Moore's beautiful song, `'Tis the last of its
kindred.'”

“Nay, sing me something of your own, Margaret.”

“No, no! Don't speak of me, and mine, in the same
breath with Moore. You will make me repent of having
seen you. Sit down and be content with Moore, or go
without your song altogether.”

He obeyed her, and the romantic and enthusiastic girl,
seating herself upon a fragment of rock beside the path,
sang the delicate and sweet verses of the Irish poet, with
a natural felicity of execution, which amply compensated
for the absence of those Italian arts, which so frequently
elevate the music at the expense of the sentiment. Stevens
looked and listened, and half forgot himself in the breathlessness
of his attention — his eye fastened with a gaze of

absolute devotion on her features, until, having finished her
song, she detected the expression of his face, and started,
with blushing cheeks, to her feet.

“Oh! sweet!” he murmured as he offered to take her
hand, but she darted forward, and following her, he found
himself a few moments after, standing by her side, and looking
down upon one of the loveliest lakes that ever slept in
the embrace of jealous hills.