University of Virginia Library

1. BEAUCHAMPE.

1. CHAPTER I.

Having seen his enemy fairly mounted and under way,
as he thought, for Charlemont, Ned Hinkley returned to
Ellisland for his own horse. Here he did not suffer himself
to linger, though before he could succeed in taking
his departure, he was subjected to a very keen and searching
examination by the village publican and politician.
Having undergone this scrutiny with tolerable patience, if
not to the entire satisfaction of the examiner, he set forward
at a free canter, determined that his adversary should
not be compelled to wait. It was only while he rode that
he began to fancy the possibility of the other having taken
a different course; but as, upon reflection, he saw no
other plan, which he might have adopted—for lynching
for suspected offences was not yet a popular practice in and
about Charlemont,—he contented himself with the reflection
that he had done all that could have been done, and if
Alfred Stevens failed to keep his appointment, he, at least,
was one of the losers. He would necessarily lose the
chance of revenging an indignity, not to speak of the
equally serious loss of that enjoyment which a manly
fight usually gave to Ned Hinkley himself, and which, he
accordingly assumed, must be an equal gratification to all
other persons. When he arrived at Charlemont, he did
not make his arrival known, but repairing directly to the
lake among the hills, he hitched his horse, and prepared,

with what patience he could command, to await the coming
of the enemy.

The reader is already prepared to believe that the worthy
rustic waited in vain. It was only with the coming on of
night that he began to consider himself outwitted. He
scratched his head impatiently, not without bringing away
some shreds of the hair, jumped on his horse, and, without
making many allowances for the rough and hilly
character of the road, went off at a driving pace, for the
house of uncle Hinkley. Here he drew up only to ask
if Brother Stevens had returned.

“No!”

“Then, dang it! he never will return. He's a skunk,
uncle,—as great a skunk as ever was in all Kentucky.”

“How! what!—what of Brother Stevens?” demanded
the uncle, seconded by John Cross, who had only some
two hours arrived at the village, and now appeared at the
door. But Ned Hinkley was already off.

“He's a skunk!—that's all!” His last words threw
very little light over the mystery, and certainly gave very
little satisfaction to his hearers. The absence of Alfred
Stevens, at a time when John Cross was expected, had
necessarily occasioned some surprise; but of course, no
apprehensions were entertained by either the worthy parson
or the bigoted host, that he could be detained by any
cause whatsoever which would not fully justify his
absence.

The next course of Ned Hinkley was for the cottage of
Mr. Calvert. To the old man he gave a copious detail of
all his discoveries, not only the heads of what he heard
from the conspirators in the wood, but something of the
terms of the dialogue. The gravity of Calvert increased
as the other proceeded. He saw more deeply into the
signification of certain portions of this dialogue than did
the narrator; and when the latter, after having expressed
his disappointment at the non-appearance of Stevens on
the field of combat, at least congratulated himself at having
driven him fairly from the ground, the other shook his
head mournfully.

“I am afraid it's too late, my son.”

“Too late, gran'pa! How? Is it ever too late to send
such a rascal a-packing?”

“It may be for the safety of some, my son.”

“What! Margaret you mean. You think the poor fool
of a girl's too far gone in love of him, do you?”

“If that were all, Ned.”

“Why, what more? Eh! you don't mean!—”

The apprehensions of the simple, unsuspecting fellow,
for the first time began to be awakened to the truth.

“I am afraid, my son, that this wretch has been in
Charlemont too long. From certain words that you have
dropped, as coming from Stevens, in speaking to his comrade,
I should regard him as speaking the language of triumph
for success already gained.”

“Oh! hardly! I didn't think so. If I had only guessed
that he meant such a thing,—though I can't believe it,—I'd
ha' dropped him without a word. I'd have given him the
pacificator as well as the peace-breaker. Oh, no! I can't
think it—I can't,—I won't! Margaret Cooper is not a
girl to my liking, but, Lord help us! she's too beautiful
and too smart to suffer such a skunk, in so short a time, to
get the whip-hand of her. No, gran'pa! I can't and won't
believe it.”

“Yet, Ned, these words which you have repeated convey
some such fear to my mind. It may be that the villain
was only boasting to his companion. There are
scoundrels in this world who conceive of no higher subject
of boast, than the successful deception and ruin of the
artless and confiding. I sincerely hope that this may be
the case now—that it was the mere brag of a profligate to
excite the admiration of his comrade. But when you
spea of the beauty and the smartness of this poor girl, as
of securities for virtue, you make a great mistake. Beauty
is more apt to be a betrayer than a protector; and as for
her talent, that is seldom a protection unless it be associated
with humility. Hers was not. She was most ignorant
where she was most assured. She knew just enough
to congratulate herself that she was unlike her neighbours,
and this is the very temper of mind which is likely to cast
down its possessor in shame. I trust that she had a better
guardian angle than either her beauty or her talents. I
sincerely hope that she is safe. At all events let me caution
you not to hint the possibility of its being otherwise.
We will take for granted that Stevens is a baffled villain.”

“I only wish I had a-dropped him!”

“Better as it is!”

“What! even if the poor girl is—”

“Ay, even then!”

“Why gran'pa, can it be possible you say so?”

“Yes, my son; I say so, here, in moments of comparative
calmness, and in the absence of the villain. Perhaps,
were he present, I should say otherwise.”

“And do otherwise! You'd shoot him, gran'pa, as soon
as I.”

“Perhaps! I think it likely. But, put up your pistols,
Ned; You have nobody now to shoot. Put them up, and
let us walk over to your uncle's at once. It is proper that
he and John Cross should know these particulars.”

Ned agreed to go, but not to put up his pistols.

“For, you see, gran'pa, this rascal may return. His
friend may have kept him in long talk. We may meet
him coming into the village.”

“It is not likely, but come along. Give me that staff,
my son, and your arm on the other side. I feel that my
eyes are no longer young.”

“You could shoot still, gran'pa?”

“Not well.”

“What, couldn't you hit a chap like Stevens between
the eyes at ten paces? I'm sure I could do it, blindfolded,
by a sort of instinct.”

And the youth shutting his eyes, as if to try the experiment,
drew forth one of his pistols from his bosom and
began to direct its muzzle around the room.

“There was a black spider there, gran'pa! I'm sure,
taking him for Stevens, I could cut his web for him.”

“You have cut that of Stevens himself, and his comb
too, Ned.”

“Yes, yes, but what a fool I was not to make it his
gills!”

By this time the old man had got on his spencer, and,
with staff in hand, declared himself in readiness. Ned
Hinkley lowered his pistol with reluctance. He was
very anxious to try the weapon and his own aim, on some
body or something. That black spider which lived so
securely in the domicile of Mr. Calvert would have stood
no chance in any apartment of the widow Hinkley. Even
the “pacificator,” would have been employed for its extermination,
if, for no other reason, because of the fancied

resemblance which it had always worn to Brother Stevens,
—a resemblance which occurred to him, perhaps, in consequence
of the supposed similarity between the arts of
the libertine, and those for the entrapping of his victims,
which distinguish the labours of the spider.

The two were soon arrived at old Hinkley's, and the
tale of Ned was told; but, such was the bigotry of the
hearers, without securing belief.

“So blessed a young man!” said the old lady.

“A brand from the burning!” exclaimed Brother Cross.

“It's all an invention of Satan!” cried old Hinkley,
“to prevent the consummation of a goodly work.”

“We should not give our faith too readily to such
devices of the enemy, friend Calvert;” said John Cross
paternally.

“I never saw any thing in him that wasn't perfectly saint-like,”
said Mrs. Hinkley. “He made the most heartfelt
prayer, and the loveliest blessing before meat! I think I
hear him now—`Lord, make us thankful'—with his eyes
shut up so sweetly, and with such a voice.”

“There are always some people, Brother Cross, to hate
the saints of the Lord and to slander them! They lie in
wait like thieves of the night, and roaring lions of the
wilderness, seeking what they may devour.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Brother Cross, “how little do such
know that they devour themselves; for whoso destroyeth
his best friend is a devourer of himself.”

“The blindness of Satan is upon them, and they do his
work.”

And thus,—purr, purr, purr,—they went on, to the end
of the chapter. Poor Ned Hinkley found the whole kennel
was upon him. Not only did they deny every thing
that could by possibility effect the fair fame of the absent
brother, but, from defending him, they passed, with an
easy transition, to the denunciation of those who were
supposed to be his defamers. In this the worthy old man
Calvert came in for his share.

“All this comes of your supporting that worthless boy
of mine in defiance of my will;” said old Hinkley. “You
hate Brother Stevens because that boy hated him, and because
I love him.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Hinkley;” said Calvert, mildly.

“I hate nobody; at the same time I suffer no mere prejudices
to delude me against sight and reason.”

“Ah!” said Brother Cross, gently, “it's that very reason,
Brother Calvert, that ruins you worldlings. You
must not rely on human reason. Build on faith, and you
build on the Rock of Ages.”

“I propose to use reason only in worldly matters, Mr.
Cross,” said the other; “for which use, only, I believe it
was given us. I employ it in reference to a case of ordinary
evidence, and I beg your regards now, while I draw
your attention to the use I make of it in the present instance.
Will you hear me without interruption?”

“Surely, Brother Calvert, but call me not Mr. Cross.
I am not a Mister. I am plain John Cross; by virtue of
my business, a brother, if it so please you to esteem me.
Call me Brother Cross, or Brother John Cross, or plain
John Cross, either of these will be acceptable unto me.”

“We are all brothers, or should be,” said Calvert;
“and it will not need that there should be any misunderstanding
between us on so small a matter.”

“The matter is not small in the eye of the Lord;” said
the preacher. “Titles of vanity become not us, and offend
in his hearing.”

The old teacher smiled, but proceeded.

“Now, Brother Cross, if you will hear me, I will proceed,
according to my reason, to dwell upon the proofs
which are here presented to you, of the worthlessness of
this man, Alfred Stevens; and when you consider how
much the feelings and the safety of the daughters of your
flock depend upon the character of those moral and religious
teachers to whom the care of them is entrusted,
you will see, I think, the necessity of listening patiently,
and determining without religious prejudice, according to
the truth and reason of the case.”

“I am prepared to listen patiently, Brother Calvert,”
said John Cross, clasping his hands together, setting his
elbows down upon the table, shutting his eyes, and turning
his face fervently up to heaven. Old Hinkley imitated
this posture quite as nearly as he was able; while
Mrs. Hinkley, sitting between the two, maintained a constant
to and fro motion, first on one side, then on the
other, as they severally spoke to the occasion, with her
head deferentially bowing, like a pendulum, with a motion

quite as regular and methodical. The movements of her
nephew, Ned Hinkley, were almost as pleasant a study,
after a fashion of his own. Sitting in a corner, he amused
himself by drawing forth his “puppies,” and taking occasional
aim at a candle or flowerpot; and sometimes, with
some irreverence, at the curved and rather extravagant
proboscis of his worthy uncle, which, cocked up in air,
was indeed something of a tempting object of sight to a
person so satisfied of his skill in shooting as the young
rustic. The parties being thus arranged in a fit attitude
for listening, Mr. Calvert began somewhat after the following
fashion:

“Our first knowledge of Alfred Stevens was obtained
through Brother John Cross.”

“And what better would you have?” demanded old
Hinkley.

“None,” said the other, “if Brother Cross knew any
thing about the party he introduced. But it so happens,
as we learn from Brother Cross himself, that the first acquaintance
he had with Stevens was made upon the road,
where Stevens played a trick upon him by giving him
brandy to drink.”

“No trick, Brother Calvert; the young man gave it me
as a medicine, took it as a medicine himself, and, when I
bade him, threw away the accursed beverage.”

“Ordinary men, governed by ordinary reason, Brother
Cross, would say that Stevens knew very well what he
was giving you, and that it was a trick.”

“But only think, Mr. Calvert,” said Mrs. Hinkley, lifting
her hands and eyes at the same moment, “the blessed
young man threw away the evil liquor the moment he
was told to do so. What a sign of meekness was that!”

“I will not dwell on this point,” was the reply of Calvert.
“He comes into our village and declares his purpose
to adopt the profession of the preacher, and proceeds
to his studies under the direction of Brother Cross.”

“And didn't he study them?” demanded Mrs. Hinkley.
“Wasn't he, late and early, at the blessed volume? I
heard him at all hours above stairs. Oh! how often was
he on his bended knees in behalf of our sinful race, ungrateful
and misbelieving that we are!”

“I am afraid, madam,” said Calvert, “that his studies
were scarcely so profound as you think them. Indeed, I

am at a loss to conceive how you should blind your eyes
to the fact that the greater part of his time was spent
among the young girls of the village.”

“And where is it denied,” exclaimed old Hinkley, “that
the lambs of God should sport together?”

“Do not speak in that language, I pray you, Mr. Hinkley,”
said Calvert, with something of pious horror in his
look; “this young man was no lamb of God, but, I fear,
as you will find, a wolf in the fold. It is, I say, very well
known that he was constantly wandering, even till a late
hour of the evening, with one of the village maidens.”

“Who was that one, Brother Calvert?” demanded John
Cross.

“Margaret Cooper.”

“Hem!” said the preacher.

“Well, he quarrels with my young friend, the worthy
son of Brother Hinkley—”

“Do not speak of that ungrateful cub. Brother Stevens
did not quarrel with him. He quarrelled with Brother
Stevens, and would have murdered him, but that I put in
in time to save.”

“Say not so, Mr. Hinkley. I have good reason to
believe that Stevens went forth especially to fight with
William.”

“I would not believe it, if a prophet were to tell me it.”

“Nevertheless, I believe it. We found both of them
placed at the usual fighting distance.”

“Ah! but where were Brother Stevens's pistols?”

“In his pocket, I suppose.”

“He had none. He was at a distance from my ungrateful
son, and flying that he should not be murdered.
The lamb under the hands of the butcher. And would
you believe it, Brother Cross, he had gone forth only to
counsel the unworthy boy—only to bring him back into
the fold—gone forth at his own prayer, as Brother Stevens
declared to Betsy, just before he went out.”

“I am of opinion that he deceived her and yourself.”

“Where were his pistols then?”

“He must have concealed them. He told Ned Hinkley,
this very day, that he had pistols, but that they were
here.”

“Run up, Betsy, to Brother Stevens's room and see.”

The old lady disappeared. Calvert proceeded.

“I can only repeat my opinion, founded upon the known
pacific and honourable character of William Hinkley, and
certain circumstances in the conduct of Stevens, that the
two did go forth, under a previous arrangement, to fight
a duel. That they were prevented, and that Stevens had
no visible weapon, is unquestionably true. But I do not
confine myself to these circumstances. This young man
writes a great many letters, it is supposed to his friends,
but never puts them in the post here, but every Saturday
rides off, as we afterwards learn, to the village of Ellisland,
where he deposits them and receives others. This is a
curious circumstance, which alone should justify suspicion.”

“The ways of God are intricate, Brother Calvert,” said
John Cross, “and we are not to suspect the truth which
we cannot understand.”

“But these are the ways of man, Brother Cross.”

“And the man of God is governed by the God which
is in him. He obeys a law which, perhaps, is ordered to
be hidden from thy sight.”

“This doctrine certainly confers very extraordinary
privileges upon the man of God,” said Calvert, quietly,
“and, perhaps, this is one reason why the profession is so
prolific of professors now a-days; but the point does not
need discussion. Enough has been shown to awaken
suspicion and doubt in the case of any ordinary person;
and I now come to that portion of the affair which is sustained
by the testimony of Ned Hinkley, our young friend
here, who, whatever his faults may be, has been always
regarded in Charlemont, as a lover and a speaker of the
truth.”

“Ay, ay, so far as he knows what the truth is,” said
old Hinkley, scornfully.

“And I'm just as likely to know what the truth is as
you, uncle!” retorted the young man, rising and coming
forward from his corner. “Come, come,” he continued,
“you're not going to ride rough shod over me as you did
over cousin Bill. I don't care a snap of the finger, I can
tell you, for all your puffed cheeks and big bellied speeches.
I don't, I tell you!” and, suiting the action to the word, the
sturdy fellow snapped his fingers almost under the nose
of his uncle, which was now erected heavenward, with a
more scornful pre-eminence than ever. The sudden entrance

of Mrs. Hinkley, from her search after Stevens's
pistols, prevented any rough issue between these new
parties, as it seemed to tell in favour of Stevens. There
were no pistols to be found. The old lady did not add,
indeed, that there was nothing of any kind to be found
belonging to the same worthy.

“There! That's enough!” said old Hinkley.

“Did you find any thing of Stevens's, Mrs. Hinkley?”
inquired Mr. Calvert.

“Nothing, whatever.”

“Well, madam,” said Calvert, “your search, if it
proves any thing, proves the story of Ned Hinkley conclusively.
This man has carried off all his chattels.”

John Cross looked down from heaven, and stared inquiringly
at Mrs. Hinkley.

“Is this true? Have you found nothing, Sister Betsy?”

“Nothing.”

“And Brother Stevens has not come back?”

“No!”

“And reason for it, enough;” said old Hinkley. “Didn't
you hear that Ned Hinkley threatened to shoot him if he
came back?”

“Look you, uncle,” said the person thus accused, “if
you was any body else, and a little younger, I'd thrash
you for that speech the same as if it was a lie! I would.”

“Peace!” said Calvert, looking sternly at the youth.
Having obtained temporary silence, he was permitted at
length to struggle through his narrative, and to place, in
their proper lights, all the particulars which Ned Hinkley
had obtained at Ellisland. When this was done the discussion
was renewed, and raged, with no little violence, for
a full hour. At length it ceased through the sheer exhaustion
of the parties. Calvert was the first to withdraw from
it, as he soon discovered that such was the bigotry of old
Hinkley and his wife, and even of John Cross himself,
that nothing short of divine revelation could persuade them
of the guilt of one who had once made a religious profession.
Brother Cross, though struck with some of the details
which Calvert had given, was afterwards prepared to
regard them as rather trivial than otherwise, and poor Ned
was doomed to perceive that the conviction was general in
this holy family, that he had, by his violence, and the
terror which his pistols had inspired, driven away, in desperation,

the most meek and saintly of all possible young
apostles. The youth was nearly furious ere the evening
and the discussion were over. It was very evident to Calvert
that nothing was needed, should Stevens come back,
but a bold front and a lying tongue, to maintain his position
in the estimation of the flock, until such time as the truth
would make itself known—a thing which, eventually,
always happens. That night Ned Hinkley dreamed of
nothing but of shooting Stevens and his comrade and of
thrashing his uncle. What did Margaret Cooper dream of?