University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The concession made by Stevens, and which had produced
an effect so gratifying upon his companion, was one
that involved no sacrifices. The animal appetite of the
young lawyer was, in truth, comparatively speaking, indifferent
to the commodity which he discarded; and even had
it been otherwise, still he was one of those selfish, cool
and calculating persons, who seem by nature to be perfectly
able to subdue the claims of the blood, with great ease,
whenever any human or social policy would appear to
render it advisable. The greatest concession which he
made in the transaction, was in his so readily subscribing
to that insane cant of the day, which reasons against the
use of the gifts of Providence, because a diseased moral,
and a failing education, among men sometimes results in
their abuse.

The imperfections of a mode of reasoning so utterly
illogical, were as obvious to the mind of the young lawyer
as to any body else; and the compliance which he
exhibited to a requisition which his own sense readily
assured him was as foolish as it was presumptuous, was
as degrading to his moral character from the hypocrisy
which it declared, as it was happy in reference to the

small policy by which he had been governed. The unsuspecting
preacher did not perceive the scornful sneer which
curled his lips and flashed his eyes, by which his own
vanity still asserted itself through the whole proceeding;
or he would not have been so sure that the mantle of grace
which he deemed to have surely fallen upon the shoulders
of his companion, was sufficiently large and sound, to
cover the multitude of sins which it yet enabled the
wearer, so far, to conceal. Regarding him with all the
favour of one by whose prowess he has been plucked as a
brand from the burning, the soul of John Cross grew warmer
than before, and it required no great effort of the wily
Stevens to win, not only all its own secrets and secret hopes,
—for these were of but small value in the eyes of the
worldling—but those matters which belonged to the little
village to which they were trending, and the unwritten
histories of every dweller in that happy community.

With all the adroit and circumspect art of the lawyer,
sifting the testimony of the unconscious witness, and worming
from his custody those minor details which seem to
the uninitiated so perfectly unimportant to the great matter
immediately in hand,—Stevens now propounded his direct
inquiry, and now dropped his seemingly unconsidered insinuation,
by which he drew from the preacher as much as
he cared to know of the rustic lads and lasses of Charlemont.
It does not concern our narrative to render the
details thus unfolded to the stranger. And we will content
ourselves, as did the younger of the travellers, who placed
himself with hearty good will at the disposal of the holy
man.

“You shall find for me a place of lodging, Mr. Cross,
while it shall suit me to stay in Charlemont. You have
a knowledge of the people, and of the world, which I possess
not; and it will be better that I should give myself
up to your guidance. I know that you will not bring me
to the dwelling of persons not in good repute; and, perhaps,
I need not remind you that my worldly means are
smal—I must be at little charge wherever I stop.”

“Ah, Brother Stevens, worldly goods and worldly wealth
are no more needed in Charlemont, than they are necessary
to the service of the blessed Redeemer. With an
empty scrip is thy service blest;—God sees the pure
heart through the threadbare garment. I have friends in

Charlemont who will be too happy to receive thee in the
name of the Lord; without money and without price.”

The pride of Stevens, which had not shrunk from hypocrisy
and falsehood, yet recoiled at a suggestion which
involved the idea of his pecuniary dependence upon strangers,
and he replied accordingly; though he still disguised
his objections under the specious appearance of a becoming
moral scruple.

“It will not become me, Mr. Cross, to burden the brethren
of the church for that hospitality which is only due
to brethren.”

“But thou art in the way of grace—the light is shining
upon thee—the door is open, and already the voice of the
Bridegroom is calling from within. Thou wilt become a
burning and a shining light—and the brethren of the
church will rejoice to hail thee among its chosen. Shall
they hold back their hand when thou art even on the
threshold?”

“But, Mr. Cross—”

“Call me not Mr., I pray thee. Call me plain John
Cross, if it please thee not yet to apply to me that sweeter
term of loving kindness which the flock of God are happy
to use in speech one to another. If thou wilt call me
Brother Cross, my heart shall acknowledge the bonds between
us, and my tongue shall make answer to thine, in
like fashion. Oh, Alfred Stevens, may the light shine
soon upon thine eyes, that thou may'st know for a truth
how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in the
peace of the Lord, and according to his law. I will, with
God's grace, bring thee to this perfect knowledge, for I
see the way clear because of the humility which thou hast
already shown, and thy yielding to the counsels of the
teacher. As for what thou sayest about charges to the
brethren, let that give thee no concern. Thou shalt lodge
with old Brother Hinkley, who is the pattern of good
things and of holiness in Charlemont. His house is more
like unto the tent of the patriarch pitched upon the plain,
than the house of the dweller among the cities. No lock
fastens its doors against the stranger; and the heart of the
aged man is even more open than the doorway of his
dwelling. He standeth in the entrance like one looking
out for him that cometh, and his first word to the messenger
of God, crieth `come!' Thou shalt soon see the truth

of what I say to thee, for even now do we look down upon
his house in the very midst of the village.”

If the scruples of Stevens still continued to urge him
against accepting the hospitality of the old patriarch of
whom he had received a description at once just and agreeable,
the recollection of the village maiden whom he had
gone aside from his direct path of travel, and made some
even greater departures from the truth, to see, determined
him at length to waive them; particularly when he ascertained
from his fellow-traveller that he knew of nobody in
Charlemont who accommodated strangers for money.
Stevens was one of those persons who watch the progress
of events, and he resolved, with a mental reservation,—
that seems strange enough in the case of one who had
shown so little reluctance to say and do the thing which
he could not maintain or defend—to avail himself of some
means for requiting, to the uttermost farthing, the landlord,
to whose hospitality he might be indebted during his stay
in Charlemont. Such are the contradictions of character
which hourly detect and describe the mere worldling—the
man lacking in all principle, but that which is subservient
to his selfish policy. To accept money or money's worth
from a stranger, seemed mean and humbling to one, who
did not hesitate, in the promotion of a scheme, which had
treachery for its object, to clothe himself in the garments
of deception, and to make his appearance with a lie festering
upon his lips. That evening, Alfred Stevens became,
with his worthier companion, an inmate of the happy
dwelling of William Hinkley, the elder—a venerable,
white-headed father, whose whole life had made him worthy
of a far higher eulogium than that which John Cross
had pronounced upon him.

The delight of the family to see their reverend teacher
was heartfelt and unreserved. A vigorous gripe of the
hand, by the elder, dragged him into the house, and a sentence
of unusual length, from his better half, assured him
of that welcome which the blunter action of her venerable
husband had already sufficiently declared. Nor was the
young adventurer who accompanied the preacher, suffered
to remain long unconsidered. When John Cross had told
them who he was, or rather when he had declared his spiritual
hopes in him—which he did with wonderful unction,
in a breath—the reception of old Hinkley, which had been

hospitable enough before, became warm and benignant;
and Brother Stevens already became the word of salutation,
whenever the old people desired to distinguish their
younger guest. Brother Stevens, it may be said here,
found no difficulty in maintaining the character he had assumed.
He had, in high degree, the great art of the selfish
man, and could when his game required it,—subdue
with little effort, those emotions and impulses, which the
frank and ardent spirit must speak out or die. He went
into the house of the hospitable old man, and into the village
of Charlemont, as if he had gone into the camp of an
enemy. He was, indeed, a spy, seeking to discover, not
the poverty, but the richness of the land. His mind, therefore,
was like one who has clothed himself in armour,
placed himself in waiting for the foe, and set all his sentinels
on the watch. His caution, measured every word ere
it was spoken, every look ere it was shown, every movement
ere he suffered his limbs to make it. The muscles
of his face, were each put under curb and chain—the
smiles of the lip and the glances of the eyes, were all subdued
to precision, and permitted to go forth, only under
special guard and restriction. In tone, look, and manner,
he strove as nearly as he might, to resemble the worthy
but simple-minded man, who had so readily found a worthy
adherent and pupil in him; and his efforts at deception
might be held to be sufficiently successful, if the frank
confiding faith of the aged heads of the Hinkley family be
the fitting test of his experiment. With them he was soon
perfectly at home—his own carriage seemed to them wondrously
becoming, and the approbation of John Cross
was of itself conclusive. The preacher was the oracle of
the family, all of whom were only too happy of his favour
not to make large efforts to be pleased with those he
brought; and in a little while, sitting about the friendly
fireside, the whole party had become as sociable as if they
had been “hail fellow! well met,” a thousand years.
Two young girls, children of a relative, and nieces of the
venerable elder, had already perched themselves upon the
knee of the stranger, and strove at moments over his neck
and shoulder, without heeding the occasional sugary reproof
of dame Hinkley, which bade them “let Brother
Stevens be;” and, already had Brother Stevens himself,
ventured upon the use of sundry grave laws from the holy
volume, the fruit of early reading and a retentive memory,
which not a little helped to maintain his novel pretensions
in the mind of the brethren, and the worthy teacher, John
Cross himself. All things promised a long duration to a
friendship suddenly begun; when William Hinkley, the
younger, a youth already introduced to the reader, made
his appearance within the happy circle. He wore a different
aspect from all the rest as he recognised in the person
of Brother Stevens, the handsome stranger, his antipathy
to whom, at a first glance, months before, seemed
almost to have the character of a warning instinct. A
nearer glance did not serve to lessen his hostility.

Our traveller was to the eye of a lover, one who promised
dangerous rivalship, and an intrepid air of confidence
which, even his assumed character could not enable him
to disguise from the searching eyes of jealousy, at least
contributed to strengthen the dislike of the youth for a
person who seemed so perfectly sure of his ground. Still,
William Hinkley behaved as a civil and well-bred youth
might have been expected to behave. He did not suffer
his antipathy to put on the aspect of rudeness; he was grave
and cold, but respectful; and though he did not “be-brother”
the stranger, he yet studiously subdued his tones to mildness,
when it became necessary in the course of the evening
meal, that he should address him. Few words, however,
were exchanged between the parties. If Hinkley
beheld an enemy to his heart's hopes in Stevens, the latter
was sufficiently well-read in the human heart to discover
quite as soon, that the rustic was prepared to see in himself
any character but that of a friend. The unwillingness
with which Hinkley heard his suggestions—the absence
of all freedom and ease in his deportment, towards himself,
so different from the manner of the youth when speaking
or listening to all other persons, the occasional gleam
of jealous inquiry and doubt within his eye, and the utter
lack of all enthusiasm and warmth in his tones while he
spoke to him, satisfied Stevens, that he, of all the household
of his hospitable entertainers, if not actually suspicious
of his true character, was the one whose suspicions were
those most easily to be awakened, and who of all others,
needed most to be guarded against. It will not increase our
estimate of the wisdom of the stranger, to learn that with
this conviction, he should yet arrogate to himself a tone of

superiority, while speaking in hearing of the youth. This
was shown in a manner that was particularly galling to a
high spirited youth, and one whose prejudices were already
wakened against the speaker. It was that of a paternal
and patronising senior, whose very gentleness and benignity
of look and accent, seem to arise from a full conviction
of the vast difference which exists between himself
and his hearer. An indignity like this, which cannot be
resented, is one which the young mind feels always most
anxious to resent. The very difficulties in the way of
doing so, stimulates the desire. Such was the feeling of
William Hinkley. With such a feeling it may be conjectured
that opportunity was not long wanting, or might
soon be made, for giving utterance to the suppressed fires
of anger which were struggling in his heart. Days and
weeks may elapse, but the antipathy will declare itself at
last. It would be easier to lock up the mountain torrent
after the breath of the tornado has torn away its rocky
seals, than to stifle in the heart that hates because of its
love, the fierce fury which these united passions enkindle
within it. In the first hour of their first interview, William
Hinkley and Alfred Stevens felt that they were mutual
foes. In that little space of time, the former had but one
thought, which though it changed its aspect with each progressive
moment, never for an instant changed its character.
He panted with the hope of redressing himself for
wrongs which he could not name; for injuries and indignities
which he knew not how to describe. Stevens had
neither done nor said any thing which might be construed
into an offence. And yet, nobody knew better than
Stevens, that he had been offensive. The worthy John
Cross, in the simplicity of his nature, never dreamed of
this, but on the contrary, when our adventurer dilated in
the fatherly manner already adverted to, he looked upon
himself as particularly favoured of Heaven, in falling upon
a youth, as a pupil, of such unctuous moral delivery.
“Surely,” he mused internally, “this is a becoming instrument
which I have found, for the prosecution of the
good work. He will bear the word like one sent forth to
conquer. He will bind and loose with a strong hand.
He will work wondrous things!” Not unlike these were
the calculations of old Hinkley, as he hearkened to the
reverend reasonings and the solemn commonplaces of the
stranger. Stevens, like most recent converts, was the
most uncompromising enemy of those sins from which he
professed to have achieved with difficulty his own narrow
escape; and finding, from the attentive ear of his audience,
that he had made a favourable impression, he proceeded
to manufacture for them his religious experience; an art
which his general information, and knowledge of the world
enabled him to perform without much difficulty. But the
puritan declamation which pleased all the rest, disgusted
young Hinkley, and increased his dislike for the declaimer.
There was too much of the worldling in the looks, dress,
air and manner of Stevens, to satisfy the rustic of his sincerity.
Something of his doubts had their source, without
question, in the antipathy which he had formed against
him; but William Hinkley was not without keen, quick,
observing, and justly discriminating faculties, and much of
his conclusions were the due consequences of a correct
estimate of the peculiarities which we have named. Stevens,
he perceived, declared his experiences of religion, with the
air of one who expects the congratulations of his audience.
The humility which thinks only of the acquisition itself,
as the very perfection of human conquests, was wanting
equally to his language and deportment. The very details
which he gave, were ostentatious; and the gracious smiles
which covered his lips as he concluded, were those of the
self-complacent person, who feels that he has just been
saying those good things, which of necessity, must command
the applause of his hearers. A decent pause of half
an hour after the supper was finished, which was spent by
the jealous youth in utter silence, and he then rose abruptly
and hurried from the apartment, leaving the field
entirely to his opponent. He proceeded to the house of
his neighbour and cousin, Ned Hinkley, but without any
hope of receiving comfort from his communion. Ned
was a lively, thoughtless, light-hearted son of the soil, who
was very slow to understand sorrows of any kind; and
least of all, those which lie in the fancy of a dreaming and
a doubtful lover. At this moment, when the possession of
a new violin absorbed all his thoughts, his mind was particularly
obtuse on the subject of sentimental grievances,
and the almost voluptuous delight which filled his eyes
when William entered his chamber, entirely prevented him
from seeing the heavy shadow which overhung the brows
of the latter.

“What, back again, William? Why, you're as changeable
as the last suit of a green lizard. When I asked you
to stop, and hear me play `cross-possum,' and `criss-cross,'
off you went without giving me a civil answer. I've a
mind now to put up the fiddle and send your ears to bed
supperless. How would you like that, old fellow? but
I'll be good-natured. You shall have it, though you don't
deserve it: she's in prime tune, and the tones—only hear
that, Bill,—there. Isn't she delicious?”

And as the inconsiderate cousin poured out his warmest
eulogy of the favourite instrument, his right hand flourished
the bow in air, in a style that would have cheered
the heart of Jean Crapaud himself, and then brought it
over the cat-gut in a grand clash, that sounded as
harshly in the ears of his morbid visiter, as if the two
worlds had suddenly come together with steam engine velocity.
He clapped his hands upon the invaded organs,
and with something like horror in his voice, cried out his
expostulations.

“For Heaven's sake, Ned, don't stun a body with your
noise.”

“Noise!—Did you say noise, Bill Hinkley—noise?”

“Yes, noise;” answered the other with some peevishness
in his accents. The violinist looked at him incredulously,
while he suffered the point of the fiddle-bow to
sink on a line with the floor; then, after a moment's pause,
he approached his companion, wearing in his face the
while, an appearance of the most grave inquiry, and when
sufficiently nigh, he suddenly brought the bow over the
strings of the instrument, immediately in William's ears,
with a sharp and emphatic movement, producing an effect
to which the former annoying crash, might well have been
thought a very gentle effusion. This was followed by an
uncontrollable burst of laughter from the merry lips of the
musician.

“There,—that's what I call a noise, Bill. Sweet Sall
can make a noise when I worry her into it; she's just
like other women in that respect; she'll be sure to squall
out if you don't touch her just in the right quarter. But
the first time she did not go amiss, and as for stunning
you—but what's the matter? Where's the wind now?”

“Nothing,—only I don't want to be deafened with such
a clatter.”

“Something's wrong, Bill, I know it. You look now
for all the world like a bottle of sour sop, with the cork
out, and ready to boil over. As for Sall making a noise
the first time, that's all a notion, and a very strange one.
She was as sweet-spoken then as she was when you left
me before supper. The last time, I confess, I made her
squall out on purpose. But what of that? you are not the
man to get angry with a little fun!”

“No, I'm not angry with you, Ned—I am not angry
with any body; but just now, I would rather not hear the
fiddle. Put it up.”

“There!” said the other good-naturedly, as he placed
the favourite instrument in its immemorial case in the corner.
“There; and now Bill, untie the jack, and let's see
the sort of wolf-cubs you've got to carry; for there's no
two horns to a wild bull, if something hasn't gored you
to-night.”

“You're mistaken, Ned—quite mistaken—quite!”

“Deuse a bit! I know you too well, Bill Hinkley, so
it's no use to hush up now. Out with it, and don't be
sparing, and if there's any harm to come, I'm here, just
as ready to risk a cracked crown for you, as if the trouble
was my own. I'd rather fiddle than fight, it's true; but
when there's any need for it, you know I can do one just
as well as the other; and can go to it with just as much
good humour. So show us the quarrel.”

“There's no quarrel, Ned;” said the other, softened by
the frank and ready feeling which his companion showed;
“but I'm very foolish in some things, and don't know how
it is. I'm not apt to take dislikes, but there's a man come
to our house with John Cross, this evening, that I somehow
dislike very much.”

“A man! What's he like? Any thing like Joe Richards?
That was a fellow that I hated mightily. I never longed to
lick any man but Joe Richards, and him I longed to lick
three times, though you know I never got at him more
than twice. It's a great pity he got drowned, for I owe
him a third licking, and don't feel altogether right, since I
know no sort of way to pay it. But if this man's any
thing like Joe, it may be just the same if I give it to him.
Now—”

“He's nothing like Richards;” said the other. “He's
a taller and better-looking man.”

“If he's nothing like Joe, what do you want to lick him
for?” said the single-minded musician, with a surprise in
his manner, which was mingled with something like rebuke.

“I have expressed no such wish, Ned; you are too
hasty; and if I did wish to whip him, I don't think I
should trouble you or any man to help me. If I could
not do it myself, I should give it up as a bad job, without
calling in assistants.”

“Oh, you're a spunky fellow—a real colt for hard
riding;” retorted the other with a good-humoured mock in
his tones and looks: “but if you don't want to lick the
fellow, how comes it you dislike him? It seems to me if
a chap behaved so as to make me dislike him, it wouldn't
be an easy matter to keep my hands off him. I'd teach
him how to put me into a bad humour, or I'd never touch
violin again.”

“This man's a parson, I believe.”

“A parson,—that's a difficulty. It is not altogether
right to lick parsons, because they're not counted fighting
people. But there's a mighty many on 'em that licking
would help. No wonder you dislike the fellow, though
if he comes with John Cross, he shouldn't be altogether
so bad. Now, John Cross is a good man. He's good,
and he's good-humoured. He don't try to set people's
teeth on edge against all the pleasant things of this world,
and he can laugh, and talk, and sing, like other people.
Many's the time he's asked me, of his own mouth, to
play the violin; and I've seen his little eyes caper again,
when Sweet Sall talked out her funniest. If it was not so
late, I'd go over now and give him a reel or two, and then
I could take a look at this strange chap, that's set your
grinders against each other.”

The fiddler looked earnestly at the instrument in the
corner, his features plainly denoting his anxiety to resume
the occupation which his friend's coming had so inopportunely
interrupted. William Hinkley saw the looks of his
cousin, and divined the cause.

“You shall play for me, Ned,” he remarked; “you
shall give me that old Highland-reel that you learned from
Scotch Georgy. It will put me out of my bad humour, I

think, and then we can go to bed quietly. I've come to
sleep with you to-night.”

“You're a good fellow, Bill; I knew that you couldn't
stand it long, if Sweet Sall kept a still tongue in her head.
That reel's the very thing to drive away bad humours,
though there's another that I learnt from John Blodget, the
boatman, that sounds to me the merriest and comicalest
thing in the world. It goes—,” and here the fiddle
was put in requisition to produce the required sounds: and
having got carte blanche, our enthusiastic performer, without
weariness, went through his whole collection, without
once perceiving that his comical and merry tunes had entirely
failed to change the grave, and even gloomy expression
which still mantled the face of his companion. It
was only when in his exhaustion he set down the instrument,
that he became conscious of William Hinkley's continued
discomposure.

“Why, Bill, the trouble has given you a bigger bite
than I thought for. What words did you have with the
preacher?”

“None: I don't know that he is a preacher. He speaks
only as if he was trying to become one.”

“What, you hadn't any difference—no quarrel?”

“None.”

“And it's only to-night that you've seen him for the
first time?”

A flush passed over the grave features of William Hinkley
as he heard this question, and it was with a hesitating
manner and faltering accents, that he continued to tell his
cousin of the brief glimpse which he had of the same
stranger several months before, on that occasion, when, in
the emotion of Margaret Cooper, replying to a similar
question, he first felt the incipient seed of jealousy planted
within his bosom. But this latter incident he forbore to
reveal to the inquirer; and Ned Hinkley, though certainly
endowed by nature with sufficient skill to draw forth the
very soul of music from the instrument on which he
played, had no similar power upon the secret soul of the
person whom he partially examined.

“But 'tis very strange how you should take offence at
a man you've seen so little; though I have heard before
this of people taking dislikes at other people the first moment
they set eyes on 'em. Now, I'm not a person of

that sort unless it was in the case of Joe Richards; and
him I took a sort of grudge at from the first beginning.
But even then there was a sort of reason for it; for, at the
beginning, when Joe came down upon us here in Charlemont,
he was for riding over people's necks, without so
much as asking, `by your leave.' He had a way about
him that vexed me, though we did not change a word.”

“And it's a way that this person has that I don't like;”
said William Hinkley. “He talks as if he made you, and
when you talk, he smiles as if he thought you were the
very worst work that ever went out of his hands. Then,
if he has to say any thing, be it ever so trifling, he says it
just as if he was telling you that the world was to come
to an end the day after to-morrow.”

“Just the same with Joe Richards. I never could get
at him but twice; though I give him then a mighty smart
hammering; and if he hadn't got under the broadhorn
and got drowned;—but this fellow?”

“You'll see him at church to-morrow. I shouldn't
wonder if he preaches; for John Cross was at him about
it before I came away. What's worse, the old man's
been asking him to live with us.”

“What, here in Charlemont?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be sure to lick him then, if he's any thing like Joe
Richards. But what's to make him live in Charlemont?
Is he to be a preacher for us?”

“Perhaps so, but I couldn't understand all, for I came
in while they were at it, and left home before they were
done. I'm sure if he stays there I shall not. I shall
leave home, for I really dislike to meet him.”

“You shall stay with me, Bill, and we'll have Sall at
all hours;” was the hearty speech of the cousin, as he
threw his arms around the neck of his morose companion,
and dragged him gently towards the adjoining apartment,
which formed his chamber. “To-morrow,” he continued,
“as you say, we'll see this chap, and if he's any thing
like Joe Richards—” The doubled fist of the speaker,
and his threatening visage, completed the sentence with
which this present conference and chapter may very well
conclude.