University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Alfred Stevens, as he walked behind his young companion,
observed him with a more deliberate survey than
he had yet taken. Hitherto, the young man had challenged
but little of his scrutiny. He had simply noted him for a
tall youth, yet in the green, who seemed of a sulky
retiring nature, and whose looks had seemed to him on
one or more occasions to manifest something like distaste
for himself. The complacency of Stevens, however, was
too well grounded to be much disturbed by such an exhibition.
Perhaps, indeed, he would have derived a malicious
sort of satisfaction in making a presumptuous lad feel his
inferiority. He had just that smallness of spirit which
would find its triumph in the success of such a performance.
He now saw that the youth was well formed, tall, not
ungraceful; with features of singular intelligence, though
subdued to the verge of sadness. His face was pale and thin,
his eyes were a little sunken, and his air, expression, and
general outside, denoted a youth of keen sensibilities who
had suffered some disappointment. In making this examination,
Alfred Stevens was not awakened to any generous
purposes. He designed, in reality, nothing more than to
acquit himself of the duty he had undertaken, with the
smallest possible exertion. His own mind was one of that
mediocre character which the heart never informs. His
scrutiny, therefore, though it enabled him to perceive that
the young man had qualities of worth, was not such as to
prompt any real curiosity to examine further. A really
superior mind would have been moved to look into these
resources; and, without other motive than that of bringing
a young, labouring and ardent soul out of the meshes of a
new and bewildering thought or situation, would have
addressed himself to the task with that degree of solicitous
earnestness which disarms prejudice and invites and wins
confidence. But, with his first impression, that the whole
business was a “bore,” our benevolent young teacher
determined on getting through with it with the least possible
effort. He saw that the youth carried a book under
his arm, the externals of which, so uniform and discouraging

as they appear in every legal library, could not well be
mistaken as belonging to some such venerable receptacle
of barbarous words and rigid authority. The circumstance
afforded him an occasion to begin a conversation the
opening of which, with all his coolness, was a subject of
some awkwardness.

“You seem a student like myself, Mr. Hinkley, and if
I mistake not from the appearance of your book, you are
taking up the profession which I am about to lay down.”

“This is a law book, sir,” said Hinkley in accents which
were rather meek than cold—“it is Blackstone.”

“Ah! I thought as much. Have you been long a
student.”

“I may scarcely consider myself one yet. I have read,
sir, rather than studied.”

“A good distinction, not often made. But, do you incline
to law seriously.”

“Yes, sir,—I know no occupation to which I so much
incline.”

“The law is a very arduous profession. It requires a
rare union of industry, talent and knowledge of mankind
to be a good lawyer.”

“I should think so, sir.”

“Few succeed where thousands fail. Young men are
very apt to mistake inclination for ability; and to be a poor
lawyer—”

“Is to be worse than poor—is to be despicable!”—
replied Hinkley, with a half smile as he interrupted a speech
which might have been construed into a very contemptuous
commentary on his own pretensions. It would seem
that the young man had so understood it. He continued
thus:—

“It may be so with me, sir. It is not improbable that
I deceive myself and confound inclination with ability.”

“Oh, pardon me, my dear young friend,” said Stevens
patronisingly,—“but I do not say so. I utter a mere
generality. Of course I can know nothing on the subject
of your abilities. I should be glad to know. I-should
like to converse with you. But the law is very arduous,
very exacting. It requires a good mind, and it requires the
whole of it. There is no such thing as being a good
lawyer from merely reading law. You can't bolt it as we

do food in this country. We must chew upon it. It must
be well digested. You seem to have the right notion on
this subject. I should judge so from two things:—the
distinction which you made between the reader and the
student; and the fact that your appearance is that of the
student. I am afraid, my young friend, that you overwork
yourself. You look thin, and pale, and unhappy. You
should be careful that your passion for study is not indulged
at the peril of your health.”

The frame of the young man seemed to be suddenly
agitated. His face was flushed, and a keen quick flash of
anger seemed to lighten in his eyes as he looked up to the
paternal counsellor and replied—

“I thank you, sir, for your interest, but it is premature.
I am not conscious that my health suffers from this or any
other cause.”

“Nay, my young friend, do not deceive yourself. You
perhaps underrate your own industry. It is a very difficult
matter to decide how much we can do and how much
we ought to do, in the way of study. No mere thinking
can determine this matter for us. It can only be decided
by being able to see what others do and can endure. In a
little country village like this, one cannot easily determine;
and the difficulty may be increased somewhat by one's
own conviction, of the immense deal that one has to learn.
If you were to spend a year at some tolerably large community.
Perhaps you meditate some such plan?”

“I do not, sir,” was the cold reply.

“Indeed,—and have you no desire that way?”

“None!”

“Very strange! at your time of life the natural desire
is to go into the great world. Even the student fancies he
can learn better there than he can any where else;—and so
he can.”

“Indeed, sir,—if I may be so bold to ask, why, with
this opinion, have you left the great city to bury yourself
in a miserable village like Charlemont?”

The question was so quickly put, and with so much
apparent keenness, that Stevens found the tables suddenly
reversed. But he was in no wise discomposed. He
answered promptly.

“You forget,” he said, “that I was speaking of very

young men, of an ambitious temper, who were seeking to
become lawyers. The student of divinity may very well
be supposed to be one who would withdraw himself from
the scene of ambition, strifes, vanities, and tumultuous
passions.”

“You speak, sir, as if there were a material difference
in our years?” said Hinkley inquiringly.

“Perhaps it is less than in our experience, my young
friend,” was the answer of the other, betraying that quiet
sense of superiority which would have been felt more
gallingly by Hinkley had he been of a less modest nature.
Still, it had the effect of arousing some of the animal in
his blood, and he responded in a sentence which was not
entirely without its sneer, though it probably passed without
penetrating such a buff of self-esteem as guarded the
sensibilities of our adventurer.

“You are fortunate, sir, if, at your time of life, you
have succeeded in withdrawing your thoughts and feelings,
with your person, from such scenes of ambition as you
speak of. But I fancy the passions dwell with us in the
country as well as with the wiser people in the town; and
I am not sure that there is any pursuit much more free
from their intrusion than that of the law.”

“Your remark exhibits penetration, Mr. Hinkley. I
should not be surprised if you have chosen your profession
properly. Still, I should counsel you not to overwork
yourself. Bear with me, sir—I feel an interest in your
behalf, and I must think you do so. Allow me to be
something of a judge in this matter. You are aware, sir,
that I too have been a lawyer.”

The youth bowed stiffly.

“If I can lend you any assistance in your studies, I will
do so. Let me arrange them for you, and portion out your
time. I know something about that, and will save you
from injuring your health. On this point you evidently
need instruction. You are doing yourself hurt. Your
appearance is matter of distress and apprehension to your
parents.”

“To my parents, sir!”

“Your mother, I mean! She spoke to me about you
this very morning. She is distressed at some unaccountable
changes which have taken place in your manners, your
health, your personal appearance. Of course I can say

nothing on the subject of the past, or of these changes;
but I may be permitted to say that your present looks do
not betoken health, and I have supposed this to be on
account of your studies. I promised your good mother to
confer with you, and counsel you, and if I can be of any
help—”

“You are very good, sir!”

The young man spoke bitterly. His gorge was rising.
It was not easy to suppress his vexation with his mother,
and the indignation which he felt at the supercilious
approaches of the agent whom she had employed. Besides,
his mind, not less than his feelings, was rising in vigour
in due degree with the pressure put upon it.

“You are very good, sir, and I am very much obliged
to you. I could have wished, however, that my mother
had not given you this trouble, sir. She certainly must
have been thinking of Mr. John Cross. She could scarcely
have hoped that any good could have resulted to me, from
the counsel of one who is so little older than myself.”

This speech made our adventurer elevate his eyebrows.
He absolutely stopped short to look upon the speaker.
William Hinkley stopped short also. His eye encountered
that of Stevens with an expression as full of defiance as
firmness. His cheeks glowed with the generous indignation
which filled his veins.

“This fellow has something in him after all;” was the
involuntary reflection that rose to his mind. The effect
was, however, not very beneficial to his own manner.
Instead of having the effect of impressing upon Stevens
the necessity of working cautiously, the show of defiance
which he saw tended to provoke and annoy him. The
youth had displayed so much propriety in his anger, had
been so moderate as well as firm, and had uttered his
answer with so much dignity and correctness, that he felt
himself rebuked. To be encountered by an unsophisticated
boy, and foiled, though but for an instant—slightly estimated,
though but by a youth, and him too, a mere rustic,
was mortifying to the self-esteem that rather precipitately
hurried to resent it.

“You take it seriously, Mr. Hinkley. But surely an
offer of service need not be mistaken. As for the trifling
difference which may be in our years, that is perhaps

nothing to the difference which may be in our experience,
our knowledge of the world, our opportunities and studies.”

“Surely, sir,—all these may be, but at all events we
are not bound to assume their existence until it is shown.”

“Oh, you are likely to prove an adept in the law, Mr.
Hinkley.”

“I trust, sir, that your progress may be as great in the
church.”

“Ha!—do I understand you? There is war between us
then?” said Stevens, watching the animated and speaking
countenance of William Hinkley with increasing curiosity.

“Ay, sir,—there is!” was the spirited reply of the
youth. “Let it be war, I am the better pleased, sir, that
you are the first to proclaim it.”

“Very good,” said Stevens, “be it so, if you will. At
all events you can have no objection to say why it should
be so.”

“Do you ask, sir?”

“Surely; for I cannot guess.”

“You are less sagacious then than I had fancied you.
You, scarce older than myself—a stranger among us,—
come to me in the language of a father, or a master, and
without asking what I have of feeling, or what I lack of
sense, undertake deliberately to wound the one, while
insolently presuming to inform the other.”

“At the request of your own mother!”

“Pshaw! what man of sense or honesty would urge
such a plea. Years, and long intimacy, and wisdom
admitted to be superior, could alone justify the presumption.”

The cheeks of Stevens became scalding hot.

“Young man!” he exclaimed, “there is something
more than this!”

“What would it need more were our positions reversed?”
demanded Hinkley with a promptness that surprised
himself.

“Perhaps not!—would you provoke me to personal
violence?”

“Ha! might I hope for that?—surely you forget that you
are a churchman?”

Stevens paused a while before he answered. His eyes
looked vacantly around him. By this time they had left
the more thickly settled parts of the village considerably

behind them. But a few more dwellings lay along the
path on which they were approaching. On the left, a
gorge opened in the hills by which the valley was dotted,
which seemed a pathway, and did indeed lead to one or
more dwellings which were out of sight in the opposite
valley. The region to which this pathway led was very
secluded, and the eye of Stevens surveyed it for a few
moments in silence. The words of Hinkley unquestionably
conveyed a challenge. According to the practice of
the country, as a lawyer, he would have been bound to
have taken it as such. A moment was required for reflection.
His former and present position caused a conflict in
his mind. The last sentence of Hinkley, and a sudden
glimpse which he just then caught of the residence of
Margaret Cooper, determined his answer.

“I thank you, young man, for reminding me of my
duties. You had nearly provoked old passions and old
practices into revival. I forgive you—you misunderstand
me clearly. I know not how I have offended you, for my
only purpose was to serve your mother and yourself. I
may have done this unwisely. I will not attempt to prove
that I have not. At all events, assured of my own motives,
I leave you to yourself. You will probably ere long feel
the injustice you have done me!”

He continued on his way, leaving William Hinkley
almost rooted to the spot. The poor youth was actually
stunned, not by what was said to him, but by the sudden
consciousness of his own vehemence. He had expressed
himself with a boldness and an energy of which neither
himself nor his friend, until now, would have thought him
capable. A moment's pause in the provocation, and the
feelings which had goaded him on were taken with a
revulsion quite as sudden. As he knew not well what he
had said, so he fancied he had said every thing precisely
as the passionate thought had suggested it in his own mind.
Already he began to blame himself—to feel that he had
done wrong,—that there had been nothing in the conduct
or manner of Stevens, however unpleasant, to justify his
own violence; and that the true secret of his anger was to
be found in that instinctive hostility which he had felt for
his rival from the first. The more he mused, the more he
became humbled by his thoughts; and when he recollected
the avowed profession of Stevens his shame increased.

He felt how shocking it was to intimate to a sworn noncombatant
the idea of a personal conflict. To what point
of self-abasement his thoughts would have carried him,
may only be conjectured; he might have hurried forward to
overtake his antagonist with the distinct purpose of making
the most ample apology;—nay, more, such was the distinct
thought which was now pressing upon his mind,—
when he was saved from this humiliation by perceiving
that Stevens had already reached, and was about to enter
the dwelling of Margaret Cooper. With this sight, every
thought and feeling gave place to that of baffled love, and
disappointed affection. With a bitter groan he turned up
the gorge, and soon shut himself from sight of the now
hateful habitation.