University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

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 motion 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 recognized
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-humoured 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 colour 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 grassplats, 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
ardour 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 cannot
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 any thing 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 cannot deceive me!” he continued, “I see it in
your eyes, your action; I hear it in your words. I cannot
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, unhonoured—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 honour 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.