University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The disappearance of Margaret Cooper was succeeded
by a shriek from above—a single shriek—a cry of terror
and despair; and in the same instant the form of William
Hinkley might have been seen cleaving the air, with the
boldness of a bird, secure always of his wing, and descending
into the lake as nearly as it was possible for him to
come, to the spot where she had sunk. Our cooler fisherman
looked up to the abrupt eminence, just above his own
head, from which his devoted cousin had sprung.

“By gemini!” he exclaimed with an air of serious
apprehension, “if William Hinkley hasn't knocked his
life out by that plunge he's more lucky than I think him.
It's well the lake's deep enough in this quarter else he'd
have tried the strength of hard head against harder rock
below. But there's no time for such nice calculations!
We can all swim—that's a comfort.”

Thus speaking, he followed the example of his cousin,
though more quietly, plunging off from his lowlier perch,
and cleaving the water, headforemost, with as little commotion
as a sullen stone would make sent directly downwards
to the deep. By this time, however, our former
companion, Stevens, had done the same thing. Stevens
was no coward, but he had no enthusiasm. He obeyed
few impulses. His proceedings were all the result of
calculation. He could swim as well as his neighbours.
He had no apprehensions on that score; but he disliked
cold water; and there was an involuntary shrug of the
shoulder and shiver of the limbs before he committed himself
to the water, which he did with all the deliberation of
the cat, who, longing for fish, is yet unwilling to wet her
own feet. His deliberation, and the nearness of his position
to Margaret Cooper, were so far favourable to his
design that he succeeded in finding her first. It must be
understood that the events, which we have taken so much
time to tell, occupied but a few seconds in the performance.
Stevens was in the water quite as quickly as Ned Hinkley,

and only not so soon as his more devoted and desperate
cousin. If it was an advantage to him to come first in
contact with the form of Margaret Cooper, it had nearly
proved fatal to him also. In the moment when he encountered
her, her outstretched and grasping arms, encircled
his neck. They rose together, but he was nearly strangled,
and but for the timely interposition of the two cousins,
they must probably have both perished. It was the fortune
of our fisherman to relieve the maiden, whom he bore to
the opposite shore with a coolness, a skill and spirit, which
enabled him to save himself from her desperate but unconscious
struggles, while supporting her with a degree of
ease and strength which had been acquired while teaching
some dozen of the village urchins how to practise an art
in which he himself was reckoned a great proficient. It
was fortunate for Stevens that the charities of William
Hinkley were more active and indulgent than his own,
since, without the timely succour and aid which he afforded,
that devout young gentleman would have been made to
discontinue his studies very suddenly and have furnished
a summary conclusion to this veracious narrative—a consummation
which, if it be as devoutly wished by the reader
as by the writer, will be a much greater source of annoyance
to our publisher than it has proved already. Never
had poor mortal been compelled to drink, at one time, a
greater quantity of that celestial beverage, which the Reverend
Mr. Pierpont insists is the only liquor drunk at the
hotels of heaven. We should be sorry to misrepresent
that very gentle gentleman, but we believe that this is substantially
his idea. It was unfortunate for Stevens that,
previously to this, he had never been accustomed to drink
much of this beverage in its original strength any where.
He had been too much in the habit of diluting it; and
being very temperate always in his enjoyment of the creature
comforts, he had never taken it, even when thus
diluted, except in very moderate quantities. In consequence
of his former abstemiousness, the quantity which
he now swallowed nearly strangled him. He was about
to take his last draught with many wry faces, when the
timely arms of the two cousins, by no very sparing application
of force withdrew him from the grasp of the damsel;
and without very well understanding the process, or any
particulars of his extrication, he found himself stretched
upon the banks over which he had lately wandered, never
dreaming of any such catastrophe; discharging from his
stomach by no effort of his own, a large quantity of foreign
ingredients—the ordinary effect, we are given to understand,
of every inordinate indulgence in strong waters.

Our excellent old friend, Mr. Calvert, was soon upon
the spot, and while Ned Hinkley was despatched to the
village for assistance, he took himself the charge of recovering
the unconscious maiden. Half forgetting his
hostility, William Hinkley undertook the same good service
to Stevens, who really seemed to need succour much
more than his fair companion. While William Hinkley
busied himself by rolling, friction, fanning and other practises
employed in such cases, to bring his patient back to
life, he could not forbear an occasional glance to the spot,
where, at a little distance, lay the object of his affections.
Her face was toward him, as she lay upon her side. Her
head was supported on the lap of the old man. Her long
hair hung dishevelled, of a more glossy black now when
filled with water. Her eyes were shut, and the dark
fringes of her lids, lay like a pencil streak across the pale,
prominent orbs which they served to bind together. The
glow of indignant pride with which she was wont to receive
his approaches, had all disappeared in the mortal
struggle for life through which she had lately gone; and
pure, as seemingly free from every passion, her pale beauties
appeared to his doating eye the very perfection of
human loveliness. Her breast now heaved convulsively,
deep sighs poured their way through her parted lips. Her
eyes alternately opened upon but shut against the light,
and, finally, the exertions of the old man were rewarded as
the golden gleam of expression began to relight and reillumine
those features which seemed never to be without
it. She recovered her consciousness, started up, made an
effort to rise, but feeling with inability sunk down again
into the paternal grasp of the old man.

“Mr. Calvert!” she murmured.

“You are safe, my daughter!” said the old man.

“But how did it happen—where am I?”

“By the lake!”

“Ah! I remember. I was drowning. I felt it all.
The choking—the struggle. The water in my ears and

eyes. It was a dreadful feeling. How did I come here?
Who saved me?”

“Ned Hinkley brought you to land, but he was helped
by his cousin William, who assisted the stranger.”

“The stranger!—ah! yes! I remember; but where
is he?”

She looked around wildly and anxiously, and beholding
William Hinkley at a little distance, busy with the still
unconscious form of Stevens, a quick fearful shudder passed
over her frame. She almost crouched into the old
man's arms as she asked, in husky accents—

“He is not dead? He lives?”

“I hope so. He breathes.”

She waited for no more, but starting to her feet she
hurried to the spot where Stevens lay. The old man
would have prevented her.

“You are feeble—you will do yourself harm. Better,
if you are able to walk, hurry homeward with me, when
you can change your clothes?”

“Would you have me ungrateful?” she exclaimed.
“Shall I neglect him when he risked his life for me?”

There was a consciousness in her mind that it was not
all gratitude which moved her, for the deathly paleness of
her cheek was now succeeded by a warm blush which
denoted a yet stronger and warmer emotion. The keen
eyes of William Hinkley understood the meaning of this
significant but unsyllabling mode of utterance, and his eyes
spoke the reproach to hers which his lips left unsaid.

“Ah! did I not risk my life too, to prevent—to save?
When would she feel such an interest in me—when would
she look thus were my life at stake?”

“He will not be neglected;” said the old man, gently
endeavouring to restrain her. Perhaps she would not have
given much heed to the interruption, for hers was the
strength of an unfettered will, one accustomed to have way,
but that, at this moment, the eyes of Stevens unclosed and
met her own. His consciousness had returned, and under
the increasing expression in his looks, she sunk back, and
permitted the old man to lead her along the homeward
path. More than once she looked back, but, with the
assurance of Mr. Calvert that there was no more danger to
be apprehended, she continued to advance; the worthy old

man, as they went, seeking to divert her mind by pleasant
and choice anecdotes of which his memory had abundant
stores, from dwelling upon the unpleasant and exciting
event which had just taken place. Margaret Cooper,
whose habits previously had kept her from much intimacy
with the village sage, was insensibly taken by his gentleness,
the purity of his taste, the choiceness of his expression,
the extent of his resources. She wondered how a
mind so full should have remained unknown to her so long,
—committing the error, very common to persons of strong
will, and determined self-esteem, of assuming that she
should, as a matter of inevitable necessity, have known
every thing and every body of which the knowledge is at
all desirable. In pleasant discourse he beguiled her progress,
until Ned Hinkley was met returning with horses—
the pathway did not admit of a vehicle, and the village had
none less cumbrous than cart and wagon—on one of which
she mounted, refusing all support or assistance, and when
Mr. Calvert insisted upon walking beside her, she grasped
the bough of a tree, broke off a switch, and giving an arch
but good-natured smile and nod to the old man, laid it
smartly over the horse's flank, and in a few moments was
out of sight.

“The girl is smart!” said Calvert, as he followed her
retreating form with his eye,—“too smart! She speaks
well,—has evidently read. No wonder that William loves
her—but she will never do for him. She has no humility.
Pride is the demon in her heart. Pride will overthrow
her. These woods spoil her. Solitude is the natural
nurse of self-esteem; particularly where it is strong at
first and is coupled with any thing like talent. Better for
such an one if sickness, and strife, and suffering had taken
her at the cradle, and nursed her with the milk of self-denial
which is the only humility worth having: and yet,
why should I speak of her, when the sting remains in my
own soul—when I yet feel the pang of my feebleness and
self-reproach? Alas! I should school none. The voice
speaks to me ever—Old man! to thy prayers. Thy own
knees are yet stubborn as thy neck!”

Leaving him to the becoming abasement of that delusive
self-comfort which ministers to our vain glory, and
which this good old man had so happily succeeded in
rebuking, we will return to the spot where we left our two

other friends. Ned Hinkley has already joined them.
With his horse he had providently brought a suit of his
own clothes for the stranger, which though made of home-spun,
and not of the most modern fashion, were yet warm
and comfortable, and as Stevens was compelled to think,
infinitely preferable to the chilly and dripping garments
which he wore. A few moments, in the cover of the
woods, sufficed the neophyte to make the alteration; while
the two cousins, to whom the exigencies of forester and
fisherman life were more familiar, prepared to walk the
water out of their own habits, by giving rapid circulation
to their blood and limbs. While their preparations were
in progress, however, Ned Hinkley could not deny himself
the pleasure of discoursing at length on the subject of the
late disaster.

“Stranger,” he said, “I must tell you that you've had
a souse in as fine a fishing pond as you'll meet with from
here to Salt river. I reckon now that while you were in,
you never thought for a moment of the noble trout that
inhabit it.”

“I certainly did not,” said the other.

“There now! I could have sworn it! That a man
should go with his eyes open into a country without ever
asking what sort of folks lived there. Is'nt it monstrous?”

“It certainly seems like a neglect of the first duty of a
traveller;” said Stevens good-humouredly;—“let me not
show myself heedless of another. Let me thank you,
gentlemen, for saving my life. I believe I owe it to one
or both of you.”

“To him, not to me;” said Ned Hinkley, pointing to
his cousin. William was at a little distance, looking
sullenly upon the two, with eyes which, if dark and moody,
seemed to denote a thought which was any where else but
in the scene around him.

“He saved you, and I saved the woman. I would'nt
have a woman drowned in this lake for all the houses in
Charlemont.”

“Ah! why?”

“'Twould spoil it for fishing for ever.”

“Why would a woman do this more than a man?”

“For a very good reason, my friend. Because the
ghost of a woman talks, and a man's don't, they say. The
ghost of a man says what it wants to say with its eyes; a

woman's with her tongue. You know there's nothing
scares fish so much as one's talking.”

“I have heard so;—but is it so clear that there is such
a difference between them? How is it known that the
female does all the talking?”

“Oh! that's beyond dispute. There's a case that we
all know about—all here in Charlemont—the case of Joe
Barney's millpond. Barney lost one of his children and
one of his negroes in the pond,—drowned as a judgment,
they say, for fishing a Sunday. That didn't make any
difference with the fish. You could catch them there just
the same as before. But when old Mrs. Frey fell in,
crossing the dam, the case was altered. You might sit
there for hours and days, night and day, and bob till you
were weary; devil a bite after that! Now, what could
make the difference but the tongue? Mother Frey had a
tongue of her own, I tell you. 'Twas going when she
fell in, and I reckon's been going ever since. She was a
sulphury, spiteful body, to be sure, and some said she
poisoned the fish if she didn't scare them. To my thinking,
'twas the tongue.”

Stevens had been something seduced from his gravity
by the blunt humour and the unexpected manner of Ned
Hinkley; besides having been seryed if not saved by his
hands. Something, perhaps, of attention was due to what
he had to say;—but he recollected the assumed character
which he had to maintain—something doubtful too, if he
had not already impaired it in the sight and hearing of
those who had come so opportunely, but so unexpectedly,
to his relief. He recovered his composure and dignity;
forbore to smile at the story which might otherwise have
provoked not only smile but corresponding answer; and,
by the sudden coolness of his manner, tended to confirm in
Ned Hinkley's bosom the half formed hostility which the
cause of his cousin had originally taught him to feel.

“I'll lick the conceit out of him yet!” he muttered, as
Stevens, turning away, ascended to the spot where William
Hinkley stood.

“I owe you thanks, Mr. Hinkley,” he began.

The young man interrupted him.

“You owe me nothing, sir,” he answered hastily, and
prepared to turn away.

“You have saved my life, sir.”

“I should have saved your dog's life, sir, in the same
situation. I have done but an act of duty.”

“But, Mr. Hinkley—”

“Your horse is ready for you, sir,” said the young
man, turning off abruptly, and darting up the sides of the
hill, remote from the pathway, and burying himself in the
contiguous forests.

“Strange!” exclaimed the neophyte; “this is very
strange!”

“Not so strange, stranger, as that I should stand your
groom, without being brought up to such a business for
any man. Here's your nag, sir.”

“I thank you. I would not willingly trespass;” he
replied, as he relieved our angler from his grasp upon the
bridle.

“You're welcome without the thanks, stranger. I
reckon you know the route you come. Up hill, follow the
track to the top, take the left turn to the valley, then you'll
see the houses, and can follow your own nose or your
nag's. Either's straight enough to carry you to his rack.
You'll find your clothes at your boarding-house about the
time that you'll get there.”

“Nay, sir, I already owe you much. Let them not
trouble you. I will take them myself.”

“No, no, stranger!” was the reply of our fisherman,
as he stooped down and busied himself in making the
garments into a compact bundle. “I'm not the man to
leave off without doing the thing I begin to do. I sometimes
do more than I bargain for—sometimes lick a man
soundly when I set out only to tweak his nose; but I
make it a sort of Christian law never to do less. You
may reckon to find your clothes home by the time you
get there. There's your road.”

“A regular pair of cubs!” muttered the horseman as he
ascended the hill.

“To purse up his mouth as if I was giving him root-drink,
when I was telling him about Mother Frey's spoiling
the fish. Let him take care—he may get the vinegar
next time and not the fish.”

And with these characteristic commentaries the parties
separated for the time.