University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

This dialogue was broken by a summons to the breakfast
table. We have already intimated that while the
hateful person of Stevens was an inmate of his own house,
William Hinkley remained, the better portion of his time,
at that of his cousin. It was not merely that Stevens was
hateful to his sight, but such was the devotion of his father
and mother to that adventurer, that the young man passed
with little notice from either, or if he incurred their attention
at all, it was only to receive their rebuke. He had not
been able to disguise from them his dislike to Stevens.
This dislike showed itself in many ways—in coldness,
distance, silence,—a reluctance to accord the necessary
civilities, and in very unequivocal glances of hostility from
the eyes of the jealous young villager. Such offences
against good-breeding were considered by them as so many
offences against God himself, shown to one who was about
to profess his ministry; and being prepared to see in Brother
Stevens an object of worth and veneration only, they
lacked necessarily all that keenness of discrimination which
might have helped somewhat to qualify the improprieties of
which they believed their son to be guilty. Of his causes
of jealousy they had not suspicion, and they shared none of
his antipathies. He was subject to the daily lecture from
the old man, and the nightly exhortation and expostulation
of the old woman. The latter did her spiriting gently.
The former roared and thundered. The mother implored
and kissed—the father denounced and threatened. The
one, amidst the faults of her son which she reproved, could
see his virtues; she could also see that he was suffering—
she knew not why—as well as sinning;—the other could

only see an insolent, disobedient boy who was taking airs
upon himself, flying in the face of his parents, and doomed
to perish like the sons of Eli, unless by proving himself a
better manager than Eli, he addressed himself in time to
the breaking in of the unruly spirit whose offences promised
to be so heinous. It was not merely from the hateful sight
of his rival, or the monotonous expostulation of his mother,
that the poor youth fled; it was sometimes to escape the
heavily chastening hand of his bigotted father.

These things worked keenly and constantly in the mind
of William Hinkley. They acquired additional powers of
ferment from the coldness of Margaret Cooper, and from
the goadings of his cousin. Naturally one of the gentlest
of creatures, the young man was not deficient in spirit.
What seemed to his more rude and elastic relative a token
of imbecility, was nothing more than the softening influence
of his reflective and mental over his physical powers.
These, under the excitement of his blood were
necessarily made subject to his animal impulses, and when
he left the house that morning, with his Blackstone under
his arm, on his way to the peaceful cottage of old Calvert,
where he pursued his studies, his mind was in a perfect
state of abeyance, or at least of chaos. Of the chapter
which he had striven to compass the previous night, in
which the rights of persons are discussed with the usual
clearness of style, but the usual onesidedness of judgment,
of that smooth old monarchist, William Hinkley scarcely
remembered a solitary syllable. He had read only with
his eyes. His mind had kept no pace with his proceedings,
and though he strove as he went along to recall the
heads of topics, the points and principles of what he had
been reading, his efforts at reflection, by insensible but
sudden transitions, invariably concluded with some image
of strife and commotion, in which he was one of the parties
and Alfred Stevens another; the beautiful, proud face of
Margaret Cooper being always unaccountably present, and
seeming to countenance, with its scornful smiles, the spirit
of strife which operated upon the combatants.

This mood had the most decided effect upon his appearance;
and the good old man, Calvert, whose attention had
been already drawn to the appearance of distress and suffering
which he manifested, was now more than ever
struck with the seemingly sudden increase of this expression

upon his face. It was Saturday,—the saturnalia of
schoolboys—and a day of rest to the venerable teacher.
He was seated before his door, under the shadows of his
paternal oak, once more forgetting the baffled aims and
profitless toils of his own youthful ambition, in the fascinating
pages of that historical romancer the stout Abbé
Vertôt. But a glance at the youth soon withdrew his
mind from this contemplation, and the sombre pages of the
present opened upon his eye, and the doubtful ones of the
future became, on the instant, those which he most desired
to peruse. The study of the young is always a study of
the past with the old. They seem, in such a contemplation,
to live over the records of memory. They feel as
one just returning from a long and weary journey, who
encounters another, freshly starting to traverse the same
weary but inviting track. Something in the character of
William Hinkley, which seemed to resemble his own,
made this feeling yet more active in the mind of Mr.
Calvert; and his earnest desire was to help the youth
forward on the path which, he soon perceived, it was
destined that the other should finally take. He was not
satisfied with the indecision of character which the youth
displayed. But how could he blame it harshly? It was in
this very respect that his own character had failed, and
though he felt that all his counsels were to be addressed to
this point, yet he knew not where, or in what manner, to
begin. The volume of Blackstone which the youth carried
suggested to him a course, however. He bade the young
man bring out a chair, and taking the book in his hand, he
proceeded to examine him upon parts of the volume which
he professed to have been reading. This examination, as
it had the effect of compelling the mind of the student to
contract itself to a single subject of thought, necessarily
had the farther effect of clearing it somewhat from the
chaos of clouds which had been brooding over it, obscuring
the light, and defeating the warmth of the intellectual sun
behind them; and if the examination proved the youth to
have been very little of a student, or one who had been
reading with a vacant mind, it also proved that the original
powers of his intellect were vigorous and various,—that he
had an analytical capacity of considerable compass; was
bold in opinion, ingenious in solution, and with a tendency
to metaphysical speculation, which, modified by the active
wants and duties of a large city-practice, would have made
him a subtle lawyer and a very logical debater. But the
blush kept heightening on the youth's cheeks as the examination
proceeded. He had answered, but he felt all the
while how much his answer had sprung from his own
conjectures and how little from his authorities. The examination
convinced him that the book had been so much
waste paper under his thumb. When it was ended the
old man closed the volume, laid it on the sward beside
him, and looked, with a mingled expression of interest and
commiseration, on his face. William Hinkley noted this
expression, and spoke, with a degree of mortification in
look and accent, which he did not attempt to hide.

“I am afraid, sir, you will make nothing of me. I can
make nothing of myself. I am almost inclined to give up
in despair. I will be nothing. I can be nothing. I feared
as much from the beginning, sir. You only waste your
time on me.”

“You speak too fast, William—you let your blood
mingle too much with your thoughts. Let me ask you
one question. How long will you be content to live as
you do now—seeking nothing, performing nothing—being
nothing?”

The youth was silent.

“I, you see, am nothing,” continued the old man—
“nay, do not interrupt me. You will tell me as you have
already told me, that I am much, and have done much here
in Charlemont. But for all that I am, and have done here,
I need not have gone beyond my accidence. My time has
been wasted—my labours, considered as means to ends,
were unnecessary—I have toiled without the expected
profits of toil—I have drawn water in a sieve. It is not
pleasant for me to recall these things, much less to speak
of them; but it is for your good that I told you my story.
You have, as I had, certain defects of character—not the
same exactly, but of the same family complexion. To be
something you must be resolved. You must devote yourself,
heart and mind, with all your soul and with all your
strength, to the business you have undertaken:—shut your
windows against the sunshine—your ears to the song of
birds, your heart against the fascinations of beauty; and if
you never think of the last until you are thirty, you will
be then a better judge of beauty, a truer lover, a better

husband, a more certain candidate for happiness. Let me
assure you that of the hundred men that take wives before
they are thirty, there is scarcely one who, in his secret
soul does not repent it—scarcely one who does not look
back with yearning to the days when he was free!”

There was a pause. The young man became very
much agitated. He rose from his chair, walked apart for
a few moments, and then, returning, resumed his seat by
the old man.

“I believe you are right, sir—nay, I know you are; but
I cannot be at once—I cannot promise—to be all that you
wish. If Margaret Cooper would consent, I would marry
her to-morrow.”

The old man shook his head but remained silent. The
young one proceeded.

“One thing I will say, however, I will take to my studies
after this week, whatever befalls, with the hearty
resolution which you recommend. I will try to shut
out the sunshine and the song. I will endeavour to devote
soul and strength, and heart and mind, to the task before
me. I know that I could master these studies—I think I
can,”—he continued more modestly, modifying the positive
assertion—“and I know that it is equally my interest
and duty to do so. I thank you, sir, very much for what
you have told me. Believe me, it has not fallen upon
heedless or disrespectful ears.”

The old man pressed his hand.

“I know that, my son, and I rejoice to think that, having
given me these assurances, you will strive hard to
make them good.”

“I will, sir!” replied William, taking up his cap to
depart.

“But whither are you going now?”

The youth blushed as he replied frankly—

“To the widow Cooper's. I'm going to see Margaret.”

“Well, well!” said the old man as the youth disappeared—“if
it must be done, the sooner it's over the better.
But there's another moth to the flame. Fortunately,
he will be singed only; but she!—What is left for her?
So proud, yet so confiding. So confident of strength, yet
so artless! But it is useless to look beyond, and very
dismal.”

And the speaker once more took up Vertôt and was

soon lost amid the glories of the Knights of St. John. His
studies were interrupted by the sudden and boisterous
salutation of Ned Hinkley.

“Well, gran'pa, hard at the big book as usual. No end
to the fun of fighting, eh! I confess, if ever I get to love
reading, it'll be in some such book as that. But reading's
not natural to me, though you made me do enough of it
while you had me. Bill was the boy for the books, and I
for the hooks. By the way, talking of hooks, how did
those trout eat? Fine, eh! I haven't seen you since the
day of our ducking.”

“No, Ned, and I've been looking for you. Where
have you been?”

“Working, working! Every thing's been going wrong.
Lines snapt, fiddle strings cracked, hooks missing, gun
rusty, and Bill Hinkley so sulky that his frown made a
shadow on the wall as large and ugly as a buffalo's. But
where is he? I came to find him here?”

While he was speaking the lively youth squatted down,
and deliberately took his seat on the favourite volume
which Mr. Calvert had laid upon the sward at his approach.

“Take the chair, Ned;” said the old man with a smaller
degree of kindness in his tone than was habitual with
him. “Take the chair. Books are sacred things; to be
worshipped and studied, not employed as footstools.”

“Why, what's the hurt, gran'pa?” demanded the young
man, though he rose and did as he was bidden. “If't was
a fiddle now, there would be some danger of a crash, but
a big book like that seems naturally made to sit upon.”

The old man answered him mildly.

“I have learned to venerate books, Ned, and can no
more bear to see them abused than I could bear to be
abused myself. It seems to me like treating their writers
and their subjects with scorn. If you were to contemplate
the venerable heads of the old knights with my eyes
and feelings, you would see why I wish to guard them
from every thing like disrespect.”

“Well, I beg their pardon—a thousand pardons—I
meant no offence, gran'pa—and can't help thinking that
it's all a notion of yours, your reverencing such old Turks
and Spaniards that have been dead a thousand years.
They were very good people, no doubt, but I'm thinking

they've served their turn; and I see no more harm in
squatting upon their histories, than in walking over their
graves, which if I were in their country of Jericho—that
was where they lived, gran'pa, wa'n't it?—I should be
very apt to do without asking leave, I tell you.”

Ned Hinkley purposely perverted his geography and
history. There was a spice of mischief in his composition,
and he grinned good-naturedly as he watched the increasing
gravity upon the old man's face.

“Come, come, gran'pa, don't be angry. You know
my fun is a sort of fizz—there's nothing but a flash—nothing
to hurt—no shotting. But where's Bill Hinkley,
gran'pa?”

“Gone to the widow Cooper's to see Margaret.”

“Ah! well, I'm glad he's made a beginning. But I'd
much rather he'd have seen the other first.”

“What other do you mean?” demanded the old man;
but the speaker, though sufficiently random and reckless
in what he said, saw the impolicy of allowing the purpose
of his cousin in regard to Stevens to be understood. He
continued to throw the inquirer off.

“Gran'pa, do you know there's something in this fellow
Stevens that don't altogether please me? I'm not
satisfied with him.”

“Ah! indeed! what do you see to find fault with?”

“Well, you see, he comes here pretending to study.
Now, in the first place, why should he come here to
study? why didn't he stay at home with his friends and
parents?”

“Perhaps he had neither. Perhaps he had no home.
You might as well ask me why I came here, and settled
down, where I was not born, where I had neither friends
nor parents.”

“Oh, no! but you told us why,” said the other. “You
gave us a reason for what you did.”

“And why may not the stranger give a reason too?”

“He don't though.”

“Perhaps he will when you get intimate with him. I
see nothing in this to be dissatisfied with. I had not
thought you so suspicious, Ned Hinkley—so little charitable.”

“Charity begins at home, gran'pa. But there's more

in this matter. This man comes here to study to be a
parson. How does he study? Can you guess?”

“I really cannot.”

“By dressing spruce as a buck—curling his hair backwards
over his ears something like a girl's, and going out,
morning, noon, and night, to see Margaret Cooper.”

“As there is no good reason to suppose that a student
of divinity is entirely without the affections of humanity,
I still see nothing inconsistent with his profession in this
conduct.”

“But how can he study?”

“Ah! it may be inconsistent with his studies though
not with his profession. It is human without being altogether
proper. You see that your cousin neglects his
studies in the same manner. I presume that the stranger
also loves Miss Cooper.”

“But he has no such right as Bill Hinkley.”

“Why not?”

“Why not! Why, Bill is a native here, has been loving
her for the last year or more. His right certainly ought
to be much greater than that of a man whom nobody
knows—who may be the man in the moon for any thing
we know to the contrary—just dropped in upon us, nobody
knows how, to do nobody knows what.”

“All that may be very true, Ned, and yet his right to
seek Miss Cooper may be just as good as that of yourself
or mine. You forget that it all depends upon the young
lady herself whether either of them is to have a right at all
in her concerns.”

“Well, that's a subject we needn't dispute about, gran'pa,
when there's other things. Now, isn't it strange that this
stranger should ride off once a week with his valise on his
saddle, just as if he was starting on a journey—should be
gone half a day—then come back with his nag all in a
foam, and after that you should see him in some new cravat,
or waistcoat, or pantaloons, just as if he had gone
home and got a change?”

“And does he do that?” inquired Mr. Calvert, with
some show of curiosity.

“That he does, and he always takes the same direction;
and it seems—so Aunt Sarah herself says, though she
thinks him a small sort of divinity on earth—that the day
before, he's busy writing letters, and, according to her account,

pretty long letters too. Well, nobody sees that he
ever gets any letters in return. He never asks at the post-office,
so Jacob Zandts himself tells me, and that's strange
enough, too, if so be he has any friends or relations any
where else.”

Mr. Calvert listened with interest to these and other
particulars which his young companion had gathered respecting
the habits of the stranger; and he concurred with
his informant in the opinion that there was something in
his proceedings which was curious and perhaps mysterious.
Still, he did not think it advisable to encourage the
prying and suspicious disposition of the youth, and spoke
to this effect in the reply which finally dismissed the subject.
Ned Hinkley was silenced not satisfied.

“There's something wrong about it,” he muttered to
himself on leaving the old man, “and, by dickens! I'll get
to the bottom of it, or there's no taste in Salt-river. The
fellow's a rascal; I feel it if I don't know it, and if Bill
Hinkley don't pay him off, I must. One or t'other must
do it, that's certain.”

With these reflections, which seemed to him to be no
less moral than social, the young man took his way back
to the village, labouring with all the incoherence of unaccustomed
thought, to strike out some process by which to
find a solution for those mysteries which were supposed
to characterize the conduct of the stranger. He had just
turned out of the gorge leading from Calvert's house into
the settlement, when he encountered the person to whom
his meditations were given, on horseback, and going at a
moderate gallop along the high-road to the country. Stevens
bowed to him and drew up for speech as he drew
nigh. At first Ned Hinkley appeared disposed to avoid
him, but moved by a sudden notion, he stopped and suffered
himself to speak with something more of civility
than he had hitherto shown to the same suspected personage.

“Why, you're not going to travel, Parson Stevens,”
said he—“you're not going to leave us, are you?”

“No, sir—I only wish to give myself and horse a
stretch of a few miles for the sake of health. Too much
stable, they say, makes a saucy nag.”

“So it does, and I may say, a saucy man too. But
seeing you with your valise, I thought you were off for
good.”

Stevens said something about his being so accustomed
to ride with the valise that he carried it without thinking.

“I scarcely knew I had it on!”

“That's a lie all round;” said Ned Hinkley to himself
as the other rode off. “Now, if I was mounted, I'd ride
after him and see where he goes and what he's after.
What's to hinder? It's but a step to the stable and but five
minutes to the saddle. Dang it, but I'll take trail this time
if I never did before.”