University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

But this mood lasted not long. Youth, pride, anger,
asserted themselves before the lapse of many minutes.
Darker feelings got possession of his mind. He rose to
his feet. If love was baffled, was there not revenge?
Then came the recollection of his cousin's counsel. Should
this artful stranger triumph in every thing? Margaret
Cooper had scarcely disguised the interest which she felt
in him. Nay, had not that exulting glance of the eye declared
that she, at least, knew what was the purpose of
Stevens in seeking the secluded village? His own wrongs
were also present to his mind. This usurper had possessed
himself of the affections of all he loved—of all of

whose love he had till then felt himself secure—all but the
good old schoolmaster, and the sturdy schoolmate and
cousin. And how soon might he deprive him even of
these? That was a new fear! So rapid had been the
stranger's progress,—so adroitly had he insinuated himself
into this Eden of the wilderness,—bringing discontent and
death in his train—that the now thoroughly miserable
youth began to fancy that nothing could be safe from his
influence. In a short time his garden would all be overrun,
and his loveliest plants would wither. Was there no remedy
for this? There was!—and traversing the solemn
recesses of that wood, he meditated the various modes by
which the redress of wrong, and slight, and indignity,
were to be sought. He brooded over images of strife;
and dark and savage ideas of power rioting over its victim,
with entirely new feelings—feelings new at least to
him. We have not succeeded in doing him justice, nor
in our own design, if we have failed to show that he was
naturally gentle of heart, rigidly conscientious, a lover of
justice for its own sake, and solicitously sensitive on the
subject of another's feelings. But the sense of suffering
will blind the best judgment, and the feeling of injury
will arouse and irritate the gentlest nature. Besides,
William Hinkley, though meek and conscientious, had not
passed through his youth, in the beautiful but wild border
country in which he lived, without having been informed,
and somewhat influenced, by those characteristic ideas of
the modes and manner in which personal wrongs were to
be redressed. Perhaps, had his cousin said nothing to him
on this subject, his feelings would have had very much the
same tendency and general direction which they were
taking now. A dark and somewhat pleasurable anxiety to
be in conflict with his rival—a deadly conflict—a close,
hard, death-struggle, was now the predominant feeling in
his mind;—but the feeling was not altogether a pleasurable
one. It had its pains and humiliations, also. Not
that he had any fears—any dread of the issue. Of the
issue he never thought. But it disturbed the long and
peaceful order of his life. It conflicted with the subdued
tastes of the student. It was at war with that gentle calm
of atmosphere, which letters diffuse around the bower of
the muse.

In the conflict of his thoughts and feelings, the judgment

of the youth was impaired. He forgot his prudence. In
fact, he knew not what he did. He entered the dwelling
of his father, and passed into the dining-room, at that solemn
moment when the grace before meat was yet in
course of utterance by our worthy Brother Stevens.
Hitherto, old Mr. Hinkley had religiously exacted that,
whenever any of the household failed to be present in season,
this ceremony should never be disturbed. They
were required, hat in hand, to remain at the entrance,
until the benediction had been implored; and, only after
the audible utterance of the word “amen,” to approach
the cloth. We have shown little of old Hinkley. It has
not been necessary. The reader has seen enough, however,
to understand that, in religious matters—at least in
the forms and externals of religion—he was a rigid disciplinarian.
Upon grace before and after meat he always
insisted. His own prayers of this sort might have been
unctuous, but they were never short; and the meats were
very apt to grow cold, while the impatience of his hearers
grew warm, before he finished. But through respect to
the profession, he waived his own peculiar privilege in
behalf of Brother Stevens; and this holy brother was in
the middle of his entreaty, when William Hinkley appeared
at the door. He paused for an instant, without
taking off his hat. Perhaps, had his father been engaged
in this office, he would have forborne, as usual, however
long the grace, and have patiently waited without, hat off,
until it had reached the legitimate conclusion. But he
had no such veneration for Stevens; and without scruple
he dashed, rather hastily, into the apartment, and flinging
his hat upon a chair, strode at once to the table. The old
man did not once raise his eyes until the prayer was over.
He would not have done so had the house been on fire.
But at the close, he looked up at his son with a brow of
thunder. The cloud was of serious and very unusual
blackness. He had for some time been dissatisfied with
his son. He had seen that the youth entertained some
aversion for his guest. Besides, he had learned from his
worthy consort, that in an endeavour of Brother Stevens to
bestow good counsel upon the youth, he had been repulsed
with as little respect as ceremony. There was one thing
that the stern old man had not seen, and could not see;
and that was the altered appearance of the lad. As he
knew of no reason why he should be unhappy, so he failed
to perceive in his appearance any of the signs of unhappiness.
He saw nothing but the violation of his laws, and
that sort of self-esteem which produces fanaticism, is always
the most rigid in the enforcement of its own ordinances.
Already he regarded the youth as in a state of
rebellion, and for such an offence his feeling was very
much that of the ancient Puritan. No one more insists
upon duty, than him who has attained authority by flinging
off the fetters of obedience. Your toughest sinner
usually makes the sourest saint.

“And is this the way, William Hinkley, that you show
respect to God? Do you despise the blessing which
Brother Stevens asks upon the food which sustains us?”

“I presume, sir, that God has already blessed all the
food which he bestows upon man. I do not think that
any prayer of Brother Stevens can render it more blessed.”

“Ha! you do not, do you? Please to rise from this
table.”

“Nay, sir—” began Stevens.

“Rise, sir,” continued the old man, laying down knife
and fork, and confronting the offender with that dogged
look of determination which in a coarse nature is the sure
sign of moral inflexibility.”

“Forgive him, sir, this time,” said Stevens,—“I entreat
you to forgive him. The young man knows not what he
does.”

“I will make him know,” continued the other.

“Plead not for me, sir,” said William Hinkley, glaring
upon Stevens with something of that expression which in
western parlance is called wolfish—“I scorn and spurn
your interference.”

“William, William, my dear son,—do not speak so—
do not make your father angry.”

“Will you leave the table, sir, or not?” demanded the
father, his words being spoken very slowly, through his
teeth, and with the effort of one who seeks to conceal the
growing agitation. The eyes of the mother fell upon the
youth full of tears and entreaty. His fine countenance
betrayed the conflicting emotions of his soul. There was
grief, and anger, despair and defiance; the consciousness
of being wrong, and the more painful consciousness of
suffering wrong. He half started from his chair, again

resumed it, and gazing upon Stevens with the hate and
agony which he felt, seemed to be entirely forgetful of the
words and presence of the father. The old man deliberately
rose from the table and left the room. The mother now
started up in an agony of fear.

“Run, my son,—leave the room before your father
comes back. Speak to him, Brother Stevens, and tell him
of the danger.”

“Do not call upon him, mother, if you would not have
me defy you also. If your words will not avail with me,
be sure that his cannot.”

“What mean you, my son? you surely have no cause
to be angry with Brother Stevens.”

“No cause! no cause!—but it matters not! Brother
Stevens knows that I have cause. He has heard my defiance—he
knows my scorn and hate, and he shall feel
them.”

“William, my son, how—”

The steps of the father, approaching through the passage-way,
diverted her mind to a new terror. She knew
the vindictive and harsh nature of the old man; and apprehensions
for her son superseded the feeling of anger which
his language had provoked.

“Oh, my son, be submissive or fly. Jump out of the
window, and leave Brother Stevens and me to pacify him.
We will do all we can.”

The unlucky allusion to Brother Stevens only increased
the young man's obstinacy.

“I ask you not, mother. I wish you to do nothing,
and to say nothing! Here I will remain! I will not fly.
It will be for my father and mother to say whether they
will expel their only son from their home to make room
for a stranger.”

“It shall not be said that I have been the cause of this,”
said Stevens rising with dignity from his chair—“I will
leave your house, Mrs. Hinkley, only regretting that I
should be the innocent cause of any misunderstanding or
discontent among its members. I know not exactly what
can be the meaning of your son's conduct. I have never
offended him. But as my presence does offend him, I
will withdraw myself!—”

“You shall not!” exclaimed old Hinkley, who re-entered
the room at this moment, and had heard the last

words of the speaker. “You shall not leave the house.
Had I fifty sons, and they were all to behave in the manner
of this viper, they should all leave it before you should
stir from the threshold.”

The old man brought with him a cowskin, and the
maternal apprehensions of his wife, who knew his severe
and determined disposition, were now awakened to such a
degree, as to overcome the feeling of deference, if not fear,
with which the authority of her liege lord had always
inspired her.

“Mr. Hinkley, you won't strike William with that
whip,—you must not—you shall not;” and, speaking
thus, she started up and threw herself in the old man's
way. He put her aside with no measured movement of
his arm, and approached the side of the table where the
young man sat.

“Run, William, run, if you love me,” cried the terrified
mother.

“I will not run!” was the answer of the youth, who
rose from his seat, however, at the same moment and confronted
his father.

“Do not strike me, father! I warn you—do not strike
me. I may be wrong, but I have suffered wrong. I did
not mean, and do not mean to offend you. Let that content
you; but do not strike me.”

The answer was a blow. The whip descended once,
and but once, upon the shoulders of the young man. His
whole frame was in a convulsion. His eyes dilated with
the anguish of his soul; his features worked spasmodically.
There was a moment's hesitation. The arm that smote
him, was again uplifted. The cruel and degrading instrument
of punishment a second time about to descend; when,
with the strength of youth, and the determination of manhood,
the son grasped the arm of the father, and without
any more than the degree of violence necessary to effect
his object, he tore the weapon from the uplifted hand.

“I cannot strike you!” he exclaimed, addressing the old
man. “That blow has lost you your son—for ever! The
shame and the dishonour shall rest on other shoulders.
They are better deserved here, and here I place them!”

With these words he smote Stevens over the shoulders,
once, twice, thrice, before the latter could close with him
or the father interfere to arrest the attempt. Stevens

sprang upon him, but the more athletic countryman flung
him off and still maintained his weapon. The father
added his efforts to those of Stevens, but he shook himself
free from both, and, by this time, the mother had contrived
to place herself between the parties. William Hinkley
then flung the whip from the window, and moved towards
the door. In passing Stevens, he muttered a few words—

“If there is any skin beneath the cloak of the parson,
I trust I have reached it.”

“Enough!” said the other in the same low tone. “You
shall have your wish!”

The youth looked back once, with tearful eyes, upon his
mother; and making no other answer but a glance more
full of sorrow than anger, to the furious flood of denunciation
which the old man continued to pour forth, he proceeded
slowly from the apartment and the dwelling.