University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

Alfred Stevens was sufficiently familiar with the sex
to perceive that Margaret Cooper was resolved. There
was that in her look and manner which convinced him that
she was not now to be overcome. There was no effort or
constraint either in her looks or language. The composure
of assumed strength was there. The discovery of her
weakness, which he had so unexpectedly made, had rendered
her vigilant. Suspect ng herself, which women are not
apt to do—she became watchful, not only of the approach
of her lover, but of every emotion of her own soul; and
it was with a degree of chagrin which he could scarcely
refrain from showing, that he was compelled to forego, at
least for the present, all his usual arts of seduction. Yet
he knew not how to refrain. Never had Margaret Cooper
seemed so lovely in his eyes, so commanding, so eloquent
with beauty, as now, when remorse had touched her eyes
with an unwonted shadow, and tears and night-watching
had subdued the richer bloom upon her cheek. Proud
still, but pensive in her pride, she walked silently beside
him, still brooding over thoughts which she would not

willingly admit were doubts, and grasping every word of
assurance that fell from his lips as if it had been some
additional security. These assurances he still suffered to
escape him with sufficient frequency and solemnity to confirm
that feeling of confidence which his promise of marriage
had inspired in her mind. There was a subdued
fondness in his voice, and an empressement in his manner,
which was not all practice. The character which Margaret
Cooper had displayed in this last interview—her equal
firmness and fear—the noble elevation of soul which, admitting
her own errors, disdained to remind him of his—
a course which would have been the most ready of adoption
among the weaker and less generous of the sex—had
touched him with a degree of respect akin to admiration;
and so strong was the impression made upon him of her
great natural superiority of mind to almost all the women
he had ever met, that, but for her unhappy lapse, he had
sought no other wife. Had she been strong at first as she
proved herself at last, this had been inevitable. When in
his own chamber that night, he could not help recalling to
his memory, the proud elevation of her character as it had
appeared in that interview. The recollection really gave
him pain, since, along with it arose the memory also of
that unfortunate frailty, which became more prominent as
a crime, in connexion with that intellectual merit which, it
is erroneously assumed, should have made it sure.

“But for that, Margaret Cooper, and this marriage were
no vain promise. But that forbids. No, no! no spousals
for me; let John Cross and the bride be ready or not, there
shall be a party wanting to that contract! And yet, what
a woman to lose! what a woman to win! No tragedy
queen ever bore herself like that. Talk of Siddons, indeed!
She would have brought down the house in that
sudden prostration—that passionate appeal. She made
even me tremble. I could have loved her for that, if for
that only. To make me to tremble! and with such a look,
such an eye—such a stern, sweet, fierce beauty! By
Heavens! I know not how to give her up. What a sensation
she would make in Frankfort! Were she my wife—
but no! no! bait for gudgeons! I am not so great a fool
as that. She who is mine on my terms, is yours, sir, or
vours—is any body's when the humour suits and the

opportunity. I cannot think of that. Yet, to lose her is
as little to be thought of. I must manage it. I must get
her off from this place. It need not be to Frankfort! Let
me see—there is—hum!—hum!—yes!—a ride of a few
miles—an afternoon excursion—quite convenient, yet not
too near. It must be managed; but, at all events, I must
evade this marriage,—put it off for the present—get some
decent excuse. That's easy enough, and for the rest, why,
time that softens all things, except man and woman, time
will make that easy too. To-morrow for Ellisland, and
the rest after.”

Thus, resolving not to keep his vows to his unhappy
victim, the criminal was yet devising plans by which to
continue his power over her. These plans, yet immature
in his own mind, at least unexpressed, need not be analyzed
here, and may be conjectured by the reader. That
night Stevens busied himself in preparing letters. Of these
he wrote several. It will not further our progress to look
over him as he writes, and we prefer rather, in this place,
to hurry on events which, it may be the complaint of all
parties, reader not omitted, have been too long suffered
to stagnate. But we trust not. Let us hurry Stevens
through Friday night—the night of that last interview.
Saturday morning, we observe that his appetite is unimpaired.
He discusses the breakfast at Hinkley's as if he
had never heard of suffering. He has said an unctuous
grace. Biscuits hot, of best Ohio flour, are smoking on
his plate. A golden looking mass of best fresh butter is
made to assimilate its luscious qualities with those of the
dryer and hotter substance. A copious bowl of milk, new
from the dugs of old Brindle, stands beside him, patiently
waiting to be honoured by his unscrupulous, but not unfastidious
taste. The grace is said and the gravy follows.
He has a religious regard for the goods and gifts of this life.
He eats heartily, and the thanks which follow, if not from
the bottom of the soul, were sufficiently earnest to have
emanated from the bottom of his stomach. This over, he
has a chat with his hosts. He discusses with old Hinkley
the merits of the new lights. What these new lights were,
at that period, we do not pretend to remember. Among
sectarians, there are periodical new lights which singularly
tend to increase the moral darkness. Then they passed
to the love festivals or feasts,—a pleasant practice of the

Methodist church, which is supposed to be very promotive
of many other good things beside love; though we
are constrained to say that Brother Stevens and Brother
Hinkley—who, it may be remarked, had very long and
stubborn arguments, frequently without discovering, till
they reached the close, that they were thoroughly agreed
in every respect except in words—concurred in the opinion
that there was no portion of the church practice so
highly conducive to the amalgamation of soul with soul,
and all souls with God, as this very practice of love feasts!
Being agreed on this and other subjects, Mr. Hinkley invited
Brother Stevens out to look at his turnips and potatoes;
and when this delicate inquiry was over, towards
ten o'clock in the day, Brother Stevens concluded that he
must take a gallop, he was dyspeptic, felt queerish, his
studies were too close, his mind too busy with the great
concerns of salvation. These are enough to give one
dyspepsia. Of course the hot rolls and mountains of volcanic
butter—steam ejecting—could have produced no
such evil effects upon a labourer in the vineyard. At all
events a gallop was necessary, and the horse was brought.
Brother Hinkley and our matronly sister of the same
name, watched the progress of the pious youth, as, spurring
up the hills, he pursued the usual route, taking at first
the broad highway leading to the eastern country.

There were other eyes that watched the departure of
Brother Stevens with no less interest, but of another kind,
than those of the venerable couple. Our excellent friend,
Calvert, started up on hearing the tread of the horse, and
looking out from his porch, ascertained with some eagerness
of glance that the rider was Alfred Stevens. Now,
why was the interest of Calvert so much greater on this
than on any other previous occasion? We will tell you,
gentle reader. He had been roused at an early hour that
morning by a visit from Ned Hinkley.

“Gran'pa,” was the reverent formula of our fisherman
at beginning, “to-day's the day. I'm pretty certain that
Stevens will be riding out to-day, for he missed the last
Saturday. I'll take my chance for it, therefore, and brush
out ahead of him. I think I've got it pretty straight now,
the place that he goes to, and I'll see if I can't get there
soon enough to put myself in a comfortable fix, so as to
see what's a-going on and what he goes after. Now,

gran'pa, I'll tell you what I want from you—them pocket
pistols of your'n. Bill Hinkley carried off grandad's, and
there's none beside that I can lay hold on.”

“But, Ned, I'm afraid to lend them to you.”

“What 'fraid of?”

“That you'll use them.”

“To be sure I will, if there's any need, gran'pa. What
do I get them for?”

“Ah, yes! but I fear you'll find a necessity where there
is none. You'll be thrusting your head into some fray in
which you may lose your ears.”

“By Jupiter, no! No, gran'pa, I'll wait for the necessity.
I won't look for it. I'm going straight ahead this
time, and to one object only. I think Stevens is a rascal,
and I'm bent to find him out. I've had no disposition to
lick any body but him, ever since he drove Bill Hinkley
off—you and him together.”

“You'll promise me, Ned?”

“Sure as a snag in the forehead of a Mississippi steamer.
Depend upon me.”

“But there must be no quarrelling with Stevens either,
Ned.”

“Look you, gran'pa, if I'm to quarrel with Stevens or
any body else, 'twouldn't be your pistols in my pocket
that would make me set on, and 'twouldn't be the want of
'em that would make me stop. When it's my cue to fight,
look you, I won't need any prompter, in the shape of
friend or pistol. Now that speech is from one of your
poets, pretty near, and ought to convince you that you
may as well lend the puppies and say no more about it.
If you don't you'll only compel me to carry my rifle, and
that'll be something worse to an enemy, and something
heavier for me. Come, come, gran'pa, don't be too scrupulous
in your old age. Your having them is a sufficient
excuse for my having them too. It shows that they ought
to be had.”

“You're logic-chopping this morning, Ned,—see that
you don't get to man-chopping in the afternoon. You
shall have the pistols, but do not use them rashly. I have
kept them simply for defence against invasion; not for
the purpose of quarrel, or revenge.”

“And you've kept them mighty well, gran'pa,” replied
the young man, as he contemplated with an eye of anxious

admiration, the polish of the steel barrels, the nice carving
of the handles, and the fantastic but graceful inlay of
the silver-mounting and setting. The old man regarded
him with a smile.

“Yes, Ned, I've kept them well. They have never
taken life, though they have been repeatedly tried upon
bull's eye and tree-bark. If you will promise me not to
use them to-day, Ned, you shall have them.”

“Take 'em back, gran'pa.”

“Why?”

“Why, I'd feel the meanest in the world to have a
we'pon, and not use it when there's a need to do so; and
I'm half afraid that the temptation of having such beautiful
puppies for myself—twin-puppies, I may say—having
just the same look out of the eyes, and just the same
spots and marks, and, I reckon, just the same way of
giving tongue—I'm half afraid, I say, that to get to be the
owner of them, might tempt me to stand quiet and let a
chap wink at me—maybe laugh outright—maybe suck
in his breath, and give a phew-phew-whistle just while
I'm passing! No! no! gran'pa, take back your words, or
take back your puppies. Won't risk to carry both. I'd
sooner take Patsy Rifle, with all her weight, and no terms
at all.”

“Pshaw, Ned, you're a fool.”

“That's no news, gran'pa, to you or me. But it don't
alter the case. Put up your puppies.”

“No, Ned; you shall have them on your own terms.
Take 'em as they are. I give them to you.”

“And I may shoot any body I please this afternoon,
gran'pa?”

“Ay, ay, Ned—any body—”

Thus far the old man, when he stopped himself, changed
his manner, which was that of playful good-humour, to
that of gravity, while his tones underwent a corresponding
change—

“But, Ned, my son, while I leave it to your discretion,
I yet beg you to proceed cautiously—seek no strife, avoid
it—go not into the crowd—keep from them where you see
them drinking, and do not use these or any weapons for
any trifling provocation. Nothing but the last necessity
of self-preservation justifies the taking of life.”

“Gran'pa,—thank you,—you've touched me in the

very midst of my tender place, by this handsome present.
One of these puppies I'll name after you, and I'll notch it
on the butt. The other I'll call Bill Hinkley, and I won't
notch that. Yours, I'll call my pacific puppy, and I'll use
it only for peace-making purposes. The other I'll call my
bull-pup, and him I'll use for baiting and butting, and
goring. But, as you beg, I promise you I'll keep 'em
both out of mischief as long as I can. Be certain sure
that it won't be my having the pups that'll make me get
into a skrimmage a bit the sooner; for I never was the
man to ask whether my dogs were at hand before I could
say the word, `set-on!' It's a sort of nature in a man that
don't stop to look after his weapons, but naturally expects
to find 'em any how, when his blood's up, and there's a
necessity to do.”

This long speech and strong assurance of his pacific nature
and purposes, did not prevent the speaker from making,
while he spoke, certain dextrous uses of the instruments
which were given into his hands. Right and left were
equally busy; one muzzle was addressed to the candle
upon the mantelpiece, the other pursued the ambulatory
movements of a great black spider upon the wall. The
old man surveyed him with an irrepressible smile. Suddenly
interrupting himself the youth exclaimed,—

“Are they loaded, gran'pa?”

He was answered in the negative.

“Because, if they were,” said he, “and that great
black spider was Brother Stevens, I'd show you in the
twinkle of a musquito, how I'd put a finish to his morning's
work. But I'd use the bull-pup, gran'pa,—see, this
one—the pacific one I'd empty upon him with powder
only, as a sort of feu de joie—and then I'd set up the song
—what's it? ah! Te Deum. A black spider always puts
me in mind of a rascal.”