University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

The youth barely stopped to swallow his breakfast,
when he set off from the village. He managed his movements
with considerable caution; and, fetching a circuit
from an opposite quarter, after having ridden some five
miles out of his way, passed into the road which he suspected
that Stevens would pursue. We do not care to
show the detailed processes by which he arrived at this
conclusion. The reader may take for granted that he had
heard from some way-side farmer, that a stranger rode by
his cottage once a week, wearing such and such breeches,
and mounted upon a nag of a certain colour and with certain
qualities. Enough to say, that Ned Hinkley was
tolerably certain of his route and man. He sped on accordingly—did
not once hesitate at turns, right or left,
forks and cross-roads, but keeping an inflexible course,
he placed himself at such a point on the road as to leave it
no longer doubtful, should Stevens pass, of the place which
usually brought him up. Here he dismounted, hurried his
horse out of sight and hearing in the woods, and choosing
a position for himself, with some nicety, along the roadside,
put himself in close cover, where stretching his frame
at length, he commenced the difficult labour of cooling his
impatience with his cogitations. But cogitating, with a
fellow of his blood, rather whets impatience. He was
monstrous restive. At his fishing-pond, with a trout to
hook, he would have lain for hours, as patient as philosophy
itself, and as inflexible as the solid rock over which he
brooded. But without an angle at his hand, how could he
keep quiet? Not by thinking, surely; and, least of all, by
thinking about that person for whom his hostility was so
active. Thinking of Stevens, by a natural association, reminded
him of the pistols which Calvert had given him.
Nothing could be more natural than to draw them from his
bosom. Again and again he examined them in fascinated
contemplation. He had already charged them, and he
amused himself by thinking of the mischief he could do,
by a single touch upon the trigger, to a poor little woodrat,

that once or twice ran along a decaying log some five
steps from his feet. But his object being secrecy, the rat
brushed his whiskers in safety. Still he amused himself
by aiming at this and other objects, until suddenly reminded
of the very important difference which he had promised
Calvert to make between the pistols in his future use of
them. With this recollection he drew out his knife, and
laid the weapons before him.

“This,” said he, after a careful examination, in which
he fancied he discovered some slight difference between
them in the hang of the trigger,—“this shall be my bull-pup—this
my peace-maker!”

The latter was marked accordingly with a “P,” carved
rudely enough by one whose hand was much more practised
in slitting the weasand of a buck, than in cutting out,
with crayon, or Italian crow-quill, the ungainly forms of
the Roman alphabet. Ned Hinkley shook his head with
some misgiving when the work was done; as he could not
but see that he had somewhat impaired the beauty of the
peace-maker's butt by the hang-dog looking initial which
he had grafted upon it. But when he recollected the subordinate
uses to which this “puppy” was to be put, and
considered how unlikely, in his case, it would be exposed
to sight in comparison with its more masculine brother, he
grew partially reconciled to an evil which was now, indeed,
irreparable.

It does not require that we should bother the reader
with the numberless thoughts and fancies which bothered
him, in the three mortal hours in which he kept his watch.
Nothing but the hope that he should ultimately be compensated
to the utmost by a full discovery of all that he
sought to know, could possibly have sustained him during
the trying ordeal. At every new spasm of impatience
which he felt, he drew up his legs, shifted from one side
to the other, and growled out some small thunder in the
shape of a threat that “it would be only so much the worse
for him when the time came!” Him—meaning Stevens.

At last Stevens came. He watched the progress of his
enemy with keen eyes; and, with his “bull-pup” in his
hand, which a sort of instinct made him keep in the direction
of the highway, he followed his form upon the road.
When he was out of sight and hearing, the spy jumped to
his feet. The game, he felt, was secure now—in one
respect at least.

“He's for Ellisland. That was no bad guess then. He
might have been for Fergus, or Jonesboro, or Debarre, but
there's no turn now in the clear track to Ellisland. He's
there for certain.”

Ned Hinkley carefully restored his pistols to his bosom
and buttoned up. He was mounted in a few moments,
and pressing slowly forward in pursuit. He had his own
plans which we will not attempt to fathom; but we fear
we shall be compelled to admit that he was not sufficiently
a getleman to scruple at turning scout in a time of peace,
(though, with him, by the way, and thus he justified, he is
in pursuit of an enemy, and consequantly is at war,) and
dodging about, under cover, spying out the secrets of the
land, and not very fastidious in listening to conversation
that does not exactly concern him. We fear that there is
some such flaw in the character of Ned Hinkley, though,
otherwise, a good, hardy fellow—with a rough and tumble
sort of good nature, which, having bloodied your nose, would
put a knife-handle down your back, and apply a handful
of cobwebs to the nasal extremity in order to arrest the
hæmorrhage. We are sorry that there is such a defect in
his character; but we did not put it there. We should
prefer that he should be perfect—the reader will believe
us—but there are grave lamentations enough over the failures
of humanity to render our homilies unnecessary.
Ned Hinkley was not a gentleman, and the only thing to
be said in his behalf, is, that he was modest enough to
make no pretensions to the character. As he once said in
a row, at the company muster:—

“I'm blackguard enough, on this occasion, to whip e'er
a gentleman among you!”

Without any dream of such a spectre at his heels to disturb
his imagination, Alfred Stevens was pursuing his way
towards Ellisland, at that easy travelling gait, which is the
best for man and beast, vulgarly called a “dog-trot.”
Some very fine and fanciful people insist upon calling it a
“jog-trot.” We beg leave, in this place, to set them right.
Every trot is a jog, and so, for that matter, is every canter.
A dog-trot takes its name from the even motion of the
smaller quadruped, when he is seized with no particular
mania, and is yet disposed to go stubbornly forward. It
is in more classical dialect, the festina lente motion. It is
regularly forward, and therefore fast—it never puts the

animal out of breath, and is therefore slow. Nobody ever
saw a dog practice this gait, with a tin cannister at his tail,
and a huddle of school-boys at his heels. No! it is the
travelling motion, considering equally the health of all
parties, and the necessity of getting on.

In this desire, Ned Hinkley pressed too closely on the
heels of Stevens. He once nearly overhauled him; and,
falling back, he subdued his speed, to what, in the same
semi-figurative language, he styled “the puppy-trot.”
Observing these respective gaits, Brother Stevens rode into
Ellisland at a moderately late dinner-hour, and the pursuer
followed at an unspeakable, but not great, distance behind
him. We will, henceforward, after a brief glance at Ellisland,
confine ourselves more particularly to the progress of
Brother Stevens.

Ellisland was one of those little villages to which geographers
scarcely accord a place upon the maps. It is not
honoured with a dot in any map that we have ever seen of
Kentucky. But, for all this, it is a place! Some day the
name will be changed into Acarnania or Etolia, Epirus or
Scandinavia, and then be sure you shall hear of it. Already,
the village lawyers—there are two of them—have
been discussing the propriety of a change to something
classical; and we do not doubt that, before long, their stupidity
will become infectious. Under these circumstances
Ellisland will catch a name that will stick. At present,
you would probably never hear of the place, were it not
necessary to our purposes and those of Brother Stevens.
It has its tavern and blacksmith shop,—its church,—the
meanest fabric in the village,—its post-office and public
well and trough. There is also a rack pro bono publico,
but as it is in front of the tavern, the owner of that establishment
has not wholly succeeded in convincing the people
that it was put there with simple reference to the public
convenience. The tavern-keeper is, politically, a quadrupled
personage. He combines the four offices of post-master,
justice of the peace, town council and publican;
and is considered a monstrous small person with all. The
truth is, reader—this aside—he has been democrat and
whig, alternately, every second year of his political life.
His present politics, being loco-foco, are in Ellisland considered
contra bonos mores. It is hoped that he will be

dismissed from office, and a memorial to that effect is in
preparation; but the days of Harrison—“and Tyler too”—
have not yet come round, and Jerry Sunderland, who
knows what his enemies are driving at, whirls his coat-skirts,
and snaps his fingers, in scorn of all their machinations.
He has a friend at Washington, who spoons in the
back parlour of the White House—in other words, is a
member of the Kitchen Cabinet, of which, be it said, en
passant, there never was a President of the United States
yet entirely without one—and—there never will be! So
much for politics and Ellisland.

There was some crowd in the village on the day of
Brother Stevens's arrival. Saturday is a well known day
in the western and southern country for making a village
gathering; and when Brother Stevens, having hitched his
horse at the public rack, pushed his way to the post-office, he
had no small crowd to set aside. He had just deposited
his letters, received others in return, answered some ten or
fifteen questions which Jerry Sunderland, P. M., Q. U., N.
P., M. C., publican and sinner—such were all deservedly
his titles—had thought it necessary to address to him,
when he was suddenly startled by a familiar tap upon the
shoulder;—such a tap as leads the recipient to imagine
that he is about to be honoured with the affectionate salutation
of some John Doe or Richard Roe, of the law. Stevens
turned with some feeling of annoyance, if not misgiving,
and met the arch, smiling and very complacent visage
of a tall, slender young gentleman in black bushy whiskers
and a green coat, who seized him by the hand and shook
it heartily, while a chuckling half-suppressed laughter gurgling
in his throat, for a moment, forbade the attempt to
speak. Stevens seemed disquieted and looked around him
suspiciously.

“What! you here, Ben?”

“Ay, you see me! You didn't expect to see me, Warham—”

“Hush!” was the whispered word of Stevens, again
looking round him in trepidation.

“Oh! ay!” said the other with a sly chuckle, and also
in a whisper—“Mr. Stevens—Brother Stevens—hem! I
did not think. How is your holiness to-day?”

“Come aside,” muttered Stevens; and taking the arm
of the incautious speaker, he led him away from the crowd,

and took the way out of the village. Their meeting and
departure did not occasion much if any sensation. The
visiters in the village were all too busy in discussing the
drink and doctrines, pretty equally distributed, of Jerry,
the publican. But there was one eye that noted the meeting
of the friends—that beheld the concern and confusion
of Stevens—that saw their movements and followed their
departing steps.

“Take your horse,—where is he?” demanded Stevens.

“Here, at hand—but what do you mean to do?”

“Nothing, but get out of hearing and sight;—for your
long tongue, Ben, and significant face would blab any
secret however deep.”

“Ah! did I not say that I would find you out? Did you
get my last letter?”

“Ay, I did: but I'm devilish sorry, Ben, that you've
come. You'll do mischief. You have always been a
marplot.”

“Never! never! You don't know me.”

“Don't I?—but get your horse and let's go into the
woods, while we talk over matters.”

“Why not leave the nags here?”

“For a very good reason. My course lies in that direction,
so that I am in my way; while yours, if your purpose
be to go back to Frankfort, will lie on the upper
side. Neither of us need come back to the village.”

“And you think to shuffle me off so soon, do you?”

“What would you have me do?”

“Why, give us a peep at this beauty—this Altamira of
yours, at least.”

“Impossible! Do not think of it Ben; you'd spoil all.
But, get the horse. These billet-heads will suspect mischief
if they see us talking together, particularly when
they behold your conceited action. This political landlord
will surmise that you are a second Aaron Burr, about to
beat up recruits to conquer California. Your big whiskers—what
an atrocious pair!—with your standing collar,
will confirm the impression.”

The two were soon mounted, and rode into the adjoining
woods. They were only a stone's throw from the
village when Stevens alighted, followed by his companion.
They hitched their horses to some swinging branches of
a sheltering tree, and going aside a few paces beyond,

seated themselves upon the grass, as they fancied, in a
place of perfect security.

“And now, Ben, what in truth brings you here?” demanded
Stevens in tones of voice and with a look which
betrayed any thing but satisfaction with the visit.

“Curiosity, I tell you, and the legs of my horse.”

“Pshaw, you have some other motive.”

“No, 'pon honour. I resolved to find you out—to see
what you were driving at, and where! I could only guess
a part from your letter to Barnabas, and that costive
scrawl with which you honoured me. Perhaps, too,—
and give my friendship credit for the attempt—I came
with some hope to save you.”

“Save me—from what”

“Why, wedlock—the accursed thing! The club is in
terror lest you should forget your vows. So glowing
were your descriptions of your Cleopatra, that we knew
not what to make. We feared every thing.”

“Why, Barnabas might have opened your eyes. He
knew better.”

“You're not married then?”

“Pshaw,—no!”

“Nor engaged?”

The other laughed as he replied,—

“Why, on that head, the least said the better. The
roving commission permits you to run up any flag that
the occasion requires.”

“Ah! you sly dog!—and what success?”

“Come, come, Ben, you must not be so inquisitive;
the game's my own, you know; and the rules of the club
give me immunity from a fellow member.”

“By Gad! I'll resign! I must see this forest beauty.”

“Impossible.”

“Where's she? How will you prevent?”

“By a very easy process! Do you know the bird that
shrieks farthest from her young ones when the fowler is
at hand? I'll follow her example.”

“I'll follow you to the uttermost ends of the earth,
Warham?”

“Hush! you forget! Am I not Brother Stevens? Ha!
ha! ha! You are not sufficiently reverent, brother.
See you no divinity in my look and bearing. Hark you,

Ben, I've been a sort of small divinity in the eyes of a
whole flock for a month past!”

“You pray?”

“And preach!”

“Ha! ha! ha! Devilish good; but I must see you in
order to believe. I must, indeed, Brother Stevens. Why,
man, think of it,—success in this enterprise will make
you head of the fraternity—you will be declared Pope,—
but you must have witnesses!”

“So I think,—and hark ye, Ben”—laying a finger on
the arm of the other—“I am successful!”

“What! you don't say so! This Queen, this Princess
of Egypt, Cleopatra, Altamira—eh?”

“Is mine—soul and body—she is mine!”

“And is what you say—come, come, you don't mean
that such a splendid woman as you describe—such a
genius, poet, painter, musician,—beauty too!—you don't
mean to say that—”

“I do; every bit of it.”

“Gad! what a fellow! What a lucky dog! But you
must let me see her, Warham!”

“What! to spoil all—to blurt out the truth?—for with
every disposition to fib, you lack the ability, No! no!
Ben; when the game's up; when I'm tired of the sport,
and feel the necessity of looking out fresh viands; you
shall then know all. I'll give the clue into your own hands,
and you may follow it to your heart's content. But not
now!”

“But, how will you get rid of me, mon ami, if my
curiosity is stubborn?”

“Do as the kill-deer does. Travel from the nest. Go
home with you, rather than you should succeed in your
impertinence, and have you expelled from the club for
thrusting your spoon into the dish of a brother member.”

“You're a Turk, with no bowels of compassion. But,
at all events, you promise me the dish when you're done
with it? You give me the preference?”

“I do!”

“Swear by Beelzebub and Mahomet; by Jupiter Ammon
and Johannes Secundus; by the ghost of Cardinal
Bembo, and the gridiron of the fraternity!”

“Ay, and by the virginity of Queen Elizabeth!”

“Simulacrum! no! no! no such oath for me! That's

swearing by the thing that is not, was not—could not
be! You shall swear by the oaths of the club—you must
be bound on the gridiron of the fraternity, before I believe
you. Swear!”

“You are as tenacious as the ghost of buried Denmark.
But you shall be satisfied. I swear by the mystic gridiron
of the fraternity, and by the legs thereof, of which
the images are Beelzebub, Mahomet, Johannes Secundus,
and so forth—nay, by that memorable volume, so revered
in the eyes of the club, the new edition of the “Basiad,”
of which who among us has been the true exponent—
that profound mystery of sweets, fathomed hourly, yet
unfathomable still,—for which the commentators, already
legions, are hourly becoming legions more;—by these
and by the mysteries of the mirror that reflects not our
own, but the image we desire;—by these things; by all
things that among the brotherhood are held potent, I
swear to—”

“Give me the preference in the favour of this princess
—the clue to find her when you have left her, and the
assurance that you will get a surfeit as soon as possible!
swear!”

“Nay! nay! I swear not to that last! I shall hold
on while appetite holds, and make all efforts not to grow
dyspeptic in a hurry. I'll keep my stomach for a dainty,
be sure, as long as I can. I were no brother, worthy of
our order, if I did not.”

“Well! well!—to the rest! Swear to the rest, and I
am satisfied.”

“You go back then instanter?”

“What! this very day?”

“This hour!”

“The d—l! you don't mean that, Warham?” returned
the other in some consternation.

“Ay! this very hour. You must swear to that. Your
oath must precede mine.”

“Ah! man, remember I only got here last night—long
ride—hard trotting horse. We have not seen each other
for months. I have a cursed sight to tell you, about the
boys—girls too—love, law, logic, politics. Do you know
they talk of running you for the house?”

“All in good season, Ben, not now. No! no! you
shall see me when you least look for me, and there will

be time enough for all these matters then. They'll keep.
For the present, let me say to you that we must part
now within the hour. You must swear not to dog my
steps, and I will swear to give you carte blanche, and the
first privileges at my princess, when I leave her. This is
my bargain. I make no other.”

“I've a great mind not to leave you;” said the other
doggedly.

“And what will that resolution bring you, do you
fancy? Do you suppose I am to be tracked in such a
manner? No, Ben! The effect will be to make me set
off for the east instantly, whether you go with me or not;
and an equally certain effect will be to make us cut loose
for ever.”

“You're a d—d hard colt to manage;” said the other
moodily.

“I sha'n't let myself be straddled by every horse-boy, I
assure you.”

“Come, come, old fellow, that's too much like horse-play.
Don't be angry with me. I'll accept your conditions.”

“Very good,” said Stevens—“if you did not, Ben, it
would be no better for you; for, otherwise, you should
never even see my beauty!”

“Is she so very beautiful, old boy?”

“A queen, I tell you! a proud, high-spirited, wild
beauty of the mountains,—a thing of fire and majesty—a
glorious woman, full of song and sentiment and ambition!—
a genius, I tell you—who can improvise like Corinne, and,
by the way, continually reminds one of that glorious creature.
In Italy, she would have been greater than Corinne.”

“And you've won her,—and she loves you?”

“Ay,—to doting!—I found her a sort of eagle,—soaring,
striving,—always with an eye upon the hills, and fighting
with the sunbeams. I have subdued her. She is now
like a timid fawn that trembles at the very falling of a
leaf in the forests. She pants with hope to see me, and
pants with tremulous delight when I come. Still, she
shows every now and then, a glimmering of that eagle
spirit which she had at first. She flashes up suddenly,
but soon sinks again. Fancy a creature, an idolater of
fame before, suddenly made captive by love, and you have
a vain, partial image of my forest princess.”

“What a lucky dog! You'll marry her yet, old boy, in
spite of all!”

“Pshaw! You are green to talk so.”

“You'll be devilish loth to give her up—I'm afraid, I'll
have to wait a cursed long time.”

“No, not long! Do not despair. Easy won, easy
valued.”

“And was she easily won?”

“Very! the game was a short one. She is a mere
country girl, you know, but sixteen or thereabouts—suspecting
nobody, and never dreaming that she had a heart
or passions at all. She thought only of her poetry and her
books. It was only necessary to work upon heart and passions
while talking of poetry and books, and they carried
her out of her depth before she could recover. She's wiser
now, Ben, I can assure you, and will require more dexterity
to keep than to conquer.”

“And she has no brother to worry a body—no d—d
ugly Hobnail, who has a fancy for her, and may make a
window between the ribs of a gallant, such as nature never
intended, with the ounce bullet of some d—d old fashioned
seven foot rifle—eh?”

“There was a silly chap, one Hinkley, who tried it on
me—actually challenged me, though I was playing parson,
and there might have been work for me but for his own
bull-headed father, who came to my rescue, beat the boy
and drove him from the place. There is nobody else to
give me any annoyance, unless it be a sort of half-witted
chap, a cousin of the former,—a sleepy dog that is never,
I believe, entirely awake unless when he's trout-fishing.
He has squinted at me, as if he could quarrel if he dared,
but the lad is dull—too dull to be very troublesome. You
might kiss his grandmother under his nose, and he would
probably regard it only as a compliment to her superior
virtues, and would thank you accordingly—”

A voice a little to the left interrupted the speaker.

“So he does, my brave parson, for his grandmother's
sake and his own;” were the words of the speaker. They
turned in sudden amaze to the spot whence the sounds
issued. The bushes opening in this quarter, presented to
the astonished eyes of Brother Stevens, the perfect image
of the dull lad of whom he had been speaking. There was
Ned Hinkley in proper person—perfectly awake, yet not

trout-fishing! A sarcastic grin was upon his visage, and
rolling his eyes with a malicious leer, he repeated the
words which had first interrupted the progress of the dialogue
between the friends.

“I thank you, Brother Stevens, for the compliment to
my grandmother's virtues. I thank you, on her account
as well as my own. I'm very grateful, I assure you, very
grateful, very!”