University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

Had a bolt suddenly flashed and thundered at the feet
of the two friends, falling from a clear sky in April, they
could not have been more astounded. They started, as
with one impulse, in the same moment, to their feet.

“Keep quiet,” said the intruder—“don't let me interrupt
you in so pleasant a conversation. I'd like to hear
you out. I'm refreshed by it. What you say is so very
holy and sermon-like, that I'm like a new man when I
hear it. Sit down, Brother Stevens, and begin again;
sit down, Ben, my good fellow, and don't look so scary!
You look as if you had a window in your ribs already!”

The intruder had not moved, though he had startled the
conspirators. He did not seem to share in their excitement.
He was very coolly seated, with his legs deliberately
crossed, while his two hands parted the bushes before
him in order to display his visage—perhaps with the
modest design of showing to the stranger that his friend
had grievously misrepresented its expression. Certainly,
no one could say that, at this moment, it lacked any thing
of spirit or intelligence. Never were eyes more keen—
never were lips more emphatically made to denote sarcasm
and hostility. The whole face was alive with scorn, and
hate, and bitterness; and there was definance enough in the
glance to have put wings to fifty bullets.

His coolness, the composure which his position and
words manifested, awakened the anger of Brother Stevens
as soon as the first feeling of surprise had passed away.
He felt, in a moment, that the game was up with him—

that he could no longer play the hypocrite in Charlemont.
He must either keep his pledges to Margaret Cooper, without
delay or excuse, or he must abandon all other designs
which his profligate heart may have suggested in its cruel
purposes against her peace.

“Scoundrel!” he exclaimed—“how came you here?
What have you heard?”

“Good words, Brother Stevens. You forget, you are
a parson.”

“Brain the rascal!” exclaimed the whiskered stranger,
looking more fierce than ever. The same idea seemed to
prompt the actions of Stevens. Both of them, at the same
moment advanced upon the intruder, with their whips uplifted;
but still Ned Hinkley did not rise. With his legs
still crossed, he kept his position, simply lifting from the
sward beside him, where they had been placed conveniently,
his two “puppies.” One of these he grasped in
his right hand and presented as his enemies approached.

“This, gentlemen,” said he, “is my peace-maker. It
says, `keep your distance.' This is my bull-pup, or peace
breaker—it says `come on.' Listen to which you please.
It's all the same to me. Both are ready to answer you,
and I can hardly keep 'em from giving tongue. The
bull-pup longs to say something to you, Brother Stevens
—the pacificator is disposed to trim your whiskers, Brother
Ben; and I say, for 'em both, come on, you black
hearted rascals, if you want to know whether a girl of
Charlemont can find a man of Charlemont to fight her
battles. I'm man enough, by the Eternal! for both of
you!”

The effect of Hinkley's speech was equally great upon
himself and the enemy. He sprang to his feet, ere the
last sentence was concluded, and they recoiled in something
like indecent haste. The language of determination
was even more strongly expressed by the looks of the rustic
than by his language and action. They backed hurriedly
at his approach.

“What! won't you stand?—won't you answer to your
villanies?—won't you fight? Pull out your barkers and
blaze away, you small-souled scamps; I long to have a
crack at you—here and there—both at a time! Aint you
willing? I'm the sleepy trout-fisherman! Don't you know
me? You've wakened me up, my lads, and I sha'nt sleep

again in a hurry! As for you, Alfred Stevens—you were
ready to fight Bill Hinkley—here's another of the breed—
won't you fight him?”

“Yes—give me one of your pistols, if you dare, and
take your stand,” said Stevens boldly.

“You're a cunning chap—give you one of my puppies
—a stick for my own head—while this bush-whiskered
chap cudgels me over from behind. No! no! none of
that! Besides, these pistols were a gift from a good man;
they sha'n't be disgraced by the handling of a bad one.
Get your own weapons, Brother Stevens, and every man
to his tree.”

“They are in Charlemont!”

“Well!—you'll meet me there then?”

“Yes!” was the somewhat eager answer of Stevens,
“I will meet you there—to-morrow morning—”

“Sunday—no! no!”

“Monday then;—this evening, if we get home in season.”

“It's a bargain then,” replied Hinkley, “though I can
hardly keep from giving you the teeth of the bull! As for
big-whiskered Ben, there, I'd like to let him taste my pacificator.
I'd just like to brush up his whiskers with gun-powder—they
look to have been done up with bear's
grease before, and have a mighty fine curl; but if I
wouldn't frizzle them better than ever a speckled hen had
her feathers frizzled, then I don't know the virtues of gun-powder.
On Monday morning, Brother Stevens!”

“Ay, ay! on Monday morning!”

Had Ned Hinkley been more a man of the world—had
he not been a simple countryman, he would have seen, in
the eagerness of Stevens to make this arrangement, something,
which would have rendered him suspicious of his
truth. The instantaneous thought of the arch-hypocrite,
convinced him that he could never return to Charlemont if
this discovery was once made there. His first impulse
was to put it out of the power of Ned Hinkley to convey
the tidings. We do not say that he would have deliberately
murdered him; but, under such an impulse of rage
and disappointment as governed him in the first moments
of detection, murder has been often done. He would probably
have beaten him into incapacity with his whip—
which had a heavy handle—had not the rustic been sufficiently

prepared. The pistols of Stevens were in his
valise, but he had no purpose of fighting, on equal terms,
with a fellow who spoke with the confidence of one who
knew how to use his tools; and when the simple fellow,
assuming that he would return to Charlemont for his chattels,
offered him the meeting there, he eagerly caught at
the suggestion as affording himself and friend the means of
final escape. It was not merely the pistols of Hinkley
of which he had a fear. But he well knew how extreme
would be the danger, should the rustic gather together the
people of Ellisland, with the story of his fraud, and the
cruel consequences to the beauty of Charlemont, by which
the deception had been followed. But the simple youth,
ignorant of the language of libertinism, had never once
suspected the fatal lapse from virtue of which Margaret
Cooper had been guilty. He was too unfamiliar with the
annals and practices of such criminals, to gather this fact
from the equivocal words, and half spoken sentences, and
sly looks of the confederates. Had he dreamed this—
had it, for a moment, entered into his conjecturings—that
such had been the case, he would probably have shot down
the seducer without a word of warning. But that the crime
was other than prospective, he had not the smallest fancy;
and this may have been another reason why he took the
chances of Stevens's return to Charlemont, and let him off
at the moment.

“Even should he not return;” such may have been his
reflection—“I have prevented mischief at least. He will
be able to do no harm. Margaret Cooper shall be warned
of her escape, and become humbler at least, if not wiser,
in consequence. At all events, the eyes of uncle Hinkley
will be opened, and poor Bill be restored to us again!”

“And now mount, you scamps,” said Hinkley, pressing
upon the two with presented pistols. “I'm eager to
send big-whiskered Ben home to his mother; and to see
you, Brother Stevens, on your way back to Charlemont.
I can hardly keep hands off you till then; and it's only to
do so, that I hurry you. If you stay, looking black, and
mouthing together, I can't stand it. I will have a crack at
you. My peace-maker longs to brush up them whiskers.
My bull-pup is eager to take you, Brother Stevens, by the
chin. Mount you, as quick as you can, before I do mischief.”

Backing towards their horses, they yielded to the advancing
muzzels, which the instinct of fear made them
loth to turn their backs upon. Never were two hopeful
projectors so suddenly abashed—so completely baffled.
Hinkley, advancing with moderate pace, now thrust forward
one, and now the other pistol, accompanying the
action with a specific sentence corresponding to each, in
manner and form as follows:—

“Back, parson—back whiskers! Better turn, and look
out for the roots, as you go forward. There's no seeing
your way along the road by looking down the throats of
my puppies. If you want to be sure that they'll follow
till you're mounted, you have my word for it. No mistake,
I tell you. They're too eager on scent, to lose sight
of you in a hurry, and they're ready to give tongue at a
moment's warning. Take care not to stumble, whiskers,
or pacificator'll be into your brush.”

“I'll pay you for this!” exclaimed Stevens, with a rage
which was not less really felt than judiciously expressed.
“Wait till we meet!”

“Ay, ay! I'll wait; but be in a hurry. Turn now,
your nags are at your backs. Turn and mount!”

In this way they reached the tree where their steeds
were fastened. Thus, with the muzzle of a pistol bearing
close upon the body of each—the click of the cock they
had heard—the finger close to the trigger they saw—they
were made to mount—in momentary apprehension that
the countryman, whose determined character was sufficiently
seen in his face, might yet change his resolve, and
with wanton hand, riddle their bodies with his bullets. It
was only when they were mounted, that they drew a
breath of partial confidence.

“Now,” said Hinkley, “my lads, let there be few last
words between you. The sooner you're off the better.
As for you, Alfred Stevens, the sooner you're back in
Charlemont the more daylight we'll have to go upon. I'll
be waiting you, I reckon, when you come.”

“Ay, and you may wait;” said Stevens, as the speaker
turned off and proceeded to the spot where his own horse
was fastened.

“You won't return, of course?” said his companion.

“No! I must now return with you, thanks to your interference.
By Heavens, Ben, I knew, at your coming,

that you would do mischief; you have been a marplot
ever; and after this, I am half resolved to forswear your
society for ever.”

“Nay, nay! do not say so, Warham. It was unfortunate,
I grant you; but how the devil should either of us
guess that such a Turk as that was in the bush?”

“Enough for the present,” said the other. “It is not
now whether I wish to ride with you or not. There is
no choice. There is no return to Charlemont.”

“And that's the name of the place, is it?”

“Yes! yes! Much good may the knowledge of it do
you.”

“How fortunate that this silly fellow concluded to let
you off on such a promise. What an ass!”

“Yes! but he may grow wiser! Put spurs to your
jade, and let us see what her heels are good for, for the
next three hours. I do not yet feel secure. The simpleton
may grow wiser and change his mind.”

“He can scarcely do us harm now, if he does.”

“Indeed!” said Stevens—“you know nothing. There's
such a thing as hue and cry, and its not unfrequently
practised in these regions, when the sheriff is not at hand
and constables are scarce. Every man is then a sheriff.”

“Well—but there's no law-process against us!”

“You are a born simpleton, I think;” said Stevens
with little scruple. He was too much mortified to be very
heedful of the feelings of his companion. “There needs
no law in such a case, at least for the capture of a supposed
criminal; and, for that matter, they do not find it
necessary for his punishment either. Hark ye, Ben—
there's a farmhouse!”

“Yes, I see it!”

“Don't you smell tar?—They're running it now!”

“I think I do smell something like it. What of it?”

“Do you see that bed hanging from yon window?”

“Yes! of course I see it!”

“It is a feather bed!”

“Well,—what of that? Why tell me this stuff? Of
course I can guess as well as you that it's a feather bed,
since I see a flock of geese in the yard with their necks
all bare.”

“Hark ye, then! There's something more than this,
which you may yet see! Touch up your mare. If this

fellow brings the mob at Ellisland upon us, that tar will be
run, and that feather-bed gutted, for our benefit. What
they took from the geese will be bestowed on us. Do you
understand me? Did you ever hear of a man whose coat
was made of tar and feathers, and furnished at the expense
of the county?”

“Hush! for God's sake, Warham,—you make my blood
run cold with your hideous notions!”

“That fellow offered to frizzle your whiskers. These
would anoint them with tar in which your bear's oil would
be of little use.”

“Ha! don't you hear a noise?” demanded the whiskered
companion, looking behind him.

“I think I do;” replied the other musingly.

“A great noise!” continued Don Whiskerandos.

“Yes, it seems to me that it is a great noise.”

“Like people shouting?”

“Somewhat—yes! by my soul, that does sound something
like a shout!—”

“And there!—Don't stop to look and listen, Warham;”
cried his companion; “it's no time for meditation.
They're coming!—hark!—” and with a single glance
behind him, with eyes dilating with the novel apprehensions
of receiving a garment, unsolicited, bestowed by the
bounty of the country,—he drove his spurs into the flanks
of his mare and went ahead like an arrow. Stevens smiled
in spite of his vexation.

“D—n him!” he muttered as he rode forward; “it's
some satisfaction at least to scare the soul out of him!”