University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
DAN BUCK GOES TO CHURCH AND RECOGNIZES AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

Weeks came and went over the busy hamlet of
Hucklebury Run, and Mr. Dan Buck had become not
altogether an unpopular member of that little community.
The boys delighted in his stories, and he said
such droll things to the girls that they could talk of
little else. He had disseminated the idea, among the
operatives generally, that he was the son of a merchant
of immense wealth, and that, being a little wild in New
York, his father had consigned him to old Ruggles for
reformation. If “the governor” would only send him
his horse and his dogs, he might go to the devil, and
New York with him: he could get along.

It was Mrs. Ruggles' special ambition to get the
young New Yorker to go to the Crampton church with
her and Leonora. Mr. Ruggles found himself so tired
and so weak, that he had no disposition to take his naps
under the soothing effects of Mr. Wilton's eloquence,
and had relinquished church-going altogether. For this,

the wife and daughter would not have cared at all, if
Mr. Dan Buck had not been quite as averse to accompanying
them as the proprietor himself. The young
man always dressed himself elaborately, took his cane,
and walked off into the woods, and spent the day as
lazily as possible. At last, Mrs. Ruggles took him
seriously to task for his delinquencies. Dan Buck assured
her that there had been a time when he was constant
at the ministrations of the Gospel, and a member
of the Sunday-school; but on one occasion he had a
very dear aunt who dropped dead in church, and since
that time he had found it very difficult to bring himself
to enter a sacred edifice. He could not sit down in a
church, in fact, without thinking about the death of his aunt,
and constantly suffering from the apprehension that he
should meet with a similar fate. “I know,” said Dan
Buck,” that lightning never strikes twice in three places,
but I can't help my feelings.”

At last, however, his anxiety to see Miss Mary
Hammett, of whom the operatives had told him much,
and against whom Mrs. Ruggles and her daughter were
constantly uttering their slanders, overcame his fear of
sudden death, and he announced his determination to
“try it on once.” It was a very happy Sabbath morning
for Mrs. Ruggles. The old carryall was brought
out—a heavy vehicle, with two seats and a top—and
the double of Mrs. Gen. Cadwallader took the back seat
to herself, while Leonora and Mr. Dan Buck occupied
the other. Dan was in very high spirits, considering
the character of the day, the capacity of the horse, and
the apprehensions which the death of his aunt so powerfully
excited in him. He turned out of the road occasionally,

and frightened Mrs. Ruggles with the idea that
the carriage was about to be overset. He whipped the
horse into a run, and then, winding the reins around his
hands, and leaning back as if he had in hand something
immense in the way of animal power and spirit, shouted,
“Take care! take ca-a-a-re! want to kill another man,
don't you?”

Poor Mrs. Ruggles suffered pitifully. She declared
she was never so “scat” in her life, while Dan Buck
and Leonora had the pleasant part of the ride all to
themselves, and seemed to understand each other perfectly.
Leonora was, in fact, very wild. Her mother
declared that she “acted as if she was possessed.” She
laughed at all Dan Buck's drolleries, declared herself
ready to be turned over, hoped the horse would run
away, and performed various most unladylike feats,
simply because her conduct amused Dan Buck, and
frightened and vexed her mother.

In the church, the young man was the impersonation
of gravity. Of all the solemn faces that greeted the
Crampton pastor that morning, there was none of
greater length—certainly none of greater sanctimoniousness—than
that which rose above the shoulders of Dan
Buck; yet for some reason Miss Leonora could hardly
behave decently. When the hymn was given out, the
young man drew a plump song-book from his pocket,
and politely handed it to Leonora, opened at “Betsy
Baker.” He whispered “Amen” and “Hallelujah”
to all the pastor's emphatic utterances, so that none
but Leonora could hear him; and the girl had not self-command
enough to keep within the bounds of decent
behaviour.

The sermon was almost finished, when he seemed to
be suddenly arrested by the turning of a head, not far
before him. For the first time since he had arrived in
Crampton, there was an expression of surprise upon his
face. Leonora caught the expression, and, directing her
eyes to the object which had so absorbed him, found it
to be nothing less than Mary Hammett herself. Leonora
was, of course, disturbed. That something had
produced a profound impression upon the young man
was very evident. After observing her intently for some
minutes, and moving in his seat to obtain a better view,
he leaned over to Leonora, and asked her who she was.

“She is that Hammett girl,” said Leonora, with a
sneer.

“The Devil!” said Mr. Dan Buck.

When the service was completed, and the congregation
crowded from their pews into the aisles, to the
utter consternation of Mrs. Ruggles and her daughter,
Dan Buck left them abruptly, and, rushing to the side
of Mary Hammett, took her hand with much apparent
respect, and greeted her as an old acquaintance. They
saw Mary Hammett's face grow ashy pale, and noticed
that it was with great exertion that she kept herself
from falling. They saw him leaning down, and talking
to her in a low tone, intended only for her ear. They
saw that she made no reply, but that she listened for
every word, and paid no regard to any one else. Then
they saw her lift her pale face to his in silent appeal,
which, as he continued to talk, reddened into an expression
of indignation. As they came out of the
church, he glided away from her, and she, joined by
Arthur Blague, walked off to her home.

Mrs. Ruggles and Leonora were dumb with astonishment
and vexation. The horse and carryall were
brought before the door, and Dan Buck helped the
women to their seats, and drove off. Not a word was
spoken until they had passed the bounds of the village,
when Mrs. Ruggles, unable to restrain herself longer,
burst out with, “What was you doing with that Hammett
girl?”

“One of my cussed blunders,” replied Dan Buck.
“You know how I thought you were Mrs. Gen. Cadwallader,
when I first saw you. Well, I got into just
such another mess as that. I would have sworn she
was a cousin of mine—a poor girl that got deceived,
you know—feller took advantage of her—you understand.
Feller wouldn't marry her, and I cowhided him
—all but killed him. He went to Texas, and was
blowed up in a steamboat, and she went off, the Lord
knows where. I thought I'd found her. You see, it
was a good many years ago, and I'd had a chance to
forget her. I vow I never'll speak to another girl till
I've been introduced to her, as long as I live.”

Now Mr. Dan Buck could not but be conscious that
Mrs. Ruggles and her daughter thought he was lying.
He knew that he was not self-possessed, according to his
habit, and felt that they received his words with incredulity.

“What made her look up to you so?” inquired
Leonora, who had been quite impressed with that part
of the scene.

“Why, you see, I told her that she needn't try to
make me think that she wasn't Jane Buck, and that
Jenny had a mole under her left eye, which I should

know anywhere. Then she lifted up her face, and I
knew it was all day with me—face as smooth as the
back of your hand. Did you see how she blushed to
have me look at her? Gad! I wouldn't have had it
happen for the world; and there was all Crampton
looking on, and seeing me talking to her, and everybody
will think that she's some acquaintance of mine. Just
my luck, always getting into some such a scrape as
that. I felt just as sure when I went to church that
something would happen; knew I should drop down
dead in some way or other.”

Leonora leaned over to Mr. Dan Buck, and whispered
in his ear, “You—lie—sir.”

Then Dan Buck began to swear. He called upon
himself the most terrific judgments, and renounced all
hope of a happy hereafter, if he had ever seen the
woman before, or ever heard her name until he had
heard it in Crampton. From this condition of overwhelming
indignation, he came down, at last, by an
artful gradation to one of injured innocence. This was
his last resort, and it was successful. When he began
to talk about turning his back upon Hucklebury Run
forever, and leaving friends who had become inexpressibly
dear to him, because they doubted his word of
honor, mother and daughter surrendered without conditions;
and before they drove up to the door of the
family mansion, the young man had entirely recovered
his spirits.

Others had noticed this interview between Dan Buck
and Mary Hammett, of course; and she, in her truthfulness,
was almost defenceless, when inquired of concerning
her relations to him. She could not deny that

she had seen him before. She only begged those who
questioned her not to insist on her answering them;
and as all saw that the matter distressed her, they were
well-bred enough to drop the subject. Whatever may
have been their relations to each other, the meeting
filled her with pain, and a vague apprehension of approaching
evil. It seemed to her that her calamities
would have no end. Her experience with Dr. Gilbert
had left upon her a sad impression, and had disturbed
the current of her life. She felt at no liberty to look to
him for further counsel. She could not but be aware,
in some degree, of the absorbing affection which Arthur
entertained for her, and this troubled her more than her
unpleasant passage with Dr. Gilbert. To be greeted at
last by one who knew her, and who had her in his
power, quite overwhelmed her.

Mary went to her room, and, with such calmness as
she could assume, recalled the words that Mr. Dan
Buck had spoken to her. “Mary,” he had said with
offensive familiarity, “you see that I know you. Mum's
the word with me, of course. Very easy to write and
post the old man—thousand dollars in my pocket—but
Dan Buck knows a trick worth two of that. We'll
have a laugh in our sleeves off here by ourselves. Perhaps
you'll be able to speak to me now—know where
you live, and will call round. When will it be most
convenient?”

These little sentences he had dropped into her ear
as a man would drop pebbles into a pool, waiting to see
them strike the bottom, and marking the ripples they
awoke upon the surface. In all his language, there was
something intended beyond its literal interpretation.

The impression upon her was precisely as if he had
said: “Mary, you see that I know you, and that you
are in my power. I will take my revenge for your
contempt of me in other years, in some way, either by
discovering you to those who wish to find you, and
whom you wish to avoid, or you shall favor me—Dan
Buck—with your society.” There was something that
went further than this—that came to her from his hot
breath, voiceless and inarticulate, but more dreadful
than all.

As for Dan Buck, he could not rid himself of the
presence of Mrs. Ruggles and Leonora quickly enough
to meet his impatient wishes. The moment the horse
was out of his hands, he took his cane for a stroll. He
was excited and exultant. Crampton, which had begun
to grow very tiresome to him, had suddenly become a
very interesting place. He found a woman in his
power—the woman of all the world whom he would
have chosen. Coolly he recalled the scene of the morning,
and then as coolly he undertook to calculate how he
could make the most of the knowledge he had acquired.

The conclusions at which the young man arrived
during his Sunday afternoon reflections, will be made
apparent in the interview which he had determined upon
having with Miss Hammett. A few days passed away,
during which, by ardent devotion to Leonora and her
mother, he succeeded in driving away the cloud with
which the events of the Sabbath had shadowed their
spirits. One night he announced his intention of walking
to Crampton to see his tailor, hoping “by all that
was good and holy” that he shouldn't run against a

schoolma'am, or any of that sort of cattle, and asking
Leonora to pray for him.

Mr. Dan Buck was undertaking, as he felt, rather
a hazardous experiment—at least one of doubtful issue.
It summoned into action all the bad boldness of his
nature, and required all the hardness and insensitiveness
he had acquired in years of unprincipled and unbridled
living. He knocked at Mrs. Blague's door, boldly
announced his name, and requested to see Miss Ham
mett. Now Mrs. Blague had already been directed by
Mary to refuse her to Mr. Dan Buck, if he should ever
call. Further than this, she had made Mrs. Blague
promise that if he should ever find his way into the
house and into her presence, she (Miss Hammett) should
not be left alone with him. Mrs. Blague had agreed
faithfully to do as Mary desired, but when she met Dan
Buck face to face, her determination faded at once.
There was that in his eye and manner which showed
that he had no idea of being denied. He was in the
hall and in the parlor, before poor, stammering Mrs.
Blague could command her tongue at all. She felt that
she could do nothing with such a man as he, and, instead
of turning him out of her house as, in imagination,
she had been doing all the week, with certain very
lively and uncomfortable fleas in his ear, she went directly
to Mary Hammett's room, and told her with almost
a breathless fright that Mr. Buck was in the parlor,
and wished to see her.

“I can't go down—I will not go down,” exclaimed
Mary, in great excitement. “You must tell him, Mrs.
Blague, that I am sick, and cannot see him—that he
must excuse me.”

Mrs. Blague left Mary very hesitatingly, and descended
the stairs, but before she reached them, she
heard steps retreating through the hall, and knew that
Dan Buck had been listening. She found him, however,
coolly whipping his trousers with his cane, and
devoutly regarding a picture of the Holy Family upon
the wall.

“Miss Hammett wishes me to say,” said Mrs.
Blague tremblingly, “that she is sick, and that you
must excuse her to-night.”

Dan Buck laughed. “That's good, now—excellent!”
exclaimed he. “Why, madam,” he continued, “she
would not miss seeing me to-night for any money. We
are old friends, we are; and she's only fooling you.
You go straight back to her, and tell her that I haven't
any time to-night for jokes, or I would indulge her.
Tell her, too, that I have something very important to
say to her. She'll understand it.”

All this Mr. Dan Buck spoke in a loud tone, conscious,
apparently, that Mary Hammett was listening
above, and desirous that she should hear every word.
Mary knew that the material of which Mrs. Blague was
made, could not withstand him, and by a desperate impulse—before
the lady could start on her way back—
she flew to the head of the stairs, slid down the steps
as if she had been a sprite, and stood before her persecutor,
her eyes flashing with anger.

“What have you to say to me, sir?” she inquired,
standing before him, every fibre of her frame quivering
with excitement.

Dan Buck answered not a word, but coolly pointed
to Mrs. Blague.

“Mrs. Blague will remain with me,” said Miss
Hammett firmly.

“It makes very little difference with me whether she
stays or goes,” said he, coolly. “I rather think you
wouldn't like to have her hear all that will pass between
you and me. I'm sure if you can stand it, I
can.” And then he whipped his trousers again, and
walked off with the pointer's head between his lips, and
took another view of the Holy Family.

Miss Hammett grasped Mrs. Blague's hand, drew
her to the sofa, and both sat down. Mr. Buck turned
around, looked at them for a moment, and said with a
sneer, “It won't work.”

“If you are a gentleman, Mr. Buck,” said Mary
Hammett, “you will have nothing to say to me that
Mrs. Blague should not hear; and now, if you have any
business with me, I beg you to despatch it, and leave
me.”

The young man drew a chair deliberately in front
of the women, and sat down. “Now I'm going to tell
you a story—one of the funniest things you ever heard,”
said he. “Once there was an old man who had a great
deal of money, and lived in a splendid house, and kept
a splendid store, full of clerks and porters, and all that
sort of thing, but his clerks and porters weren't good
enough for him to tread on. Well, this old man had a
splendid daughter, who had her favors for some folks,
and for some she hadn't any. This daughter's name
was—”

“Mr. Buck,” interposed Mary, hurriedly, “if you
are a gentleman—”

“But I'm not a gentleman,” said Mr. Buck. “I

never was a gentleman—don't pretend, you know, to
any thing of the kind. Well, as I was saying, this
daughter's name was—”

“Mr. Buck!”

“What?”

“Have you no pity?”

“None to speak of—mean to get some next time I
go to market—put it down on memorandum.” Dan
Buck coolly drew out a pencil and paper, and wrote
down and read aloud, “Pity, one pint.”

“Have you a sister, Mr. Buck?”

“Nary sister—do little something for you in the
way of brothers, if you want.”

“Have you a mother?”

“All out of mother—sorry, but stock exhausted.”

“Have you any honor?” said Miss Hammett,
angry at the insolent irony with which he had met her
efforts to find some sensitive point in his nature, to
which she might effectually appeal.

“You might as well stop that kind of dodge,” responded
Dan Buck. “You won't make any thing out
of it, and I shall not get through with my story. As I
was saying, the old man had a daughter, whose name—
was—Mary—”

Mary lifted both her hands in deprecation of further
progress.

“I see,” said the young man maliciously, “that you
do not want this woman to hear the next word, but I
swear I'll speak it if you don't send her out of the room,
and worse words than that, too.”

To this purpose of the adroit villain, Mary was at
length subdued; and she bade Mrs. Blague retire. Mr.

Dan Buck followed her to the door, shut it after her,
turned the key in the lock, and then withdrew it, and
put it into his pocket. “Now,” said he, “nobody can
disturb us, and we shall have a charming time.”

Mary rose to her feet alarmed. “What do you
want of me?” she inquired.

“Oh! sit down, sit down. Allow me to conduct you
to a better seat than that.” And the scoundrel tried to
put his arm around the frightened girl. In an instant
she eluded him, and ran to raise the window. He followed,
and held it down.

“What do you want of me?” she repeated.

“A kiss.”

“Dan Buck,” said Mary fiercely, “I understand you;
and now you must understand me. There are things
in this world that I dread more than discovery. You
know what they are, and now if you do not desist from
your purpose to insult me, I will scream so that all
Crampton shall hear me. Your silence will never be
purchased by me at the price of dishonor. I will not
even allow you the privileges of a friend. Now what
have you to say?”

“Of course, I understand all this. I understood it
before I came here; and now you must understand that
Dan Buck looks out for number one, and is bound to
make his pile. It's kisses or cash with Dan Buck—
Mary or money. You know that I could get a thousand
dollars out of the old man for tipping him the
wink, and I can't afford to lose the rhino. You are
nothing to me. You hate me, and think I'm the devil
and all, and I shan't do any thing to change your opinion.
You always had favors enough for you know

who, but nothing for this child. Now what can you do
for a feller?”

Mary was angry and disgusted with the mercenary
scoundrel, but she was relieved. “You know that I
am poor,” said she, “and labor for every dollar I receive?”

“That's not my look-out,” responded Dan Buck. “I
know that you have only to say the word to have all
the money you want; but if you won't say it, why, I
can't help it. It doesn't seem to be just the cheese for
Dan Buck to pocket your change, I know; but he knows
where you can get more, whenever you care more about
the money than you do about your own will.”

Dan Buck said all this leaning forward in his chair
with his elbows on his knees, and his hands employed
in beating a tattoo upon his front teeth with the pointer's
head. Such cool, imperturbable impudence Mary
had never seen. After a few moments of thought she
said: “How much money must I give you to secure
your silence, and free myself from your importunities?”

“All you've got.”

“And what security will you give me that your
part of the bargain will be fulfilled?”

“The word of a man of honor,” replied Dan Buck,
with special unction, “provided you've saved up any
thing handsome.”

Mary smiled in spite of her vexation. “You have
no honor, Dan Buck,” said she.

Dan Buck's temper was entirely unruffled by this
very uncomplimentary statement. “Wrong,” said he,
“got considerable. Any quantity left over when I failed,
you know—give you a mortgage on the lot.”

“Then you are really in earnest in wishing to take
this money from me?” said Miss Hammett.

“I'd rather it would come out of the old man, of
course,” said he. “Now you don't consider that I'm
really making a great sacrifice in consenting to take up
with what you've got to give me, for the sake of accommodating
you.”

Mary reflected for a minute, then rose and said: “Excuse
me for a moment.”

“Where are you going?”

“Up stairs for my money.”

Dan Buck drew the parlor key from his pocket, put
it into the lock, and turning the bolt, said, “All fair
now, no dodges,” and then he opened the door and let
her out.

The moment she retired, he went to the centre-table,
turned over the cards and billet-doux, and among them
found a note in Mary's hand-writing. This he carefully
placed in his pocket-book, and was engaged in another
critical examination of the Holy Family when the
young woman returned. Mary handed him a roll of
bank-notes, the result mainly of her year's earnings, and
said: “Here is all the money I have in the world. If
you choose to take the whole of it, be it so. Whatever
you do, I wish you to understand that I consider you
the blackest villain I ever saw.”

Dan Buck took the notes, unfolded them upon his
knee, counted them over, pocketed them, and, rising to
his feet, said: “You've got off cheap; and now, if you
ever blow on me, I'll have the old man on your track
in thirty-six hours. I wish you a good evening.”

Then Dan Buck stuck his jockey cap upon his head,

walked out of the house with a careless whistle upon
his lips, and took his way back to Hucklebury Run.

When, at the end of the week, Arthur came home to
spend the Sabbath, his mother told him the whole story
of Dan Buck's visit so far as she knew it. Arthur raved
with indignation. The thought that his angel, his impersonation
of all earthly and heavenly graces, should be subjected
to the insolence of so low and unprincipled a man as
Dan Buck, aroused every thing fierce in his nature. There
was nothing in the way of retribution or revenge that he
did not feel ready to undertake. He determined to call
the villain to an account, and so informed his mother.
Nothing could have alarmed Mrs. Blague more than this
declaration. She immediately saw before her imagination
the mangled corpse of her son, and tried words and
tears in vain to dissuade him from his purpose. She did
not see the secret spring of her son's ungovernable wrath,
and was frightened at its manifestations. Accordingly,
on the first opportunity, she sought Miss Hammett's
room, and communicated to her the condition of her
son's mind, and besought her good offices in pacifying
him. Under the circumstances, Miss Hammett was
alarmed, and begged for an immediate private interview
with him in the parlor.

Seated there before him, she told him how necessary
to her peace it was that Arthur should take no notice
whatever of Mr. Dan Buck's insults. She could not
tell him why it was so, but she assured him that no
one could interfere between the young scoundrel and
herself without doing her an essential unkindness. On
that occasion, and on all future occasions, she must be
left absolutely alone in the management of her relations

to Mr. Dan Buck. If she should ever need assistance,
the first one to whom she should look for aid would be
Arthur Blague. Arthur was softened and conciliated
by this latter assurance, but the close of the interview
left him mystified and uncomfortable. What had Mary
Hammett been—what had she done—to make her the
subject of Dan Buck's persecutions? Why should she
be unwilling to have her cause espoused by a man who
was ready and anxious to protect her? What right
had a man of Dan Buck's character to force himself into
her society? By what means had he been able to do
this with impunity? These questions made him very
miserable, and his Sabbath was a day of moody abstraction,
which all of Mary's delicate and cordial attentions
failed to alleviate.