University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
WRESTLING.

Alfred Stevens, as he walked behind his young companion,
observed him with a more deliberate survey than
he had yet taken. Hitherto, the young man had challenged
but little of his scrutiny. He had simply noted him for a
tall youth, yet in the green, who appeared of a sulky,
retiring nature, and whose looks had seemed to him on
one or more occasions to manifest something like distaste
for himself. The complacency of Stevens, however, was
too well grounded to be much disturbed by such an exhibition.
Perhaps, indeed, he would have derived a malicious
sort of satisfaction in making a presumptuous lad
feel his inferiority. He had just that smallness of spirit
which would find its triumph in the success of such a performance.

He now observed that the youth was well formed, tall,
not ungraceful — with features of singular intelligence,
though subdued to the verge of sadness. His face was
pale and thin, his eyes were a little sunken, and his air,
expression, and general outside, denoted a youth of keen
sensibilities, who had suffered some disappointment.

In making this examination, Alfred Stevens was not
awakened to any generous purposes. He designed, in reality,
nothing more than to acquit himself of the duty he
had undertaken with the smallest possible exertion. His
own mind was one of that mediocre character which the

heart never informs. His scrutiny, therefore, though it
enabled him to perceive that the young man had qualities
of worth, was not such as to prompt any real curiosity to
examine further. A really superior mind would have been
moved to look into these resources; and, without other motive
than that of bringing a young, laboring, and ardent
soul out of the meshes of a new and bewildering thought or
situation, would have addressed himself to the task with
that degree of solicitous earnestness which disarms prejudice
and invites and wins confidence. But, with his first
impression, that the whole business was a “bore,” our benevolent
young teacher determined on getting through with
it with the least possible effort. He saw that the youth
carried a book under his arm, the externals of which, so
uniform and discouraging as they appear in every legal
library, could not well be questioned as belonging to some
such venerable receptacle of barbarous phrase and rigid
authority. The circumstance afforded him an occasion to
begin a conversation, the opening of which, with all his
coolness, was a subject of some awkwardness.

“You seem a student like myself, Mr. Hinkley, and, if
I mistake not from the appearance of your book, you are
taking up the profession which I am about to lay down.”

“This is a law-book, sir,” said Hinkley, in accents which
were rather meek than cold; “it is Blackstone.”

“Ah! I thought as much. Have you been long a student?”

“I may scarcely consider myself one yet. I have read,
sir, rather than studied.”

“A good distinction, not often made. But, do you incline
to law seriously?”

“Yes, sir — I know no occupation to which I so much
incline.”

“The law is a very arduous profession. It requires a
rare union of industry, talent, and knowledge of mankind,
to be a good lawyer.”

“I should think so, sir.”

“Few succeed where thousands fail. Young men are
very apt to mistake inclination for ability; and to be a poor
lawyer—”

“Is to be worse than poor — is to be despicable!” replied
Hinkley with a half-smile, as he interrupted a speech
which might have been construed into a very contemptuous
commentary on his own pretensions. It would seem
that the young man had so understood it. He continued
thus:—

“It may be so with me, sir. It is not improbable that
I deceive myself, and confound inclination with ability.”

“Oh, pardon me, my dear young friend,” said Stevens
patronizingly; “but I do not say so. I utter a mere generality.
Of course, I can know nothing on the subject of
your abilities. I should be glad to know. I should like
to converse with you. But the law is very arduous, very
exacting. It requires a good mind, and it requires the
whole of it. There is no such thing as being a good lawyer
from merely reading law. You can't bolt it as we do
food in this country. We must chew upon it. It must be
well digested. You seem to have the right notion on this
subject. I should judge so from two things: the distinction
which you made between the reader and the student;
and the fact that your appearance is that of the student. I
am afraid, my young friend, that you overwork yourself.
You look thin, and pale, and unhappy. You should be
careful that your passion for study is not indulged in at
the peril of your health.”

The frame of the young man seemed to be suddenly agitated.
His face was flushed, and a keen, quick, flash of
anger seemed to lighten in his eyes as he looked up to the
paternal counsellor and replied: —

“I thank you, sir, for your interest, but it is premature.
I am not conscious that my health suffers from this or any
other cause.”

“Nay, my young friend, do not deceive yourself. You
perhaps underrate your own industry. It is a very difficult
matter to decide how much we can do and how much we
ought to do, in the way of study. No mere thinking can
determine this matter for us. It can only be decided by
being able to see what others do and can endure. In a little
country village like this, one can not easily determine;
and the difficulty may be increased somewhat by one's own
conviction, of the immense deal that one has to learn. If
you were to spend a year in some tolerably large community.
Perhaps you meditate some such plan?”

“I do not, sir,” was the cold reply.

“Indeed; and have you no desire that way?”

“None!”

“Very strange! at your time of life the natural desire is
to go into the great world. Even the student fancies he
can learn better there than he can anywhere else — and so
he can.”

“Indeed, sir: if I may be so bold to ask, why, with this
opinion, have you left the great city to bury yourself in a
miserable village like Charlemont?”

The question was so quickly put, and with so much apparent
keenness, that Stevens found the tables suddenly
reversed. But he was in nowise discomposed. He answered
promptly.

“You forget,” he said, “that I was speaking of very
young men, of an ambitious temper, who were seeking to
become lawyers. The student of divinity may very well
be supposed to be one who would withdraw himself from
the scene of ambition, strifes, vanities, and tumultuous passions.”

“You speak, sir, as if there were a material difference in
our years?” said Hinkley inquiringly.

“Perhaps it is less than in our experience, my young
friend,” was the answer of the other, betraying that quiet
sense of superiority which would have been felt more gallingly

by Hinkley had he been of a less modest nature. Still,
it had the effect of arousing some of the animal in his
blood, and he responded in a sentence which was not entirely
without its sneer, though it probably passed without
penetrating such a buff of self-esteem as guarded the sensibilities
of our adventurer.

“You are fortunate sir, if, at your time of life, you have
succeeded in withdrawing your thoughts and feelings, with
your person, from such scenes of ambition as you speak of.
But I fancy the passions dwell with us in the country as
well as with the wiser people in the town; and I am not
sure that there is any pursuit much more free from their
intrusion than that of the law.”

“Your remark exhibits penetration, Mr. Hinkley. I
should not be surprised if you have chosen your profession
properly. Still, I should counsel you not to overwork
yourself. Bear with me, sir; I feel an interest in your behalf,
and I must think you do so. Allow me to be something
of a judge in this matter. You are aware, sir, that I
too have been a lawyer.”

The youth bowed stiffly.

“If I can lend you any assistance in your studies, I will
do so. Let me arrange them for you, and portion out your
time. I know something about that, and will save you from
injuring your health. On this point you evidently need instruction.
You are doing yourself hurt. Your appearance
is matter of distress and apprehension to your parents.”

“To my parents, sir?”

“Your mother, I mean! She spoke to me about you this
very morning. She is distressed at some unaccountable
changes which have taken place in your manners, your
health, your personal appearance. Of course I can say
nothing on the subject of the past, or of these changes; but
I may be permitted to say that your present looks do not
betoken health, and I have supposed this to be on account
of your studies. I promised your good mother to confer

with you, and counsel you, and if I can be of any
help—”

“You are very good, sir!”

The young man spoke bitterly. His gorge was rising.
It was not easy to suppress his vexation with his mother,
and the indignation which he felt at the supercilious approaches
of the agent whom she had employed. Besides,
his mind, not less than his feelings, was rising in vigor in
due degree with the pressure put upon it.

“You are very good, sir, and I am very much obliged to
you. I could have wished, however, that my mother had
not given you this trouble, sir. She certainly must have
been thinking of Mr. John Cross. She could scarcely have
hoped that any good could have resulted to me, from the
counsel of one who is so little older than myself.”

This speech made our adventurer elevate his eyebrows.
He absolutely stopped short to look upon the speaker.
William Hinkley stopped short also. His eye encountered
that of Stevens with an expression as full of defiance as
firmness. His cheeks glowed with the generous indignation
which filled his veins.

“This fellow has something in him after all,” was the
involuntary reflection that rose to the other's mind. The
effect was, however, not very beneficial to his own manner.
Instead of having the effect of impressing upon Stevens
the necessity of working cautiously, the show of defiance
which he saw tended to provoke and annoy him. The
youth had displayed so much propriety in his anger, had
been so moderate as well as firm, and had uttered his answer
with so much dignity and correctness, that he felt
himself rebuked. To be encountered by an unsophisticated
boy, and foiled, though but for an instant — slightly estimated,
though but by a youth, and him too, a mere rustic —
was mortifying to the self-esteem that rather precipitately
hurried to resent it.”

“You take it seriously, Mr. Hinkley. But surely an

offer of service need not be mistaken. As for the trifling
difference which may be in our years, that is perhaps nothing
to the difference which may be in our experience, our
knowledge of the world, our opportunities and studies.”

“Surely, sir; all these may be, but at all events we are
not bound to assume their existence until it is shown.”

“Oh, you are likely to prove an adept in the law, Mr.
Hinkley.”

“I trust, sir, that your progress may be as great in the
church.”

“Ha! — do I understand you? There is war between us
then?” said Stevens, watching the animated and speaking
countenance of William Hinkley with increasing curiosity.

“Ay, sir — there is!” was the spirited reply of the
youth. “Let it be war; I am the better pleased, sir, that
you are the first to proclaim it.”

“Very good,” said Stevens, “be it so, if you will. At
all events you can have no objection to say why it should
be so.”

“Do you ask, sir?”

“Surely; for I can not guess.”

“You are less sagacious, then, than I had fancied you.
You, scarce older than myself — a stranger among us —
come to me in the language of a father, or a master, and
without asking what I have of feeling, or what I lack of
sense, undertake deliberately to wound the one, while insolently
presuming to inform the other.”

“At the request of your own mother!”

“Pshaw! what man of sense or honesty would urge such
a plea. Years, and long intimacy, and wisdom admitted to
be superior, could alone justify the presumption.”

The cheeks of Stevens became scalding hot.

“Young man!” he exclaimed, “there is something more
than this!”

“What! would it need more were our positions reversed?”

demanded Hinkley with a promptness that surprised himself.

“Perhaps not! would you provoke me to personal violence?”

“Ha! might I hope for that? surely you forget that you
are a churchman?”

Stevens paused awhile before he answered. His eyes
looked vacantly around him. By this time they had left
the more thickly-settled parts of the village considerably
behind them. But a few more dwellings lay along the path
on which they were approaching. On the left, a gorge
opened in the hills by which the valley was dotted, which
seemed a pathway, and did indeed lead to one or more
dwellings which were out of sight in the opposite valley.
The region to which this pathway led was very secluded,
and the eye of Stevens surveyed it for a few moments in
silence. The words of Hinkley unquestionably conveyed a
challenge. According to the practice of the country, as a
lawyer, he would have been bound to have taken it as such.
A moment was required for reflection. His former and
present position caused a conflict in his mind. The last
sentence of Hinkley, and a sudden glimpse which he just
then caught of the residence of Margaret Cooper, determined
his answer.

“I thank you, young man, for reminding me of my
duties. You had nearly provoked the old passions and old
practices into revival. I forgive you — you misunderstand
me clearly. I know not how I have offended you, for my
only purpose was to serve your mother and yourself. I
may have done this unwisely. I will not attempt to prove
that I have not. At all events, assured of my own motives,
I leave you to yourself. You will probably ere long feel
the injustice you have done me!”

He continued on his way, leaving William Hinkley
almost rooted to the spot. The poor youth was actually
stunned, not by what was said to him, but by the sudden

consciousness of his own vehemence. He had expressed
himself with a boldness and an energy of which neither
himself nor his friend, until now, would have thought him
capable. A moment's pause in the provocation, and the
feelings which had goaded him on were taken with a
revulsion quite as sudden. As he knew not well what he
had said, so he fancied he had said everything precisely
as the passionate thought had suggested it in his own mind.
Already he began to blame himself — to feel that he had
done wrong — that there had been nothing in the conduct
or manner of Stevens, however unpleasant, to justify his
own violence; and that the true secret of his anger was to
be found in that instinctive hostility which he had felt for
his rival from the first. The more he mused, the more he
became humbled by his thoughts; and when he recollected
the avowed profession of Stevens his shame increased. He
felt how shocking it was to intimate to a sworn non-combatant
the idea of a personal conflict. To what point of
self-abasement his thoughts would have carried him, may
only be conjectured; he might have hurried forward to
overtake his antagonist with the distinct purpose of making
the most ample apology; nay, more, such was the distinct
thought which was now pressing upon his mind, when
he was saved from this humiliation by perceiving that
Stevens had already reached, and was about to enter the
dwelling of Margaret Cooper. With this sight, every
thought and feeling gave place to that of baffled love, and
disappointed affection. With a bitter groan he turned up
the gorge, and soon shut himself from sight of the now
hateful habitation.