University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
SOUSING A GURNET.

The disappearance of Margaret Cooper was succeeded
by a shriek from above — a single shriek — a cry of terror
and despair; and in the same instant the form of William
Hinkley might have been seen cleaving the air, with the
boldness of a bird, secure always of his wing, and descending
into the lake as nearly as it was possible for him to
come, to the spot where she had sunk. Our cooler fisherman
looked up to the abrupt eminence, just above his own
head, from which his devoted cousin had sprung.

“By gemini!” he exclaimed with an air of serious apprehension,
“if William Hinkley hasn't knocked his life
out by that plunge he's more lucky than I think him. It's
well the lake's deep enough in this quarter else he'd have
tried the strength of hard head against harder rock below.
But there's no time for such nice calculations! We can
all swim — that's a comfort.”

Thus speaking, he followed the example of his cousin,
though more quietly, plunging off from his lowlier perch,
and cleaving the water, headforemost, with as little commotion
as a sullen stone would make sent directly downward
to the deep. By this time, however, our former companion,
Stevens, had done the same thing. Stevens was
no coward, but he had no enthusiasm. He obeyed few impulses.
His proceedings were all the results of calculation.
He could swim as well as his neighbors. He had no apprehensions

on that score; but he disliked cold water; and
there was an involuntary shrug of the shoulder and shiver
of the limbs before he committed himself to the water, which
he did with all the deliberation of the cat, who, longing for
fish, is yet unwilling to wet her own feet. His deliberation,
and the nearness of his position to Margaret Cooper, were
so far favorable to his design that he succeeded in finding
her first. It must be understood that the events, which we
have taken so much time to tell, occupied but a few seconds
in the performance. Stevens was in the water quite as
quickly as Ned Hinkley, and only not so soon as his more
devoted and desperate cousin. If it was an advantage to
him to come first in contact with the form of Margaret
Cooper, it had nearly proved fatal to him also. In the
moment when he encountered her, her outstretched and
grasping arms, encircled his neck. They rose together,
but he was nearly strangled, and but for the timely interposition
of the two cousins, they must probably have both
perished.

It was the fortune of our fisherman to relieve the maiden,
whom he bore to the opposite shore with a coolness, a skill
and spirit, which enabled him to save himself from her desperate
but unconscious struggles, while supporting her with
a degree of ease and strength which had been acquired
while teaching some dozen of the village urchins how to
practise an art in which he himself was reckoned a great
proficient.

It was fortunate for Stevens that the charities of William
Hinkley were more active and indulgent than his own, since,
without the timely succor and aid which he afforded, that
devout young gentleman would have been made to discontinue
his studies very suddenly and have furnished a summary
conclusion to this veracious narrative — a consummation
which, if it be as devoutly wished by the reader as by
the writer, will be a much greater source of annoyance to
our publisher than it has proved already. Never had poor

mortal been compelled to drink, at one time, a greater
quantity of that celestial beverage, which the Reverend Mr.
Pierpont insists is the only liquor drunk at the hotels of
heaven. We should be sorry to misrepresent that very
gentle gentleman, but we believe that this is substantially
his idea. It was unfortunate for Stevens that, previously
to this, he had never been accustomed to drink much of this
beverage in its original strength anywhere. He had been
too much in the habit of diluting it; and being very temperate
always in his enjoyment of the creature comforts, he
had never taken it, even when thus diluted, except in very
moderate quantities.

In consequence of his former abstemiousness, the quantity
which he now swallowed nearly strangled him. He
was about to take his last draught with many wry faces,
when the timely arms of the two cousins, by no very sparing
application of force withdrew him from the grasp of
the damsel; and without very well understanding the process,
or any particulars of his extrication, he found himself
stretched upon the banks over which he had lately wandered,
never dreaming of any such catastrophe; discharging
from his stomach by no effort of his own, a large quantity
of foreign ingredients — the ordinary effect, we are given
to understand, of every inordinate indulgence in strong
waters.

Our excellent old friend, Mr. Calvert, was soon upon the
spot, and while Ned Hinkley was despatched to the village
for assistance, he took himself the charge of recovering the
unconscious maiden. Half-forgetting his hostility, William
Hinkley undertook the same good service to Stevens, who
really seemed to need succor much more than his fair companion.
While William Hinkley busied himself by rolling,
friction, fanning, and other practices, employed in such
cases, to bring his patient back to life, he could not forbear
an occasional glance to the spot where, at a little distance,
lay the object of his affections.

Her face was toward him, as she lay upon her side. Her
head was supported on the lap of the old man. Her long
hair hung dishevelled, of a more glossy black now when
filled with water. Her eyes were shut, and the dark
fringes of their lids lay like a pencil-streak across the pale,
prominent orbs which they served to bind together. The
glow of indignant pride with which she was wont to receive
his approaches had all disappeared in the mortal struggle
for life through which she had lately gone; and pure, as
seemingly free from every passion, her pale beauties appeared
to his doating eye the very perfection of human
loveliness. Her breast now heaved convulsively — deep
sighs poured their way through her parted lips. Her eyes
alternately opened upon but shut against the light, and,
finally, the exertions of the old man were rewarded as the
golden gleam of expression began to relight and reillumine
those features which seemed never to be without it.

She recovered her consciousness, started up, made an
effort to rise, but, reeling with inability, sunk down again
into the paternal grasp of the old man.

“Mr. Calvert!” she murmured.

“You are safe, my daughter,” said the old man.

“But how did it happen? — where am I?”

“By the lake.”

“Ah! I remember. I was drowning. I felt it all — the
choking — the struggle — the water in my ears and eyes!
It was a dreadful feeling. How did I come here? Who
saved me?”

“Ned Hinkley brought you to land, but he was helped
by his cousin William, who assisted the stranger.”

“The stranger? ah! yes, I remember: but where is he?”

She looked around wildly and anxiously, and beholding
William Hinkley at a little distance, busy with the still unconscious
form of Stevens, a quick, fearful shudder passed
over her frame. She almost crouched into the old man's
arms as she asked, in husky accents —

“He is not dead — he lives?”

“I hope so. He breathes.”

She waited for no more, but, starting to her feet, she
staggered to the spot where Stevens lay. The old man
would have prevented her.

“You are feeble; you will do yourself harm. Better, if
you are able to walk, hurry homeward with me, when you
can change your clothes.”

“Would you have me ungrateful?” she exclaimed; “shall
I neglect him when he risked his life for me?”

There was a consciousness in her mind that it was not all
gratitude which moved her, for the deathly paleness of her
cheek was now succeeded by a warm blush which denoted
a yet stronger and warmer emotion. The keen eyes of
William Hinkley understood the meaning of this significant
but unsyllabling mode of utterance, and his eyes spoke the
reproach to hers which his lips left unsaid: —

“Ah! did I not risk my life too, to prevent — to save?
When would she feel such an interest in me? when would
she look thus were my life at stake?”

“He will not be neglected,” said the old man, gently
endeavoring to restrain her. Perhaps she would not have
given much heed to the interruption, for hers was the
strength of an unfettered will, one accustomed to have way,
but that, at this moment, the eyes of Stevens unclosed and
met her own. His consciousness had returned, and, under
the increasing expression in his looks, she sunk back, and
permitted the old man to lead her along the homeward
path. More than once she looked back, but, with the assurance
of Mr. Calvert that there was no more danger to be
apprehended, she continued to advance; the worthy old
man, as they went, seeking to divert her mind, by pleasant
and choice anecdotes of which his memory had abundant
stores, from dwelling upon the unpleasant and exciting
event which had just taken place.

Margaret Cooper, whose habits previously had kept her

from much intimacy with the village sage, was insensibly
taken by his gentleness, the purity of his taste, the choiceness
of his expression, the extent of his resources. She
wondered how a mind so full should have remained unknown
to her so long — committing the error, very common
to persons of strong will and determined self-esteem, of assuming
that she should, as a matter of inevitable necessity,
have known everything and everybody of which the knowledge
is at all desirable.

In pleasant discourse he beguiled her progress, until Ned
Hinkley was met returning with horses — the pathway did
not admit of a vehicle, and the village had none less cumbrous
than cart and wagon — on one of which she mounted,
refusing all support or assistance; and when Mr. Calvert
insisted upon walking beside her, she grasped the bough
of a tree, broke off a switch, and, giving an arch but good-natured
smile and nod to the old man, laid it smartly over
the horse's flank, and in a few moments was out of sight.

“The girl is smart,” said Calvert, as he followed her
retreating form with his eye — “too smart! She speaks
well — has evidently read. No wonder that William loves
her; but she will never do for him. She has no humility.
Pride is the demon in her heart. Pride will overthrow
her. These woods spoil her. Solitude is the natural nurse
of self-esteem, particularly where it is strong at first, and
is coupled with anything like talent. Better for such a
one if sickness, and strife, and suffering, had taken her at
the cradle, and nursed her with the milk of self-denial,
which is the only humility worth having. And yet, why
should I speak of her, when the sting remains in my own
soul — when I yet feel the pang of my feebleness and self-reproach?
Alas! I should school none. The voice speaks
to me ever, `Old man, to thy prayers! Thy own knees are
yet stubborn as thy neck!'”

Leaving him to the becoming abasement of that delusive
self-comfort which ministers to our vain-glory, and which

this good old man had so happily succeeded in rebuking,
we will return to the spot where we left our other parties.
Ned Hinkley had already joined them. With his horse he
had providently brought a suit of his own clothes for the
stranger, which, though made of homespun, and not of the
most modern fashion, were yet warm and comfortable, and
as Stevens was compelled to think, infinitely preferable to
the chilly and dripping garments which he wore. A few
moments, in the cover of the woods, sufficed the neophyte
to make the alteration; while the two cousins, to whom the
exigencies of forester and fisherman life were more familiar,
prepared to walk the water out of their own habits, by giving
rapid circulation to their blood and limbs. While their
preparations were in progress, however, Ned Hinkley could
not deny himself the pleasure of discoursing at length on
the subject of the late disaster.

“Stranger,” he said, “I must tell you that you've had
a souse in as fine a fishing-pond as you'll meet with from
here to Salt river. I reckon, now, that while you were in,
you never thought for a moment of the noble trout that
inhabit it.”

“I certainly did not,” said the other.

“There, now! I could have sworn it. That a man should
go with his eyes open into a country without ever asking
what sort of folks lived there! Isn't it monstrous?”

“It certainly seems like a neglect of the first duty of a
traveller,” said Stevens good-humoredly; “let me not show
myself heedless of another. Let me thank you, gentlemen,
for saving my life. I believe I owe it to one or both of
you.”

“To him, not to me,” said Ned Hinkley, pointing to his
cousin. William was at a little distance, looking sullenly
upon the two with eyes which, if dark and moody, seemed
to denote a thought which was anywhere else but in the
scene around him.

“He saved you, and I saved the woman. I wouldn't

have a woman drowned in this lake for all the houses in
Charlemont.”

“Ah! why?”

“'Twould spoil it for fishing for ever.”

“Why would a woman do this more than a man?”

“For a very good reason, my friend. Because the ghost
of a woman talks, and a man's don't, they say. The ghost
of a man says what it wants to say with its eyes; a woman's
with her tongue. You know there's nothing scares fish so
much as one's talking.”

“I have heard so. But is it so clear that there is such
a difference between ghosts? How is it known that the
female does all the talking?”

“Oh, that's beyond dispute. There's a case that we all
know about — all here in Charlemont — the case of Joe Barney's
millpond. Barney lost one of his children and one
of his negroes in the pond — drowned as a judgment, they
say, for fishing a Sunday. That didn't make any difference
with the fish: you could catch them there just the same as
before. But when old Mrs. Frey fell in, crossing the dam,
the case was altered. You might sit there for hours and
days, night and day, and bob till you were weary; devil a
bite after that! Now, what could make the difference but
the tongue? Mother Frey had a tongue of her own, I tell
you. 'Twas going when she fell in, and I reckon's been
going ever since. She was a sulphury, spiteful body, to
be sure, and some said she poisoned the fish if she didn't
scare them. To my thinking, 'twas the tongue.”

Stevens had been something seduced from his gravity by
the blunt humor and unexpected manner of Ned Hinkley;
besides, having been served, if not saved, by his hands,
something, perhaps, of attention was due to what he had
to say; but he recollected the assumed character which he
had to maintain — something doubtful, too, if he had not
already impaired it in the sight and hearing of those who
had come so opportunely but so unexpectedly to his relief.

He recovered his composure and dignity; forbore to smile
at the story which might otherwise have provoked not only
smile but corresponding answer; and, by the sudden coolness
of his manner, tended to confirm in Ned Hinkley's
bosom the half-formed hostility which the cause of his
cousin had originally taught him to feel.

“I'll lick the conceit out of him yet!” he muttered, as
Stevens, turning away, ascended to the spot where William
Hinkley stood.

“I owe you thanks, Mr. Hinkley,” he began.

The young man interrupted him.

“You owe me nothing, sir,” he answered hastily, and
prepared to turn away.

“You have saved my life, sir.”

“I should have saved your dog's life, sir, in the same
situation. I have done but an act of duty.”

“But, Mr. Hinkley—”

“Your horse is ready for you, sir,” said the young man,
turning off abruptly, and darting up the sides of the hill, remote
from the pathway, and burying himself in the contiguous
forests.

“Strange!” exclaimed the neophyte — “this is very
strange!”

“Not so strange, stranger, as that I should stand your
groom, without being brought up to such a business for any
man. Here's your nag, sir.”

“I thank you — I would not willingly trespass,” he replied,
as he relieved our angler from his grasp upon the
bridle.

“You're welcome without the thanks, stranger. I reckon
you know the route you come. Up hill, follow the track
to the top, take the left turn to the valley, then you'll see
the houses, and can follow your own nose or your nag's.
Either's straight enough to carry you to his rack. You'll
find your clothes at your boarding-house about the time
that you'll get there.”

“Nay, sir, I already owe you much. Let them not
trouble you. I will take them myself.”

“No, no, stranger!” was the reply of our fisherman, as
he stooped down and busied himself in making the garments
into a compact bundle; “I'm not the man to leave off without
doing the thing I begin to do. I sometimes do more
than I bargain for — sometimes lick a man soundly when I
set out only to tweak his nose; but I make it a sort of
Christian law never to do less. You may reckon to find
your clothes home by the time you get there. There's your
road.”

“A regular pair of cubs!” muttered the horseman, as he
ascended the hill.

“To purse up his mouth as if I was giving him root-drink,
when I was telling him about Mother Frey's spoiling
the fish! Let him take care — he may get the vinegar next
time, and not the fish!”

And, with these characteristic commentaries, the parties
separated for the time.