University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
BLOWS — A CRISIS.

But this mood lasted not long. Youth, pride, anger,
asserted themselves before the lapse of many minutes.
Darker feelings got possession of his mind. He rose to his
feet. If love was baffled, was there not revenge? Then
came the recollection of his cousin's counsel. Should this
artful stranger triumph in everything? Margaret Cooper
had scarcely disguised the interest which she felt in him.
Nay, had not that exulting glance of the eye declared that
she, at least, knew what was the purpose of Stevens in
seeking the secluded village? His own wrongs were also
present to his mind. This usurper had possessed himself
of the affections of all he loved — of all of whose love he
had till then felt himself secure — all but the good old
schoolmaster, and the sturdy schoolmate and cousin. And
how soon might he deprive him even of these? That was
a new fear! So rapid had been the stranger's progress —
so adroitly had he insinuated himself into this Eden of the
wilderness — bringing discontent and suffering in his train
— that the now thoroughly-miserable youth began to fancy
that nothing could be safe from his influence. In a short
time his garden would all be overrun, and his loveliest
plants would wither.

Was there no remedy for this? There was! and traversing
the solemn recesses of that wood, he meditated the
various modes by which the redress of wrong, and slight,

and indignity, were to be sought. He brooded over images
of strife, and dark and savage ideas of power rioting over
its victim, with entirely new feelings — feelings new at
least to him. We have not succeeded in doing him justice,
nor in our own design, if we have failed to show that he
was naturally gentle of heart, rigidly conscientious, a lover
of justice for its own sake, and solicitously sensitive on the
subject of another's feelings. But the sense of suffering
will blind the best judgment, and the feeling of injury will
arouse and irritate the gentlest nature. Besides, William
Hinkley, though meek and conscientious, had not passed
through his youth, in the beautiful but wild border country
in which he lived, without having been informed, and somewhat
influenced, by those characteristic ideas of the modes
and manner in which personal wrongs were to be redressed.

Perhaps, had his cousin said nothing to him on this subject,
his feelings would have had very much the same tendency
and general direction which they were taking now.
A dark and somewhat pleasurable anxiety to be in conflict
with his rival — a deadly conflict — a close, hard death-struggle
— was now the predominant feeling in his mind; —
but the feeling was not altogether a pleasurable one. It
had its pains and humiliations, also. Not that he had any
fears — any dread of the issue. Of the issue he never
thought. But it disturbed the long and peaceful order of
his life. It conflicted with the subdued tastes of the student.
It was at war with that gentle calm of atmosphere,
which letters diffuse around the bower of the muse.

In the conflict of his thoughts and feelings, the judgment
of the youth was impaired. He forgot his prudence. In
fact, he knew not what he did. He entered the dwelling
of his father, and passed into the dining-room, at that solemn
moment when the grace before meat was yet in course of
utterance by our worthy Brother Stevens. Hitherto, old
Mr. Hinkley had religiously exacted that, whenever any of

the household failed to be present in season, this ceremony
should never be disturbed. They were required, hat in
hand, to remain at the entrance, until the benediction had
been implored; and, only after the audible utterance of the
word “Amen,” to approach the cloth.

We have shown little of old Hinkley. It has not been
necessary. The reader has seen enough, however, to understand
that, in religious matters — at least in the forms
and externals of religion — he was a rigid disciplinarian.
Upon grace before and after meat he always insisted. His
own prayers of this sort might have been unctuous, but they
were never short; and the meats were very apt to grow
cold, while the impatience of his hearers grew warm, before
he finished. But through respect to the profession, he
waived his own peculiar privilege in behalf of Brother
Stevens; and this holy brother was in the middle of his
entreaty, when William Hinkley appeared at the door. He
paused for an instant without taking off his hat. Perhaps
had his father been engaged in his office, William would
have forborne, as usual, however long the grace, and have
patiently waited without, hat off, until it had reached the
legitimate conclusion. But he had no such veneration for
Stevens; and without scruple he dashed, rather hastily,
into the apartment, and flinging his hat upon a chair, strode
at once to the table.

The old man did not once raise his eyes until the prayer
was over. He would not have done so had the house been
on fire. But at the close, he looked up at his son with a
brow of thunder. The cloud was of serious and very unusual
blackness. He had for some time been dissatisfied
with his son. He had seen that the youth entertained some
aversion for his guest. Besides, he had learned from his
worthy consort, that, in an endeavor of Brother Stevens to
bestow good counsel upon the youth, he had been repulsed
with as little respect as ceremony. There was one thing
that the stern old man had not seen, and could not see;

and that was the altered appearance of the lad. As he
knew of no reason why he should be unhappy, so he failed
to perceive in his appearance any of the signs of unhappiness.
He saw nothing but the violation of his laws, and
that sort of self-esteem which produces fanaticism, is always
the most rigid in the enforcement of its own ordinances.
Already he regarded the youth as in a state of rebellion,
and for such an offence his feeling was very much that of
the ancient puritan. No one more insists upon duty, than
he who has attained authority by flinging off the fetters of
obedience. Your toughest sinner usually makes the sourest
saint.

“And is this the way, William Hinkley, that you show
respect to God? Do you despise the blessing which
Brother Stevens asks upon the food which sustains us?”

“I presume, sir, that God has already blessed all the
food which he bestows upon man. I do not think that any
prayer of Brother Stevens can render it more blessed.”

“Ha! you do not, do you? Please to rise from this
table.”

“Nay, sir —” began Stevens.

“Rise, sir,” continued the old man, laying down knife
and fork, and confronting the offender with that dogged
look of determination which in a coarse nature is the sure
sign of moral inflexibility.

“Forgive him, sir, this time,” said Stevens; “I entreat
you to forgive him. The young man knows not what he
does.”

“I will make him know,” continued the other.

“Plead not for me, sir,” said William Hinkley, glaring
upon Stevens with something of that expression which in
western parlance is called wolfish, “I scorn and spurn
your interference.”

“William, William, my dear son, do not speak so — do
not make your father angry.”

“Will you leave the table, sir, or not?” demanded the

father, his words being spoken very slowly, through his
teeth, and with the effort of one who seeks to conceal the
growing agitation. The eyes of the mother fell upon the
youth full of tears and entreaty. His fine countenance betrayed
the conflicting emotions of his soul. There was
grief, and anger, despair and defiance; the consciousness
of being wrong, and the more painful consciousness of suffering
wrong. He half started from his chair, again resumed
it, and gazing upon Stevens with the hate and agony
which he felt, seemed to be entirely forgetful of the words
and presence of the father. The old man deliberately rose
from the table and left the room. The mother now started
up in an agony of fear.

“Run, my son — leave the room before your father comes
back. Speak to him, Brother Stevens, and tell him of the
danger.”

“Do not call upon him, mother, if you would not have
me defy you also. If your words will not avail with me,
be sure that his can not.”

“What mean you, my son? You surely have no cause
to be angry with Brother Stevens.”

“No cause! no cause! — but it matters not! Brother
Stevens knows that I have cause. He has heard my defiance
— he knows my scorn and hate, and he shall feel them!”

“William, my son, how—”

The steps of the father, approaching through the passageway,
diverted her mind to a new terror. She knew the
vindictive and harsh nature of the old man; and apprehensions
for her son superseded the feeling of anger which his
language had provoked.

“Oh, my son, be submissive, or fly. Jump out of the
window, and leave Brother Stevens and me to pacify him.
We will do all we can.”

The unlucky allusion to Brother Stevens only increased
the young man's obstinacy.

“I ask you not, mother. I wish you to do nothing, and

to say nothing. Here I will remain. I will not fly. It
will be for my father and mother to say whether they will
expel their only son from their home, to make room for a
stranger.”

“It shall not be said that I have been the cause of this,”
said Stevens, rising with dignity from his chair; “I will
leave your house, Mrs. Hinkley, only regretting that I
should be the innocent cause of any misunderstanding or
discontent among its members. I know not exactly what
can be the meaning of your son's conduct. I have never
offended him; but, as my presence does offend him, I will
withdraw myself—”

“You shall not!” exclaimed old Hinkley, who re-entered
the room at this moment, and had heard the last words of
the speaker. “You shall not leave the house. Had I fifty
sons, and they were all to behave in the manner of this
viper, they should all leave it before you should stir from
the threshold.”

The old man brought with him a cowskin; and the maternal
apprehensions of his wife, who knew his severe and
determined disposition, were now awakened to such a degree
as to overcome the feeling of deference, if not fear,
with which the authority of her liege lord had always inspired
her.

“Mr. Hinkley, you won't strike William with that whip
— you must not — you shall not!” and, speaking thus, she
started up and threw herself in the old man's way. He
put her aside with no measured movement of his arm, and
approached the side of the table where the young man sat.

“Run, William, run, if you love me!” cried the terrified
mother.

“I will not run!” was the answer of the youth, who rose
from his seat, however, at the same moment and confronted
his father.

“Do not strike me, father! I warn you — do not strike
me. I may be wrong, but I have suffered wrong. I did

not mean, and do not mean, to offend you. Let that content
you, but do not strike me.”

The answer was a blow. The whip descended once, and
but once, upon the shoulders of the young man. His whole
frame was in a convulsion. His eyes dilated with the anguish
of his soul; his features worked spasmodically. There
was a moment's hesitation. The arm that smote him was
again uplifted — the cruel and degrading instrument of punishment
a second time about to descend; when, with the
strength of youth, and the determination of manhood, the
son grasped the arm of the father, and, without any more
than the degree of violence necessary to effect his object,
he tore the weapon from the uplifted hand.

“I can not strike you!” he exclaimed, addressing the
old man. “That blow has lost you your son — for ever!
The shame and the dishonor shall rest on other shoulders.
They are better deserved here, and here I place them!”

With these words, he smote Stevens over the shoulders,
once, twice, thrice, before the latter could close with him,
or the father interfere to arrest the attempt. Stevens sprang
upon him, but the more athletic countryman flung him off,
and still maintained his weapon. The father added his
efforts to those of Stevens; but he shook himself free from
both, and, by this time, the mother had contrived to place
herself between the parties. William Hinkley then flung
the whip from the window, and moved toward the door.
In passing Stevens, he muttered a few words:—

“If there is any skin beneath the cloak of the parson, I
trust I have reached it.”

“Enough!” said the other, in the same low tone. “You
shall have your wish.”

The youth looked back once, with tearful eyes, upon his
mother; and making no other answer but a glance more
full of sorrow than anger to the furious flood of denunciation
which the old man continued to pour forth, he preceeded
slowly from the apartment and the dwelling.