University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE BIRTH OF THE AGONY.

It was now generally understood in Charlemont that
Margaret Cooper had made a conquest of the handsome
stranger. We have omitted — as a matter not congenial
to our taste — the small by-play which had been carried
on by the other damsels of the village to effect the same
object. There had been setting of caps, without number,
ay, and pulling them too, an the truth were known among
the fair Stellas and Clarissas, the Daphnes and Dorises, of
Charlemont, but, though Stevens was sufficiently considerate
of the claims of each, so far as politeness demanded it,
and contrived to say pleasant things, pour passer le temps,
with all of them, it was very soon apparent to the most
sanguine, that the imperial beauties and imperious mind of
Margaret Cooper had secured the conquest for herself.

As a matter of course, the personal and intellectual attractions
of Stevens underwent no little disparagement as
soon as this fact was known. It was now universally understood
that he was no such great things, after all; and
our fair friend the widow Thackeray, who was not without
her pretensions to wit and beauty, was bold enough to say
that Mr. Stevens was certainly too fat in the face, and she
rather thought him stupid. Such an opinion gave courage
to the rest, and pert Miss Bella Tompkins, a romp of first-rate
excellence, had the audacity to say that he squinted!

— and this opinion was very natural, since neither of his
eyes had ever rested with satisfaction on her pouting
charms.

It may be supposed that the discontent of the fair bevy,
and its unfavorable judgment of himself, did not reach the
ears of Alfred Stevens, and would scarcely have disturbed
them if it did. Margaret Cooper was more fortunate than
himself in this respect. She could not altogether be insensible
to the random remarks which sour envy and dark-eyed
jealousy continued to let fall in her hearing; but her
scorn for the speakers, and her satisfaction with herself,
secured her from all annoyance from this cause. Such, at
least, had been the case in the first days of her conquest.
Such was not exactly the case now. She had no more
scorn of others. She was no longer proud, no longer strong.
Her eyes no longer flashed with haughty defiance on the
train which, though envious, were yet compelled to follow.
She could no longer speak in those superior tones, the language
equally of a proud intellect, and a spirit whose sensibilities
had neither been touched by love nor enfeebled by
anxiety and apprehension. A sad change had come over
her heart and all her features in the progress of a few days.
Her courage had departed. Her step was no longer firm;
her eye no longer uplifted like that of the mountain-eagle,
to which, in the first darings of her youthful muse, she had
boldly likened herself. Her look was downcast, her voice
subdued; she was now not less timid than the feeblest damsel
of the village in that doubtful period of life when, passing
from childhood to girlhood, the virgin falters, as it
were, with bashful thoughts, upon the threshold of a new
and perilous condition. The intercourse of Margaret Cooper
with her lover had had the most serious effect upon her
manners and her looks. But the change upon her spirit
was no less striking to all.

“I'm sure if I did love any man,” was the opinion of one
of the damsels, “I'd die sooner than show it to him, as she

shows it to Alfred Stevens. It's a guess what he must
think of it.”

“And no hard guess neither,” said another; “I reckon
there's no reason why he should pick out Margaret Cooper,
except that he saw that it was no such easy matter anywhere
else.”

“Well! there can be no mistake about it with them; for
now they're always together — and Betty, her own maid,
thinks — but it's better not to say!”

And the prudent antique pursed up her mouth in a language
that said everything.

“What! — what does she say?” demanded a dozen
voices.

“Well! I won't tell you that. I won't tell you all; but
she does say, among other things, that the sooner John
Cross marries them, the better for all parties.”

“Is it possible!”

“Can it be!”

“Bless me! but I always thought something wrong.”

“And Betty, her own maid, told you? Well, who should
know, if she don't?”

“And this, too, after all her airs!”

“Her great smartness, her learning, and verse-making!
I never knew any good come from books yet.”

“And never will, Jane,” said another, with an equivocal
expression, with which Jane was made content; and, after
a full half-hour's confabulation, in the primitive style, the
parties separated — each, in her way, to give as much circulation
to Betty's inuendoes as the importance of the affair
deserved.

Scandal travels along the highways, seen by all but the
victim. Days and nights passed; and in the solitude of
lonely paths, by the hillside or the rivulet, Margaret Cooper
still wandered with her lover. She heard not the poisonous
breath which was already busy with her virgin fame.
She had no doubts, whatever might be the event, that the

heart of Alfred Stevens could leave her without that aliment
which, in these blissful moments, seemed to be her
very breath of life. But she felt many fears, many misgivings,
she knew not why. A doubt, a cloud of anxiety, hung
brooding on the atmosphere. In a heart which is unsophisticated,
the consciousness, however vague, that all is
not right, is enough to produce this cloud; but, with the
gradual progress of that heart to the indulgence of the more
active passions, this consciousness necessarily increases, and
the conflict then begins between the invading passion and the
guardian principle. We have seen enough to know what
must be the result of such a conflict with a nature such as
hers, under the education which she had received. It did
not end in the expulsion of her lover. It did not end in the
discontinuance of those long and frequent rambles amid silence,
and solitude, and shadow. She had not courage for
this; and the poor, vain mother, flattered with the idea
that her son-in-law would be a preacher, beheld nothing
wrong in their nightly wanderings, and suffered her daughter,
in such saintly society, to go forth without restraint or
rebuke.

There was one person in the village who was not satisfied
that Margaret Cooper should fall a victim, either to
the cunning of another, or to her own passionate vanity.
This was our old friend Calvert. He was rather inclined
to be interested in the damsel, in spite of the ill treatment
of his protégé, if it were only in consequence of the feelings
with which she had inspired him. It has been seen
that, in the affair of the duel, he was led to regard the
stranger with an eye of suspicion. This feeling had been
further heightened by the statements of Ned Hinkley,
which, however loose and inconclusive, were yet of a kind
to show that there was some mystery about Stevens — that
he desired concealment in some respects — a fact very
strongly inferred from his non-employment of the village
postoffice, and the supposition — taken for true — that he

employed that of some distant town. Ned Hinkley had
almost arrived at certainty in this respect; and some small
particulars which seemed to bear on this conviction, which
he had recently gathered, taken in connection with the
village scandal in reference to the parties, determined the
old man to take some steps in the matter to forewarn the
maiden, or at least her mother, of the danger of yielding
too much confidence to one of whom so little was or could
be known.

It was a pleasant afternoon, and Calvert was sitting beneath
his roof-tree, musing over this very matter, when he
caught a glimpse of the persons of whom he thought, ascending
one of the distant hills, apparently on their way
to the lake. He rose up instantly, and, seizing his staff,
hurried off to see the mother of the damsel. The matter
was one of the nicest delicacy — not to be undertaken
lightly — not to be urged incautiously. Nothing, indeed,
but a strong sense of duty could have determined him upon
a proceeding likely to appear invidious, and which might
be so readily construed, by a foolish woman, into an impertinence.
Though a man naturally of quick, warm feelings,
Calvert had been early taught to think cautiously — indeed,
the modern phrenologist would have said that, in the
excess of this prudent organ lay the grand weakness of his
moral nature. This delayed him in the contemplated
performance much longer than his sense of its necessity
seemed to justify. Having now resolved, however, and
secure in the propriety of his object, he did not scruple
any longer.

A few minutes sufficed to bring him to the cottage of the
old lady, and her voice in very friendly tenor commanded
him to enter. Without useless circumlocution, yet without
bluntness, the old man broached the subject; and, without
urging any of the isolated facts of which he was possessed,
and by which his suspicions were awakened, he dwelt simply
upon the dangers which might result from such a degree

of confidence as was given to the stranger. The long,
lonely rambles in the woods, by night as well as day, were
commented on, justly, but in an indulgent spirit; and the
risks of a young and unsuspecting maiden, under such circumstances,
were shown with sufficient distinctness for the
comprehension of the mother, had she been disposed to
hear. But never was good old man, engaged in the thankless
office of bestowing good advice, so completely confounded
as he was by the sort of acknowledgments which
his interference obtained. A keen observer might have
seen the gathering storm while he was speaking; and, at
every sentence, there was a low, running commentary, bubbling
up from the throat of the opinionated dame, somewhat
like rumbling thunder, which amply denoted the
rising tempest. It was a sort of religious effort which
kept the old lady quiet till Calvert had fairly reached a
conclusion. Then, rising from her seat, she approached
him, smoothed back her apron, perked out her chin, and,
fixing her keen gray eyes firmly upon his own, with her
nose elongated to such a degree as almost to suggest the
possibility of a pointed collision between that member and
the corresponding one of his own face, she demanded —

“Have you done — have you got through?”

“Yes, Mrs. Cooper, this is all I came to say. It is the
suggestion of prudence — the caution of a friend — your
daughter is young, very young, and—”

“I thank you! I thank you! My daughter is young,
very young; but she is no fool, Mr. Calvert — let me tell
you that! Margaret Cooper is no fool. If you don't know
that, I do. I know her. She's able to take care of herself
as well as the best of us.”

“I am glad you think so, Mrs. Cooper, but the best of
us find it a difficult matter to steer clear of danger, and
error and misfortune; and the wisest, my dear madam, are
only too apt to fall when they place their chief reliance on
their wisdom.”

“Indeed! that's a new doctrine to me, and I reckon to
everybody else. If it's true, what's the use of all your
schooling, I want to know?”

“Precious little, Mrs. Cooper, if—”

“Ah! precious little; and let me tell you, Mr. Calvert,
I think it's mighty strange that you should think Margaret
Cooper in more need of your advice, than Jane Colter, or
Betsy Barnes, or Susan Mason, or Rebecca Forbes, or even
the widow Thackeray.”

“I should give the same advice to them under the same
circumstances, Mrs. Cooper.”

“Should you, indeed! Then I beg you will go and give
it to them, for if they are not in the same circumstances
now, they'd give each of them an eye to be so. Ay,
wouldn't they! Yes! don't I know, Mr. Calvert, that it's
all owing to envy that you come here talking about Brother
Stevens.”

“But I do not speak of Mr. Stevens, Mrs. Cooper; were
it any other young man with whom your daughter had such
intimacy I should speak in the same manner.”

“Would you, indeed? Tell that to the potatoes. Don't
I know better. Don't I know that if your favorite, that
you made so much of — your adopted son, Bill Hinkley —
if he could have got her to look at him, they might have
walked all night and you'd never have said the first word.
He'd have given one eye for her, and so would every girl
in the village give an eye for Brother Stevens. I'm not
so old but I know something. But it won't do. You can
go to the widow Thackeray, Mr. Calvert. It'll do her
good to tell her that it's very dangerous for her to be
thinking about young men from morning to night. It's
true you can't say anything about the danger, for precious
little danger she's in; but, lord, wouldn't she jump to it if
she had a chance. Let her alone for that. You'd soon have
cause enough to give her your good advice about the danger,
and much good would come of it. She'd wish, after

all was said, that the danger was only twice as big and
twice as dangerous.”

Such was the conclusion of Mr. Calvert's attempt to give
good counsel. It resulted as unprofitably in this as in most
cases; but it had not utterly fallen, like the wasted seed,
in stony places. There was something in it to impress
itself upon the memory of Mrs. Cooper; and she resolved
that when her daughter came in, it should be the occasion
of an examination into her feelings and her relation to the
worthy brother, such as she had more than once before
meditated to make.

But Margaret Cooper did not return till a comparatively
late hour; and the necessity of sitting up after her usual
time of retiring, by making the old lady irritable, had the
effect of giving some additional force to the suggestions of
Mr. Calvert. When Margaret did return, she came alone.
Stevens had attended her only to the wicket. She did not
expect to find her mother still sitting up; and started, with
an appearance of disquiet, when she met her glance. The
young girl was pale and haggard. Her eye had a dilated,
wild expression. Her step faltered; her voice was scarcely
distinct as she remarked timidly —

“Not yet abed, mother?”

“No! it's a pretty time for you to keep me up.”

“But why did you sit up, mother? It's not usual with
you to do so.”

“No! but it's high time for me to sit up, and be on the
watch too, when here's the neighbors coming to warn me
to do so — and telling me all about your danger.”

“Ha! my danger — speak — what danger, mother?”

“Don't you know what danger? Don't you know?”

“Know!” The monosyllable subsided in a gasp. At
that moment Margaret Cooper could say no more.

“Well, I suppose you don't know, and so I'll tell you.
Here's been that conceited, stupid old man, Calvert, to tell
me how wrong it is for you to go out by night walking with

Brother Stevens; and hinting to me that you don't know
how to take care of yourself with all your learning; and
how nobody knows anything about Brother Stevens; as if
nobody was wise for anything but himself. But I gave him
as good as he brought, I'll warrant you. I sent him off
with a flea in his ear!”

It was fortunate for the poor girl that the light, which
was that of a dipped candle, was burning in the corner of
the chimney, and was too dim to make her features visible.
The ghastly tale which they told could not have been utterly
unread even by the obtuse and opinionated mind of the
vain mother. The hands of Margaret were involuntarily
clasped in her agony, and she felt very much like falling
upon the floor; but, with a strong effort, her nerves were
braced to the right tension, and she continued to endure,
in a speechless terror, which was little short of frenzy, the
outpourings of her mother's folly which was a frenzy of
another sort.

“I sent him off,” she repeated, “with a flea in his ear.
I could see what the old fool was driving after, and I as
good as told him so. If it had been his favorite, his
adopted son, Bill Hinkley, it would have been another
guess-story — I reckon. Then you might have walked out
where you pleased together, at all hours, and no harm
done, no danger; old Calvert would have thought it the
properest thing in the world. But no Bill Hinkley for me.
I'm for Brother Stevens, Margaret; only make sure of him,
my child — make sure of him.”

“No more of this, dear mother, I entreat you. Let us
go to bed, and think no more of it.”

“And why should we not think of it? I tell you, Margaret,
you must think of it! Brother Stevens soon will be
a preacher, and a fine speck he will be. There'll be no
parson like him in all west Kentucky. As for John Cross,
I reckon he won't be able to hold a candle to him. Brother
Stevens is something to try for. You must play your cards

nicely, Margaret. Don't let him see too soon that you like
him. Beware of that! But don't draw off too suddenly
as if you didn't like him — that's worse still; for very few
men like to see that they ain't altogether pleasing even at
first sight to the lady that they like. There's a medium in
all things, and you must just manage it, as if you wa'n't
thinking at all about him, or love, or a husband, or anything;
only take care always to turn a quick ear to what
he says, and seem to consider it always as if 'twas worth
your considering. And look round when he speaks, and
smile softly sometimes; and don't be too full of learning
and wisdom in what you say, for I've found that men of
sense love women best when they seem to talk most like
very young children — maybe because they think it's a sign
of innocence. But I reckon, Margaret, you don't want
much teaching. Only be sure and fix him; and don't stop
to think when he asks. Be sure to have your answer ready,
and you can't say `yes' too quickly now-a-days, when the
chances are so very few.”

The mother paused to take breath. Her very moral and
maternal counsel had fallen upon unheeding ears. But
Margaret was sensible of the pause, and was desirous of
taking advantage of it. She rose from her chair, with the
view of retiring; but the good old dame, whose imagination
had been terribly excited by the delightful idea of having
a preacher for her son-in-law who was to take such precedence
over all the leaders of the other tribes, was not willing
to abridge her eloquence.

“Why, you're in a great hurry now, Margaret. Where
was your hurry when you were with Brother Stevens?
Ah! you jade, can't I guess — don't I know? There you
were, you two, under the trees, looking at the moon, and
talking such sweet, foolish nonsense. I reckon, Margaret,
'twould puzzle you to tell what he said, or what you said,
I can guess he didn't talk much religion to you, heh? Ah!
I know it all. It's the old story. It's been so with all

young people, and will be so till the end. Love is the
strangest thing, and it does listen to the strangest nonsense.
Ain't it so, Margaret? I know nothing but love
would ever dumbfounder you in this way; why, child, have
you lost your tongue? What's the matter with you?”

“Oh, mother, let me retire now, I have such a headache.”

“Heartache, you mean.”

“Heartache it is,” replied the other desperately, with
an air of complete abandonment.

“Ah! well, it's clear that he's got the heartache quite
as much as you, for he almost lives with you now. But
make him speak out, Margaret — get him to say the word,
and don't let him be too free until he does. No squeezing
of hands, no kissing, no —”

“No more, no more, I entreat you, mother, if you would
not drive me mad! Why do you speak to me thus — why
counsel me in this manner? Leave me alone, I pray you,
let me retire — I must — I must sleep now!”

The mother was not unaccustomed to such passionate
bursts of speech from her daughter, and she ascribed the
startling energy of her utterance now, to an excited spirit
in part, and partly to the headache of which she complained.

“What! do you feel so bad, my child? Well, I won't
keep you up any longer. I wouldn't have kept you up so
long, if I hadn't been vexed by that old fool, Calvert.”

“Mr. Calvert is a good man, mother.”

“Well, he may be — I don't say a word against that,”
replied the mother, somewhat surprised at the mildly reproachful
nature of that response which her daughter had
made, so different from her usual custom: — “he may be
very good, but I think he's very meddlesome to come here
talking about Brother Stevens.”

“He meant well, mother.”

“Well or ill, it don't matter. Do you be ready when
Brother Stevens says the word. He'll say it before long.
He's mighty keen after you, Margaret. I've seen it in his

eyes; only you keep a little off, till he begins to press and
be anxious; and after that he can't help himself. He'll
be ready for any terms; and look you, when a man's ready,
none of your long bargains. Settle up at once. As for
waiting till he gets permission to preach, I wouldn't think
of it. A man can be made a preacher or anything, at any
time, but 'tain't so easy in these times, for a young woman
to be made a wife. It's not every day that one can get a
husband, and such a husband! Look at Jane Colter, and
Betsy Barnes, and Rebecca Forbes, and Susan Mason;
they'll be green again, I reckon, before the chance comes
to them; ay, and the widow Thackeray — though she's had
her day already. If 'twas a short one she's got no reason
to complain. She'll learn how to value it before it begins
again. But, go to bed, my child, you oughtn't to have a
headache. No! no! you should leave it to them that's not
so fortunate. They'll have headaches and heartaches
enough, I warrant you, before they get such a man as
Brother Stevens.”

At last, Margaret Cooper found herself alone and in her
chamber. With unusual vigilance she locked and double-locked
the door. She then flung herself upon the bed.
Her face was buried in the clothes. A convulsion of feeling
shook her frame. But her eyes remained dry, and her
cheeks were burning. She rose at length and began to
undress, but for this she found herself unequal. She entered
the couch and sat up in it — her hands crossed upon
her lap — her face wan, wild, the very picture of hopelessness
if not desperation! The words of her weak mother
had tortured her; but what was this agony to that which
was occasioned by her own thoughts.

“Oh God!” she exclaimed at length, “can it be real?
Can it be true? Do I wake? Is it no dream? Am I,
am I what I dare not name to myself — and dread to hear
from any other? Alas! it is true — too true. That shade,
that wood! — oh, Alfred Stevens! Alfred Stevens! What
have you done! To what have you beguiled me!”