University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
BULL-PUPS IN TRAINING.

Alfred Stevens was sufficiently familiar with the sex to
perceive that Margaret Cooper was resolved. There was
that in her look and manner which convinced him that she
was not now to be overcome. There was no effort or constraint
in either her looks or language. The composure of
assured strength was there. The discovery of her weakness,
which he had so unexpectedly made, had rendered
her vigilant. Suspecting herself — which women are not
apt to do — she became watchful, not only of the approach
of her lover, but of every emotion of her own soul; and it
was with a degree of chagrin which he could scarcely refrain
from showing, that he was compelled to forego, at least
for the present, all his usual arts of seduction.

Yet he knew not how to refrain. Never had Margaret
Cooper seemed so lovely in his eyes, so commanding, so
eloquent with beauty, as now, when remorse had touched
her eyes with an unwonted shadow, and tears and night-watching
had subdued the richer bloom upon her cheek.
Proud still, but pensive in her pride, she walked silently
beside him, still brooding over thoughts which she would
not willingly admit were doubts, and grasping every word
of assurance that fell from his lips as if it had been some
additional security.

These assurances he still suffered to escape him, with
sufficient frequency and solemnity, to confirm that feeling

of confidence which his promise of marriage had inspired
in her mind. There was a subdued fondness in his voice,
and an empressement in his manner, which was not all practice.
The character which Margaret Cooper had displayed
in this last interview — her equal firmness and fear — the
noble elevation of soul which, admitting her own errors,
disdained to remind him of his — a course which would
have been the most ready of adoption among the weaker
and less generous of the sex — had touched him with a degree
of respect akin to admiration; and so strong was the
impression made upon him of her great natural superiority
of mind to almost all the women he had ever met, that, but
for her one unhappy lapse, he had sought no other wife.
Had she been strong at first as she proved herself at last,
this had been inevitable.

When in his own chamber that night, he could not help
recalling to his memory the proud elevation of her character
as it had appeared in that interview. The recollection
really gave him pain, since along with it arose the memory
also of that unfortunate frailty, which became more prominent
as a crime in connection with that intellectual merit
which, it is erroneously assumed, should have made it sure.

“But for that, Margaret Cooper, and this marriage were
no vain promise. But that forbids. No, no — no spousals
for me: let John Cross and the bride be ready or not, there
shall be a party wanting to that contract! And yet, what
a woman to lose! what a woman to win! No tragedy-queen
ever bore herself like that. Talk of Siddons, indeed!
She would have brought down the house in that sudden
prostration — that passionate appeal. She made even me
tremble. I could have loved her for that, if for that only.
To make me tremble! and with such a look, such an eye,
such a stern, sweet, fierce beauty! By Heavens! I know
not how to give her up. What a sensation she would
make in Frankfort! Were she my wife — but no, no! bait
for gudgeons! I am not so great a fool as that. She who

is mine on my terms, is yours, sir, or yours — is anybody's,
when the humor suits and the opportunity. I can not think
of that. Yet, to lose her is as little to be thought of. I
must manage it. I must get her off from this place. It
need not be to Frankfort! Let me see — there is — hum!
— hum! — yes, a ride of a few miles — an afternoon excursion
— quite convenient, yet not too near. It must be managed;
but, at all events, I must evade this marriage — put
it off for the present — get some decent excuse. That's
easy enough, and for the rest, why, time that softens all
things, except man and woman, time will make that easy
too. To-morrow for Ellisland, and the rest after.”

Thus, resolving not to keep his vows to his unhappy victim,
the criminal was yet devising plans by which to continue
his power over her. These plans, yet immature in
his own mind, at least unexpressed, need not be analyzed
here, and may be conjectured by the reader.

That night, Stevens busied himself in preparing letters.
Of these he wrote several. It will not further our progress
to look over him as he writes; and we prefer rather, in
this place, to hurry on events which, it may be the complaint
of all parties, reader not omitted, have been too long
suffered to stagnate. But we trust not. Let us hurry
Stevens through Friday night — the night of that last interview.

Saturday morning, we observe that his appetite is unimpaired.
He discusses the breakfast at Hinkley's as if he
had never heard of suffering. He has said an unctuous
grace. Biscuits hot, of best Ohio flour, are smoking on
his plate. A golden-looking mass of best fresh butter is
made to assimilate its luscious qualities with those of the
drier and hotter substance. A copious bowl of milk, new
from the dugs of old Brindle, stands beside him, patiently
waiting to be honored by his unscrupulous but not unfastidious
taste. The grace is said, and the gravy follows.
He has a religious regard for the goods and gifts of this

life. He eats heartily, and the thanks which follow, if not
from the bottom of the soul, were sufficiently earnest to
have emanated from the bottom of his stomach.

This over, he has a chat with his hosts. He discusses
with old Hinkley the merits of the new lights. What these
new lights were, at that period, we do not pretend to
remember. Among sectarians, there are periodical new
lights which singularly tend to increase the moral darkness.
From these, after a while, they passed to the love festivals
or feasts — a pleasant practice of the methodist church,
which is supposed to be very promotive of many other good
things besides love; though we are constrained to say that
Brother Stevens and Brother Hinkley — who, it may be remarked,
had very long and stubborn arguments, frequently
without discovering, till they reached the close, that they
were thoroughly agreed in every respect except in words
— concurred in the opinion that there was no portion of the
church practice so highly conducive to the amalgamation
of soul with soul, and all souls with God, as this very practice
of love-feasts!

Being agreed on this and other subjects, Mr. Hinkley
invited Brother Stevens out to look at his turnips and potatoes;
and when this delicate inquiry was over, toward
ten o'clock in the day, Brother Stevens concluded that he
must take a gallop; he was dyspeptic, felt queerish, his
studies were too close, his mind too busy with the great
concerns of salvation. These are enough to give one dyspepsia.
Of course, the hot rolls and mountains of volcanic
butter — steam-ejecting — could have produced no such evil
effects upon a laborer in the vineyard. At all events, a
gallop was necessary, and the horse was brought. Brother
Hinkley and our matronly sister of the same name watched
the progress of the pious youth, as, spurring up the hills,
he pursued the usual route, taking at first the broad highway
leading to the eastern country.

There were other eyes that watched the departure of

Brother Stevens with no less interest, but of another kind,
than those of the venerable couple. Our excellent friend
Calvert started up on hearing the tread of the horse, and,
looking out from his porch, ascertained with some eagerness
of glance that the rider was Alfred Stevens.

Now, why was the interest of Calvert so much greater on
this than on any other previous occasion? We will tell
you, gentle reader. He had been roused at an early hour
that morning by a visit from Ned Hinkley.

“Gran'pa,” was the reverent formula of our fisherman
at beginning, “to-day's the day. I'm pretty certain that
Stevens will be riding out to-day, for he missed the last
Saturday. I'll take my chance for it, therefore, and brush
out ahead of him. I think I've got it pretty straight now,
the place that he goes to, and I'll see if I can't get there
soon enough to put myself in a comfortable fix, so as to see
what's a-going on and what he goes after. Now, gran'pa,
I'll tell you what I want from you — them pocket-pistols of
your'n. Bill Hinkley carried off grandad's, and there's
none besides that I can lay hold on.”

“But, Ned, I'm afraid to lend them to you.”

“What 'fraid of?”

“That you'll use them.”

“To be sure I will, if there's any need, gran'pa. What
do I get them for?”

“Ah, yes! but I fear you'll find a necessity where there
is none. You'll be thrusting your head into some fray in
which you may lose your ears.”

“By Jupiter, no! No, gran'pa, I'll wait for the necessity.
I won't look for it. I'm going straight ahead this
time, and to one object only. I think Stevens is a rascal,
and I'm bent to find him out. I've had no disposition to
lick anybody but him, ever since he drove Bill Hinkley off
— you and him together.”

“You'll promise me, Ned?”

“Sure as a snag in the forehead of a Mississippi steamer.
Depend upon me.”

“But there must be no quarrelling with Stevens either,
Ned.”

“Look you, gran'pa, if I'm to quarrel with Stevens or
anybody else, 'twouldn't be your pistols in my pocket that
would make me set on, and 'twouldn't be the want of 'em
that would make me stop. When it's my cue to fight, look
you, I won't need any prompter, in the shape of friend or
pistol. Now that speech is from one of your poets, pretty
near, and ought to convince you that you may as well lend
the puppies and say no more about it. If you don't you'll
only compel me to carry my rifle, and that'll be something
worse to an enemy, and something heavier for me. Come,
come, gran'pa, don't be too scrupulous in your old age.
Your having them is a sufficient excuse for my having them
too. It shows that they ought to be had.”

“You're logic-chopping this morning, Ned — see that
you don't get to man-chopping in the afternoon. You shall
have the pistols, but do not use them rashly. I have kept
them simply for defence against invasion; not for the purpose
of quarrel, or revenge.”

“And you've kept them mighty well, gran'pa,” replied
the young man, as he contemplated with an eye of anxious
admiration, the polish of the steel barrels, the nice carving
of the handles, and the fantastic but graceful inlay of the
silver-mounting and setting. The old man regarded him
with a smile.

“Yes, Ned, I've kept them well. They have never taken
life, though they have been repeatedly tried upon bull's eye
and tree-bark. If you will promise me not to use them
to-day, Ned, you shall have them.”

“Take 'em back, gran'pa.”

“Why?”

“Why, I'd feel the meanest in the world to have a
we'pon, and not use it when there's a need to do so; and
I'm half afraid that the temptation of having such beautiful
puppies for myself — twin-puppies, I may say — having just

the same look out of the eyes, and just the same spots and
marks, and, I reckon, just the same way of giving tongue
— I'm half afraid, I say, that to get to be the owner of
them, might tempt me to stand quiet and let a chap wink
at me — maybe laugh outright — may be suck in his breath,
and give a phew-phew-whistle just while I'm passing! No!
no! gran'pa, take back your words, or take back your
puppies. Won't risk to carry both. I'd sooner take Patsy
Rifle, with all her weight, and no terms at all.”

“Pshaw, Ned, you're a fool.”

“That's no news, gran'pa, to you or me. But it don't
alter the case. Put up your puppies.”

“No, Ned; you shall have them on your own terms.
Take 'em as they are. I give them to you.”

“And I may shoot anybody I please this afternoon,
gran'pa?”

“Ay, ay, Ned — anybody—”

Thus far the old man, when he stopped himself, changed
his manner, which was that of playful good-humor, to that
of gravity, while his tones underwent a corresponding
change —

“But, Ned, my son, while I leave it to your discretion,
I yet beg you to proceed cautiously — seek no strife, avoid
it — go not into the crowd — keep from them where you see
them drinking, and do not use these or any weapons for
any trifling provocation. Nothing but the last necessity
of self-preservation justifies the taking of life.”

“Gran'pa — thank you — you've touched me in the very
midst of my tender-place, by this handsome present. One
of these puppies I'll name after you, and I'll notch it on
the butt. The other I'll call Bill Hinkley, and I won't
notch that. Yours, I'll call my pacific puppy, and I'll use
it only for peace-making purposes. The other I'll call my
bull-pup, and him I'll use for baiting and butting, and
goring. But, as you beg, I promise you I'll keep 'em
both out of mischief as long as I can. Be certain sure

that it won't be my having the pups that'll make me get
into a skrimmage a bit the sooner; for I never was the
man to ask whether my dogs were at hand before I could
say the word, `set-on!' It's a sort of nature in a man that
don't stop to look after his weapons, but naturally expects
to find 'em any how, when his blood's up, and there's a
necessity to do.”

This long speech and strong assurance of his pacific nature
and purposes, did not prevent the speaker from making,
while he spoke, certain dextrous uses of the instruments
which were given into his hands. Right and left were
equally busy; one muzzle was addressed to the candle
upon the mantelpiece, the other pursued the ambulatory
movements of a great black spider upon the wall. The
old man surveyed him with an irrepressible smile. Suddenly
interrupting himself the youth exclaimed:—

“Are they loaded, gran'pa?”

He was answered in the negative.

“Because, if they were,” said he, “and that great black
spider was Brother Stevens, I'd show you in the twinkle of
a musquito, how I'd put a finish to his morning's work.
But I'd use the bull-pup, gran'pa — see, this one — the
pacific one I'd empty upon him with powder only, as a sort
of feu de joie — and then I'd set up the song — what's it?
ah! Te Deum. A black spider always puts me in mind
of a rascal.”