University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
“ABSQUATULATING.”

Had a bolt suddenly flashed and thundered at the feet of
the two friends, falling from a clear sky in April, they could
not have been more astounded. They started, as with one
impulse, in the same moment to their feet.

“Keep quiet,” said the intruder; “don't let me interrupt
you in so pleasant a conversation. I'd like to hear you out.
I'm refreshed by it. What you say is so very holy and
sermon-like, that I'm like a new man when I hear it. Sit
down, Brother Stevens, and begin again; sit down, Ben,
my good fellow, and don't look so scary! You look as if
you had a window in your ribs already!”

The intruder had not moved, though he had startled the
conspirators. He did not seem to share in their excitement.
He was very coolly seated, with his legs deliberately
crossed, while his two hands parted the bushes before him
in order to display his visage — perhaps with the modest
design of showing to the stranger that his friend had grievously
misrepresented its expression. Certainly, no one
could say that, at this moment, it lacked anything of spirit
or intelligence. Never were eyes more keen — never were
lips more emphatically made to denote sarcasm and hostility.
The whole face was alive with scorn, and hate, and
bitterness; and there was defiance enough in the glance to
have put wings to fifty bullets.

His coolness, the composure which his position and words

manifested, awakened the anger of Brother Stevens as soon
as the first feeling of surprise had passed away. He felt,
in a moment, that the game was up with him — that he
could no longer play the hypocrite in Charlemont. He
must either keep his pledges to Margaret Cooper, without
delay or excuse, or he must abandon all other designs
which his profligate heart may have suggested in its cruel
purposes against her peace.

“Scoundrel!” he exclaimed; “how came you here?
What have you heard?”

“Good words, Brother Stevens. You forget, you are a
parson.”

“Brain the rascal!” exclaimed the whiskered stranger,
looking more fierce than ever. The same idea seemed to
prompt the actions of Stevens. Both of them, at the same
moment, advanced upon the intruder, with their whips uplifted;
but still Ned Hinkley did not rise. With his legs
still crossed, he kept his position, simply lifting from the
sward beside him, where they had been placed conveniently,
his two “puppies.” One of these he grasped in his right
hand and presented as his enemies approached.

“This, gentlemen,” said he, “is my peace-maker. It
says, `Keep your distance.' This is my bull-pup, or peace-breaker;
it says, `Come on.' Listen to which you please.
It's all the same to me. Both are ready to answer you, and
I can hardly keep 'em from giving tongue. The bull-pup
longs to say something to you, Brother Stevens — the pacificator
is disposed to trim your whiskers, Brother Ben; and
I say, for 'em both, come on, you black-hearted rascals, if
you want to know whether a girl of Charlemont can find a
man of Charlemont to fight her battles. I'm man enough,
by the Eternal, for both of you!”

The effect of Hinkley's speech was equally great upon
himself and the enemy. He sprang to his feet, ere the last
sentence was concluded, and they recoiled in something like
indecent haste. The language of determination was even

more strongly expressed by the looks of the rustic than by
his language and action. They backed hurriedly at his approach.

“What! won't you stand? — won't you answer to your
villanies? — won't you fight? Pull out your barkers and
blaze away, you small-souled scamps; I long to have a
crack at you — here and there — both at a time! Aint you
willing? I'm the sleepy trout-fisherman! Don't you know
me? You've waked me up, my lads, and I sha'n't sleep
again in a hurry! As for you, Alfred Stevens — you were
ready to fight Bill Hinkley — here's another of the breed —
won't you fight him?”

“Yes — give me one of your pistols, if you dare, and
take your stand,” said Stevens boldly.

“You're a cunning chap — give you one of my puppies
— a stick for my own head — while this bush-whiskered
chap cudgels me over from behind. No! no! none of that!
Besides, these pistols were a gift from a good man, they
sha'n't be disgraced by the handling of a bad one. Get
your own weapons, Brother Stevens, and every man to his
tree.”

“They are in Charlemont!”

“Well! — you'll meet me there then?”

“Yes!” was the somewhat eager answer of Stevens, “I
will meet you there — to-morrow morning —”

“Sunday — no! no!”

“Monday, then; this evening, if we get home in season.”

“It's a bargain then,” replied Hinkley, “though I can
hardly keep from giving you the teeth of the bull! As for
big-whiskered Ben, there, I'd like to let him taste my pacificator.
I'd just like to brush up his whiskers with gun-powder
— they look to have been done up with bear's grease
before, and have a mighty fine curl; but if I wouldn't frizzle
them better than ever a speckled hen had her feathers
frizzled, then I don't know the virtues of gun-powder. On
Monday morning, Brother Stevens!”

“Ay, ay! on Monday morning!”

Had Ned Hinkley been more a man of the world — had
he not been a simple backwoodsman, he would have seen,
in the eagerness of Stevens to make this arrangement,
something, which would have rendered him suspicious of
his truth. The instantaneous thought of the arch-hypocrite,
convinced him that he could never return to Charlemont if
this discovery was once made there. His first impulse was
to put it out of the power of Ned Hinkley to convey the
tidings. We do not say that he would have deliberately
murdered him; but, under such an impulse of rage and
disappointment as governed him in the first moments of
detection, murder has been often done. He would probably
have beaten him into incapacity with his whip — which
had a heavy handle — had not the rustic been sufficiently
prepared. The pistols of Stevens were in his valise, but
he had no purpose of fighting, on equal terms, with a man
who spoke with the confidence of one who knew how to use
his tools; and when the simple fellow, assuming that he
would return to Charlemont for his chattels, offered him
the meeting there, he eagerly caught at the suggestion as
affording himself and friend the means of final escape.

It was not merely the pistols of Hinkley of which he had
a fear. But he well knew how extreme would be the danger,
should the rustic gather together the people of Ellisland,
with the story of his fraud, and the cruel consequences
to the beauty of Charlemont, by which the deception had
been followed. But the simple youth, ignorant of the language
of libertinism, had never once suspected the fatal
lapse from virtue of which Margaret Cooper had been
guilty. He was too unfamiliar with the annals and practices
of such criminals, to gather this fact from the equivocal
words, and half-spoken sentences, and sly looks of the
confederates. Had he dreamed this — had it, for a moment,
entered into his conjecturings — that such had been the
case, he would probably have shot down the seducer without

a word of warning. But that the crime was other than
prospective, he had not the smallest fancy; and this may
have been another reason why he took the chances of Stevens's
return to Charlemont, and let him off at the moment.

“Even should he not return,” such may have been his
reflection — “I have prevented mischief at least. He will
be able to do no harm. Margaret Cooper shall be warned
of her escape, and become humbler at least, if not wiser,
in consequence. At all events, the eyes of Uncle Hinkley
will be opened, and poor Bill be restored to us again!”

“And now mount, you scamps,” said Hinkley, pressing
upon the two with presented pistols. “I'm eager to send
big-whiskered Ben home to his mother; and to see you,
Brother Stevens, on your way back to Charlemont. I can
hardly keep hands off you till then; and it's only to do so,
that I hurry you. If you stay, looking black, mouthing
together, I can't stand it. I will have a crack at you.
My peace-maker longs to brush up them whiskers. My
bull-pup is eager to take you, Brother Stevens, by the muzzle!
Mount you, as quick as you can, before I do mischief.”

Backing toward their horses, they yielded to the advancing
muzzles, which the instinct of fear made them loath to
turn their backs upon. Never were two hopeful projectors
so suddenly abased — so completely baffled. Hinkley, advancing
with moderate pace, now thrust forward one, and
now the other pistol, accompanying the action with a specific
sentence corresponding to each, in manner and form
as follows:—

“Back, parson — back, whiskers! Better turn, and look
out for the roots, as you go forward. There's no seeing your
way along the road by looking down the throats of my
puppies. If you want to be sure that they'll follow till
you're mounted, you have my word for it. No mistake, I
tell you. They're too eager on scent, to lose sight of you
in a hurry, and they're ready to give tongue at a moment's

warning. Take care not to stumble, whiskers, or the pacificator
'll be into your brush.”

“I'll pay you for this!” exclaimed Stevens, with a rage
which was not less really felt than judiciously expressed.
“Wait till we meet!”

“Ay, ay! I'll wait; but be in a hurry. Turn now, your
nags are at your backs. Turn and mount!”

In this way they reached the tree where their steeds
were fastened. Thus, with the muzzle of a pistol bearing
close upon the body of each — the click of the cock they
had heard — the finger close to the trigger they saw — they
were made to mount — in momentary apprehension that
the backwoodsman, whose determined character was sufficiently
seen in his face, might yet change his resolve, and
with wanton hand, riddle their bodies with his bullets. It
was only when they were mounted, that they drew a breath
of partial confidence.

“Now,” said Hinkley, “my lads, let there be few last
words between you. The sooner you're off the better. As
for you, Alfred Stevens, the sooner you're back in Charlemont
the more daylight we'll have to go upon. I'll be
waiting you, I reckon, when you come.”

“Ay, and you may wait,” said Stevens, as the speaker
turned off and proceeded to the spot where his own horse
was fastened.

“You won't return, of course?” said his companion.

“No! I must now return with you, thanks to your interference.
By Heavens, Ben, I knew, at your coming,
that you would do mischief; you have been a marplot ever;
and after this, I am half-resolved to forswear your society
for ever.”

“Nay, nay! do not say so, Warham. It was unfortunate,
I grant you; but how the devil should either of us
guess that such a Turk as that was in the bush?”

“Enough for the present,” said the other. “It is not

now whether I wish to ride with you or not. There is no
choice. There is no return to Charlemont.”

“And that's the name of the place, is it?”

“Yes! yes! Much good may the knowledge of it do
you.”

“How fortunate that this silly fellow concluded to let
you off on such a promise. What an ass!”

“Yes! but he may grow wiser! Put spurs to your jade,
and let us see what her heels are good for, for the next
three hours. I do not yet feel secure. The simpleton
may grow wiser and change his mind.”

“He can scarcely do us harm now, if he does.”

“Indeed!” said Stevens —“you know nothing. There's
such a thing as hue and cry, and its not unfrequently practised
in these regions, when the sheriff is not at hand and
constables are scarce. Every man is then a sheriff.”

“Well — but there's no law-process against us!”

“You are a born simpleton, I think,” said Stevens,
with little scruple. He was too much mortified to be very
heedful of the feelings of his companion. “There needs
no law in such a case, at least for the capture of a supposed
criminal; and, for that matter, they do not find it
necessary for his punishment either. Hark ye, Ben —
there's a farmhouse?”

“Yes, I see it!”

“Don't you smell tar? — They're running it now!”

“I think I do smell something like it. What of it?”

“Do you see that bed hanging from yon window?”

“Yes! of course I see it!”

“It is a feather-bed!”

“Well — what of that? Why tell me this stuff? Of
course I can guess as well as you that it's a feather-bed,
since I see a flock of geese in the yard with their necks all
bare.”

“Hark ye, then! There's something more than this,
which you may yet see! Touch up your mare. If this

fellow brings the mob at Ellisland upon us, that tar will be
run, and that feather-bed gutted, for our benefit. What
they took from the geese will be bestowed on us. Do you
understand me? Did you ever hear of a man whose coat
was made of tar and feathers, and furnished at the expense
of the county?”

“Hush, for God's sake, Warham! you make my blood
run cold with your hideous notions!”

“That fellow offered to frizzle your whiskers. These
would anoint them with tar, in which your bear's oil would
be of little use.”

“Ha! don't you hear a noise?” demanded the whiskered
companion, looking behind him.

“I think I do,” replied the other musingly.

“A great noise!” continued Don Whiskerandos.

“Yes, it seems to me that it is a great noise.”

“Like people shouting?”

“Somewhat — yes, by my soul, that does sound something
like a shout!”

“And there! Don't stop to look and listen, Warham,”
cried his companion; “it's no time for meditation. They're
coming! hark! —” and with a single glance behind him —
with eyes dilating with the novel apprehensions of receiving
a garment, unsolicited, bestowed by the bounty of the
county — he drove his spurs into the flanks of his mare, and
went ahead like an arrow. Stevens smiled in spite of his
vexation.

“D —n him!” he muttered as he rode forward, “it's some
satisfaction, at least, to scare the soul out of him!”