University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
THE REVELATION.

Having seen his enemy fairly mounted, and under way,
as he thought, for Charlemont, Ned Hinkley returned to
Ellisland for his own horse. Here he did not suffer himself
to linger, though, before he could succeed in taking his
departure, he was subjected to a very keen and searching
examination by the village publican and politician. Having
undergone this scrutiny with tolerable patience, if not
to the entire satisfaction of the examiner, he set forward at
a free canter, determined that his adversary should not be
compelled to wait.

It was only while he rode that he began to fancy the possibility
of the other having taken a different course; but
as, upon reflection, he saw no other plan which he might
have adopted — for lynching for suspected offences was not
yet a popular practice in and about Charlemont — he contented
himself with the reflection that he had done all that
could have been done; and if Alfred Stevens failed to keep
his appointment, he, at least, was one of the losers. He
would necessarily lose the chance of revenging an indignity,
not to speak of the equally serious loss of that enjoyment
which a manly fight usually gave to Ned Hinkley
himself, and which, he accordingly assumed, must be an
equal gratification to all other persons. When he arrived
at Charlemont, he did not make his arrival known, but, repairing
directly to the lake among the hills, he hitched his

horse, and prepared, with what patience he could command,
to await the coming of the enemy.

The reader is already prepared to believe that the worthy
rustic waited in vain. It was only with the coming on
of night that he began to consider himself outwitted. He
scratched his head impatiently, not without bringing away
some shreds of the hair, jumped on his horse, and, without
making many allowances for the rough and hilly character
of the road, went off at a driving pace for the house of Uncle
Hinkley. Here he drew up only to ask if Brother Stevens
had returned.

“No!”

“Then, dang it! he never will return. He's a skunk,
uncle — as great a skunk as ever was in all Kentucky!”

“How! what! — what of Brother Stevens?” demanded
the uncle, seconded by John Cross, who had only some two
hours arrived at the village, and now appeared at the door.
But Ned Hinkley was already off.

“He's a skunk! — that's all!”

His last words threw very little light over the mystery,
and certainly gave very little satisfaction to his hearers.
The absence of Alfred Stevens, at a time when John Cross
was expected, had necessarily occasioned some surprise;
but, of course, no apprehensions were entertained by either
the worthy parson or the bigoted host that he could be detained
by any cause whatsoever which he could not fully
justify.

The next course of Ned Hinkley was for the cottage of
Mr. Calvert. To the old man he gave a copious detail of
all his discoveries — not only the heads of what he heard
from the conspirators in the wood, but something of the
terms of the dialogue. The gravity of Calvert increased
as the other proceeded. He saw more deeply into the signification
of certain portions of this dialogue than did the
narrator; and when the latter, after having expressed his
disappointment at the non-appearance of Stevens on the

field of combat, at least congratulated himself at having
driven him fairly from the ground, the other shook his head
mournfully.

“I am afraid it's too late, my son.”

“Too late, gran'pa! How? Is it ever too late to send
such a rascal a-packing?”

“It may be for the safety of some, my son.”

“What! Margaret you mean? You think the poor fool
of a girl's too far gone in love of him, do you?”

“If that were all, Ned—”

“Why, what more, eh? You don't mean!—”

The apprehensions of the simple, unsuspecting fellow, for
the first time began to be awakened to the truth.

“I am afraid, my son, that this wretch has been in Charlemont
too long. From certain words that you have dropped,
as coming from Stevens, in speaking to his comrade, I should
regard him as speaking the language of triumph for successes
already gained.”

“Oh, hardly! I didn't think so. If I had only guessed
that he meant such a thing — though I can't believe it —
I'd ha' dropped him without a word. I'd have given him
the pacificator as well as the peace-breaker. Oh, no! I
can't think it — I can't — I won't! Margaret Cooper is not
a girl to my liking, but, Lord help us! she's too beautiful
and too smart to suffer such a skunk, in so short a time, to
get the whip-hand of her. No, gran'pa, I can't and won't
believe it!”

“Yet, Ned, these words which you have repeated convey
some such fear to my mind. It may be that the villain
was only boasting to his companion. There are scoundrels
in this world who conceive of no higher subject of boast
than the successful deception and ruin of the artless and
confiding. I sincerely hope that this may be the case now
— that it was the mere brag of a profligate, to excite the
admiration of his comrade. But when you speak of the
beauty and the smartness of this poor girl, as of securities

for virtue, you make a great mistake. Beauty is more apt
to be a betrayer than a protector; and as for her talent,
that is seldom a protection unless it be associated with humility.
Hers was not. She was most ignorant where she
was most assured. She knew just enough to congratulate
herself that she was unlike her neighbors, and this is the
very temper of mind which is likely to cast down its possessor
in shame. I trust that she had a better guardian
angel than either her beauty or her talents. I sincerely
hope that she is safe. At all events, let me caution you not
to hint the possibility of its being otherwise. We will take
for granted that Stevens is a baffled villain.”

“I only wish I had dropped him!”

“Better as it is.”

“What! even if the poor girl is—”

“Ay, even then!”

“Why, gran'pa, can it be possible you say so?”

“Yes, my son; I say so here, in moments of comparative
calmness, and in the absence of the villain. Perhaps, were
he present, I should say otherwise.”

“And do otherwise! You'd shoot him, gran'pa, as soon
as I.”

“Perhaps! I think it likely. But, put up your pistols,
Ned. You have nobody now to shoot. Put them up, and
let us walk over to your uncle's at once. It is proper that
he and John Cross should know these particulars.”

Ned agreed to go, but not to put up his pistols.

“For, you see, gran'pa, this rascal may return. His
friend may have kept him in long talk. We may meet him
coming into the village.”

“It is not likely; but come along. Give me that staff,
my son, and your arm on the other side. I feel that my
eyes are no longer young.”

“You could shoot still, gran'pa?”

“Not well.”

“What, couldn't you hit a chap like Stevens between

the eyes at ten paces? I'm sure I could do it, blindfolded,
by a sort of instinct.”

And the youth, shutting his eyes, as if to try the experiment,
drew forth one of his pistols from his bosom, and
began to direct its muzzle around the room.

“There was a black spider there, gran'pa! I'm sure,
taking him for Stevens, I could cut his web for him.”

“You have cut that of Stevens himself, and his comb
too, Ned.”

“Yes, yes — but what a fool I was not to make it his
gills!”

By this time the old man had got on his spencer, and,
with staff in hand, declared himself in readiness. Ned
Hinkley lowered his pistol with reluctance. He was very
anxious to try the weapon and his own aim, on somebody
or something. That black spider which lived so securely
in the domicil of Mr. Calvert would have stood no chance
in any apartment of the widow Hinkley. Even the “pacificator”
would have been employed for its extermination,
if, for no other reason, because of the fancied resemblance
which it had always worn to Brother Stevens — a resemblance
which occurred to him, perhaps, in consequence of
the supposed similarity between the arts of the libertine
and those for the entrapping of his victims which distinguish
the labors of the spider.

The two were soon arrived at old Hinkley's, and the
tale of Ned was told; but, such was the bigotry of the
hearers, without securing belief.

“So blessed a young man!” said the old lady.

“A brand from the burning!” exclaimed Brother Cross.

“It's all an invention of Satan!” cried old Hinkley, “to
prevent the consummation of a goodly work.”

“We should not give our faith too readily to such devices
of the enemy, Friend Calvert,” said John Cross, paternally.

“I never saw anything in him that wasn't perfectly saint-like,”

said Mrs. Hinkley. “He made the most heartfelt
prayer, and the loveliest blessing before meat! I think I
hear him now — `Lord, make us thankful' — with his eyes
shut up so sweetly, and with such a voice.”

“There are always some people, Brother Cross, to hate
the saints of the Lord and to slander them! They lie in
wait like thieves of the night, and roaring lions of the wilderness,
seeking what they may devour.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Brother Cross, “how little do such
know that they devour themselves; for whoso destroyeth
his best friend is a devourer of himself.”

“The blindness of Satan is upon them, and they do his
work.”

And thus — purr, purr, purr — they went on, to the end
of the chapter. Poor Ned Hinkley found the whole kennel
was upon him. Not only did they deny everything that
could by possibility affect the fair fame of the absent brother,
but, from defending him, they passed, with an easy transition,
to the denunciation of those who were supposed to be
his defamers. In this the worthy old man Calvert came in
for his share.

“All this comes of your supporting that worthless boy of
mine in defiance of my will,” said old Hinkley. “You hate
Brother Stevens because that boy hated him, and because I
love him.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Hinkley,” said Calvert, mildly.
“I hate nobody; at the same time I suffer no mere prejudices
to delude me against sight and reason.”

“Ah!” said Brother Cross, gently, “it's that very reason,
Brother Calvert, that ruins you worldlings. You must
not rely on human reason. Build on faith, and you build
on the Rock of Ages.”

“I propose to use reason only in worldly matters, Mr.
Cross,” said the other; “for which use, only, I believe it
was given us. I employ it in reference to a case of ordinary
evidence, and I beg your regards now, while I draw your

attention to the use I make of it in the present instance.
Will you hear me without interruption?”

“Surely, Brother Calvert, but call me not Mr. Cross. I
am not a Mister. I am plain John Cross; by virtue of my
business, a brother, if it so please you to esteem me. Call
me Brother Cross, or Brother John Cross, or plain John
Cross, either of these will be acceptable unto me.”

“We are all brothers, or should be,” said Calvert; “and
it will not need that there should be any misunderstanding
between us on so small a matter.”

“The matter is not small in the eye of the Lord,” said
the preacher. “Titles of vanity become not us, and offend
in his hearing.”

The old teacher smiled, but proceeded.

“Now, Brother Cross, if you will hear me, I will proceed,
according to my reason, to dwell upon the proofs
which are here presented to you, of the worthlessness of this
man, Alfred Stevens; and when you consider how much the
feelings and the safety of the daughters of your flock depend
upon the character of those moral and religious teachers to
whom the care of them is intrusted, you will see, I think,
the necessity of listening patiently, and determining without
religious prejudice, according to the truth and reason of the
case.”

“I am prepared to listen patiently, Brother Calvert,” said
John Cross, clasping his hands together, setting his elbows
down upon the table, shutting his eyes, and turning his face
fervently up to heaven. Old Hinkley imitated this posture
quite as nearly as he was able; while Mrs. Hinkley, sitting
between the two, maintained a constant to-and-fro motion,
first on one side, then on the other, as they severally spoke
to the occasion, with her head deferentially bowing, like a
pendulum, and with a motion almost as regular and methodical.
The movements of her nephew, Ned Hinkley, were
also a somewhat pleasant study, after a fashion of his own.
Sitting in a corner, he amused himself by drawing forth his

“puppies,” and taking occasional aim at a candle or flowerpot;
and sometimes, with some irreverence, at the curved
and rather extravagant proboscis of his worthy uncle, which,
cocked up in air, was indeed something of a tempting object
of sight to a person so satisfied of his skill in shooting
as the young rustic. The parties being thus arranged in a
fit attitude for listening, Mr. Calvert began somewhat after
the following fashion:—

“Our first knowledge of Alfred Stevens was obtained
through Brother John Cross.”

“And what better introduction would you have?” demanded
old Hinkley.

“None,” said the other, “if Brother Cross knew anything
about the party he introduced. But it so happens,
as we learn from Brother Cross himself, that the first acquaintance
he had with Stevens was made upon the road,
where Stevens played a trick upon him by giving him brandy
to drink.”

“No trick, Brother Calvert; the young man gave it me
as a medicine, took it as a medicine himself, and, when I
bade him, threw away the accursed beverage.”

“Ordinary men, governed by ordinary reason, Brother
Cross, would say that Stevens knew very well what he was
giving you, and that it was a trick.”

“But only think, Mr. Calvert,” said Mrs. Hinkley, lifting
her hands and eyes at the same moment, “the blessed
young man threw away the evil liquor the moment he was
told to do so. What a sign of meekness was that!”

“I will not dwell on this point,” was the reply of Calvert.
“He comes into our village and declares his purpose
to adopt the profession of the preacher, and proceeds
to his studies under the direction of Brother Cross.”

“And didn't he study them?” demanded Mrs. Hinkley.
“Wasn't he, late and early, at the blessed volume? I
heard him at all hours above stairs. Oh! how often was he

on his bended knees in behalf of our sinful race, ungrateful
and misbelieving that we are!”

“I am afraid, madam,” said Calvert, “that his studies
were scarcely so profound as you think them. Indeed, I
am at a loss to conceive how you should blind your eyes to
the fact that the greater part of his time was spent among
the young girls of the village.”

“And where is it denied,” exclaimed old Hinkley, “that
the lambs of God should sport together?”

“Do not speak in that language, I pray you, Mr. Hinkley,”
said Calvert, with something of pious horror in his
look; “this young man was no lamb of God, but, I fear, as
you will find, a wolf in the fold. It is, I say, very well
known that he was constantly wandering, even till a late
hour of the night, with one of the village maidens.”

“Who was that one, Brother Calvert?” demanded John
Cross.

“Margaret Cooper.”

“Hem!” said the preacher.

“Well, he quarrels with my young friend, the worthy son
of Brother Hinkley—”

“Do not speak of that ungrateful cub. Brother Stevens
did not quarrel with him. He quarrelled with Brother
Stevens, and would have murdered him, but that I put in
in time to save.”

“Say not so, Mr. Hinkley. I have good reason to believe
that Stevens went forth especially to fight with William.”

“I would not believe it, if a prophet were to tell me it.”

“Nevertheless, I believe it. We found both of them
placed at the usual fighting-distance.”

“Ah! but where were Brother Stevens's pistols?”

“In his pocket, I suppose.”

“He had none. He was at a distance from my ungrateful
son, and flying that he should not be murdered. The
lamb under the hands of the butcher. And would you believe

it, Brother Cross, he had gone forth only to counsel
the unworthy boy — only to bring him back into the fold —
gone forth at his own prayer, as Brother Stevens declared
to Betsy, just before he went out.”

“I am of opinion that he deceived her and yourself.”

“Where were his pistols then?”

“He must have concealed them. He told Ned Hinkley,
this very day, that he had pistols, but that they were
here.”

“Run up, Betsy, to Brother Stevens's room and see.”

The old lady disappeared. Calvert proceeded.

“I can only repeat my opinion, founded upon the known
pacific and honorable character of William Hinkley, and
certain circumstances in the conduct of Stevens, that the
two did go forth, under a previous arrangement, to fight a
duel. That they were prevented, and that Stevens had no
visible weapon, is unquestionably true. But I do not confine
myself to these circumstances. This young man writes
a great many letters, it is supposed to his friends, but never
puts them in the post here, but every Saturday rides off, as
we afterward learn, to the village of Ellisland, where he
deposites them and receive others. This is a curious circumstance,
which alone should justify suspicion.

“The ways of God are intricate, Brother Calvert,” said
John Cross, “and we are not to suspect the truth which
we can not understand.”

“But these are the ways of man, Brother Cross.”

“And the man of God is governed by the God which is
in him. He obeys a law which, perhaps, is ordered to be
hidden from thy sight.”

“This doctrine certainly confers very extraordinary privileges
upon the man of God,” said Calvert, quietly, “and,
perhaps, this is one reason why the profession is so prolific
of professors now-a-days; but the point does not need discussion.
Enough has been shown to awaken suspicion and
doubt in the case of any ordinary person; and I now come

to that portion of the affair which is sustained by the testimony
of Ned Hinkley, our young friend here, who, whatever
his faults may be, has been always regarded in Charlemont,
as a lover and speaker of the truth.”

“Ay, ay, so far as he knows what the truth is,” said old
Hinkley, scornfully.

“And I'm just as likely to know what the truth is as
you, uncle!” retorted the young man, rising and coming
forward from his corner.

“Come, come,” he continued, “you're not going to ride
rough shod over me as you did over Cousin Bill. I don't care
a snap of the finger, I can tell you, for all your puffed
cheeks and big bellied speeches. I don't, I tell you!” and
suiting the action to the word, the sturdy fellow snapped
his fingers almost under the nose of his uncle, which was
now erected heavenward, with a more scornful pre-eminence
than ever. The sudden entrance of Mrs. Hinkley, from
her search after Stevens's pistols, prevented any rough issue
between these new parties, as it seemed to tell in favor of
Stevens. There were no pistols to be found. The old lady
did not add, indeed, that there was nothing of any kind to
be found belonging to the same worthy

“There! That's enough!” said old Hinkley.

“Did you find anything of Stevens's, Mrs. Hinkley?”
inquired Mr. Calvert.

“Nothing, whatever.”

“Well, madam,” said Calvert, “your search, if it proves
anything, proves the story of Ned Hinkley conclusively.
This man has carried off all his chattels.”

John Cross looked down from heaven, and stared inquiringly
at Mrs. Hinkley.

“Is this true? Have you found nothing, Sister Betsy?”

“Nothing.”

“And Brother Stevens has not come back?”

“No!”

“And reason for it, enough,” said old Hinkley.

you hear that Ned Hinkley threatened to shoot him if he
came back?”

“Look you, uncle,” said the person thus accused, “if
you was anybody else, and a little younger, I'd thrash you
for that speech the same as if it was a lie! I would.”

“Peace!” said Calvert, looking sternly at the youth.
Having obtained temporary silence, he was permitted at
length to struggle through his narrative, and to place, in
their proper lights, all the particulars which Ned Hinkley
had obtained at Ellisland. When this was done the discussion
was renewed, and raged, with no little violence, for
a full hour. At length it ceased through the sheer exhaustion
of the parties. Calvert was the first to withdraw from
it, as he soon discovered that such was the bigotry of old
Hinkley and his wife, and even of John Cross himself,
that nothing short of divine revelation could persuade
them of the guilt of one who had once made a religious
profession.

Brother Cross, though struck with some of the details
which Calvert had given, was afterward prepared to regard
them as rather trivial than otherwise, and poor Ned was
doomed to perceive that the conviction was general in this
holy family, that he had, by his violence, and the terror
which his pistols had inspired, driven away, in desperation,
the most meek and saintly of all possible young apostles.
The youth was nearly furious ere the evening and the discussion
were over. It was very evident to Calvert that
nothing was needed, should Stevens come back, but a bold
front and a lying tongue, to maintain his position in the
estimation of the flock, until such time as the truth would
make itself known — a thing which, eventually, always happens.
That night Ned Hinkley dreamed of nothing but of
shooting Stevens and his comrade and of thrashing his uncle.
What did Margaret Cooper dream of?