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. “Didn't 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?