THE SERPENT IN THE GARDEN.
The concession made by Stevens, and which had produced an effect so
gratifying upon his companion, was one that involved no sacrifices.
The animal appetite of the young lawyer was, in truth, comparatively
speaking, indifferent to the commodity which he discarded; and even
had it been otherwise, still he was one of those selfish, cool and
calculating persons, who seem by nature to be perfectly able to subdue
the claims of the blood, with great ease, whenever any human or social
policy would appear to render it advisable. The greatest concession
which he made in the transaction, was in his so readily subscribing to
that false logic of the day, which reasons against the use of the gifts
of Providence, because a diseased moral, and a failing education, among
men, sometimes result in their abuse.
The imperfections of a mode of reasoning so utterly illogical, were
as obvious to the mind of the young lawyer as to anybody else; and
the compliance which he exhibited to a requisition which his own sense
readily assured him was as foolish as it was presumptuous, was as
degrading to his moral character from the hypocrisy which it declared,
as it was happy in reference to the small policy by which he had been
governed. The unsuspecting preacher did not perceive the scornful sneer
which curled his lips and flashed his eyes, by which his own vanity
still asserted itself through the whole proceeding; or he would not have
been so sure that the mantle of grace which he deemed to have surely
fallen upon the shoulders of his companion, was sufficiently large and
sound, to cover the multitude of sins which it yet enabled the wearer,
so far, to conceal. Regarding him with all the favor which one is apt to
feel for the person whom he has plucked as a brand from the burning, the
soul of John Cross warmed to the young sinner; and it required no great
effort of the wily Stevens to win from him the history, not only of all
its own secrets and secret hopes--for these were of but small value in
the eyes of the worldling--but of all those matters which belonged to
the little village to which they were trending, and the unwritten lives
of every dweller in that happy community.
With all the adroit and circumspect art of the lawyer, sifting the
testimony of the unconscious witness, and worming from his custody those
minor details which seem to the uninitiated so perfectly unimportant to
the great matter immediately in hand--Stevens now propounded his direct
inquiry, and now dropped his seemingly unconsidered insinuation, by
which he drew from the preacher as much as he cared to know of the
rustic lads and lasses of Charlemont. It does not concern our narrative
to render the details thus unfolded to the stranger. And we will content
ourselves, as did the younger of the travellers, who placed himself with
hearty good will at the disposal of the holy man.
“You shall find for me a place of lodging, Mr. Cross, while it shall
suit me to stay in Charlemont. You have a knowledge of the people, and
of the world, which I possess not; and it will be better that I should
give myself up to your guidance. I know that you will not bring me to
the dwelling of persons not in good repute; and, perhaps, I need not
remind you that my worldly means are small--I must be at little charge
wherever I stop.”
“Ah, Brother Stevens, worldly goods and worldly wealth are no more
needed in Charlemont, than they are necessary to the service of the
blessed Redeemer. With an empty scrip is thy service blest;--God
sees the pure heart through the threadbare garment. I have friends in
Charlemont who will be too happy to receive thee in the name of the
Lord, without money and without price.”
The pride of Stevens, which had not shrunk from hypocrisy and falsehood,
yet recoiled at a suggestion which involved the idea of his pecuniary
dependence upon strangers, and he replied accordingly; though he still
disguised his objections under the precious appearance of a becoming
moral scruple.
“It will not become me, Mr. Cross, to burden the brethren of the church
for that hospitality which is only due to brethren.”
“But thou art in the way of grace--the light is shining upon thee--the
door is open, and already the voice of the Bridegroom is calling from
within. Thou wilt become a burning and a shining light--and the brethren
of the church will rejoice to hail thee among its chosen. Shall they
hold back their hand when thou art even on the threshold?”
“But, Mr. Cross--”
“Call me not Mr., I pray thee. Call me plain John Cross, if it please
thee not yet to apply to me that sweeter term of loving kindness which
the flock of God are happy to use in speech one to another. If thou wilt
call me Brother Cross, my heart shall acknowledge the bonds between us,
and my tongue shall make answer to thine, in like fashion. Oh, Alfred
Stevens, may the light shine soon upon thine eyes, that thou may'st know
for a truth how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in the
peace of of the Lord, and according to his law. I will, with God's
grace, bring thee to this perfect knowledge, for I see the way clear
because of the humility which thou hast already shown, and thy yielding
to the counsels of the teacher. As for what thou sayest about charges to
the brethren, let that give thee no concern. Thou shalt lodge with old
Brother Hinkley, who is the pattern of good things and of, holiness
in Charlemont. His house is more like unto the tent of the patriarch
pitched upon the plain, than the house of the dweller among the cities.
No lock fastens its doors against the stranger; and the heart of the
aged man is even more open than the doorway of his dwelling. He standeth
in the entrance like one looking out for him that cometh, and his first
word to the messenger of God, is 'welcome!' Thou shalt soon see the
truth of what I say to thee, for even now do we look down upon his house
in the very midst of the village.”
If the scruples of Stevens still continued to urge him against
accepting the hospitality of the old patriarch of whom he had received
a description at once just and agreeable, the recollection of the
village-maiden whom he had gone aside from his direct path of travel,
and made some even greater departures from the truth, to see, determined
him at length to waive them; particularly when he ascertained from his
fellow-traveller that he knew of nobody in Charlemont who accommodated
strangers for money.
Stevens was one of those persons who watch the progress of events, and
he resolved, with a mental reservation--that seems strange enough in the
case of one who had shown so little reluctance to say and do the thing
which he could not maintain or defend--to avail himself of some means
for requiting, to the uttermost farthing, the landlord, to whose
hospitality he might be indebted during his stay in Charlemont.
Such are the contradictions of character which hourly detect and
describe the mere worldling--the man lacking in all principle, but that
which is subservient to his selfish policy. To accept money or money's
worth from a stranger, seemed mean and humbling to one, who did not
hesitate, in the promotion of a scheme, which, had treachery for its
object, to clothe himself in the garments of deception, and to make
his appearance with a lie festering upon his lips. That evening, Alfred
Stevens became, with his worthier companion, an inmate of the happy
dwelling of William Hinkley, the elder--a venerable, white-headed
father, whose whole life had made him worthy of a far higher eulogium
than that which John Cross had pronounced upon him.
The delight of the family to see their reverend teacher was heartfelt
and unreserved. A vigorous gripe of the hand, by the elder dragged him
into the house, and a sentence of unusual length, from his better half,
assured him of that welcome which the blunter action of her venerable
husband had already sufficiently declared. Nor was the young adventurer
who accompanied the preacher, suffered to remain long unconsidered. When
John Cross had told them who he was, or rather when he had declared
his spiritual hopes in him--which he did with wonderful unction, in a
breath--the reception of old Hinkley, which had been hospitable enough
before, became warm and benignant; and Brother Stevens already became
the word of salutation, whenever the old people desired to distinguish
their younger guest.
Brother Stevens, it may be said here, found no difficulty in maintaining
the character he had assumed. He had, in high degree, the great art
of the selfish man, and could, when his game required it, subdue with
little effort, those emotions and impulses, which the frank and ardent
spirit must speak out or die. He went into the house of the hospitable
old man, and into the village of Charlemont, as if he had gone into the
camp of an enemy. He was, indeed, a spy, seeking to discover, not the
poverty, but the richness of the land. His mind, therefore, was like one
who has clothed himself in armor, placed himself in waiting for the foe,
and set all his sentinels on the watch. His caution measured every word
ere it was spoken, every look ere it was shown, every movement ere he
suffered his limbs to make it. The muscles of his face, were each put
under curb and chain--the smiles of the lip and the glances of the eyes,
were all subdued to precision, and permitted to go forth, only under
special guard and restriction. In tone, look, and manner, he strove as
nearly as he might to resemble the worthy but simple-minded man, who had
so readily found a worthy adherent and pupil in him; and his efforts
at deception might be held to be sufficiently successful, if the frank
confiding faith of the aged heads of the Hinkley family be the fitting
test of his experiment.
With them he was soon perfectly at home--his own carriage seemed to them
wondrously becoming, and the approbation of John Cross was of itself
conclusive. The preacher was the oracle of the family, all of whom were
only too happy of his favor not to make large efforts to be pleased
with those he brought; and in a little while, sitting about the friendly
fireside, the whole party had become as sociable as if they had been
“hail fellow! well met,” a thousand years. Two young girls, children
of a relative, and nieces of the venerable elder, had already perched
themselves upon the knee of the stranger, and strove at moments over his
neck and shoulder, without heeding the occasional sugary reproof of
Dame Hinkley, which bade them “let Brother Stevens be;” and, already had
Brother Stevens himself, ventured upon the use of sundry grave saws
from the holy volume, the fruit of early reading and a retentive memory,
which not a little helped to maintain his novel pretensions in the mind
of the brethren, and the worthy teacher, John Cross himself. All things
promised a long duration to a friendship suddenly begun; when William
Hinkley, the younger, a youth already introduced to the reader, made his
appearance within the happy circle. He wore a different aspect from all
the rest as he recognised in the person of Brother Stevens, the handsome
stranger, his antipathy to whom, at a first glance, months before,
seemed almost to have the character of a warning instinct. A nearer
glance did not serve to lessen his hostility.
Our traveller was to the eye of a lover, one, indeed, who promised
dangerous rivalship, and an intrepid air of confidence which, even his
assumed character could not enable him to disguise from the searching
eyes of jealousy, contributed to strengthen the dislike of the youth
for a person who seemed so perfectly sure of his ground. Still, William
Hinkley behaved as a civil and well-bred youth might be expected
to behave. He did not suffer his antipathy to put on the aspect of
rudeness; he was grave and cold, but respectful; and though he did
not “be-brother” the stranger, he yet studiously subdued his tones to
mildness, when it became necessary, in the course of the evening meal,
that he should address him. Few words, however, were exchanged between
the parties. If Hinkley beheld an enemy to his heart's hopes in Stevens,
the latter was sufficiently well-read in the human heart to discover
quite as soon, that the rustic was prepared to see in himself any
character but that of a friend. The unwillingness with which Hinkley
heard his suggestions--the absence of all freedom and ease in his
deportment, toward himself, so different from the manner of the youth
when speaking or listening to all other persons; the occasional gleam
of jealous inquiry and doubt within his eye, and the utter lack of all
enthusiasm and warmth in his tones while he spoke to him, satisfied
Stevens, that he, of all the household of his hospitable entertainers,
if not actually suspicious of his true character, was the one whose
suspicions were those most easily to be awakened, and who of all others,
needed most to be guarded against. It will not increase our estimate
of the wisdom of the stranger, to learn that, with this conviction, he
should yet arrogate to himself a tone of superiority, while speaking in
hearing of the youth.
This was shown in a manner that was particularly galling to a
high-spirited youth, and one whose prejudices were already awakened
against the speaker. It was that of a paternal and patronizing senior,
whose very gentleness and benignity of look and accent, seem to arise
from a full conviction of the vast difference which exists between
himself and his hearer. An indignity like this, which can not be
resented, is one which the young mind feels always most anxious to
resent. The very difficulties in the way of doing so, stimulates the
desire. Such was the feeling of William Hinkley. With such a feeling it
may be conjectured that opportunity was not long wanting, or might soon
be made, for giving utterance to the suppressed fires of anger which
were struggling in his heart. Days and weeks may elapse, but the
antipathy will declare itself at last. It would be easier to lock up the
mountain torrent after the breath of the tornado has torn away its rocky
seals, than to stifle in the heart that hates, because of its love, the
fierce fury which these united passions enkindle within it.
In the first hour of their first interview, William Hinkley and Alfred
Stevens felt that they were mutual foes. In that little space of time,
the former had but one thought, which, though it changed its aspect with
each progressive moment, never for an instant changed its character. He
panted with the hope of redressing himself for wrongs which he could not
name; for injuries and indignities which he knew not how to describe.
Stevens had neither done nor said anything which might be construed into
an offence. And yet, nobody knew better than Stevens that he had been
offensive. The worthy John Cross, in the simplicity of his nature, never
dreamed of this, but, on the contrary, when our adventurer dilated
in the fatherly manner already adverted to, be looked upon himself as
particularly favored of Heaven, in falling upon a youth, as a pupil, of
such unctuous moral delivery.
“Surely,” he mused internally, “this is a becoming instrument which I
have found, for the prosecution of the good work. He will bear the word
like one sent forth to conquer. He will bind and loose with a strong
hand. He will work wondrous things!”
Not unlike these were the calculations of old Hinkley, as he hearkened
to the reverend reasonings and the solemn commonplaces of the stranger.
Stevens, like most recent converts, was the most uncompromising enemy of
those sins from which he professed to have achieved with difficulty his
own narrow escape; and finding, from the attentive ear of his audience,
that he had made a favorable impression, he proceeded to manufacture for
them his religious experience; an art which his general information, and
knowledge of the world enabled him to perform without much difficulty.
But the puritan declamation which pleased all the rest, disgusted young
Hinkley, and increased his dislike for the declaimer. There was too much
of the worldling in the looks, dress, air, and manner of Stevens, to
satisfy the rustic of his sincerity. Something of his doubts had their
source, without question, in the antipathy which he had formed against
him; but William Hinkley was not without keen, quick, observing, and
justly discriminating faculties, and much of his conclusions were the
due consequence of a correct estimate of the peculiarities which we have
named. Stevens, he perceived, declared his experiences of religion,
with the air of one who expects the congratulations of his audience.
The humility which thinks only of the acquisition itself, as the very
perfection of human conquest, was wanting equally to his language and
deportment. The very details which he gave, were ostentatious; and the
gracious smiles which covered his lips as he concluded, were those of
the self-complacent person, who feels that he has just been saying
those good things, which, of necessity, must command the applause of his
hearers.
A decent pause of half an hour after the supper was finished, which was
spent by the jealous youth in utter silence, and he then rose abruptly
and hurried from the apartment, leaving the field entirely to his
opponent. He proceeded to the house of his neighbor and cousin, Ned
Hinkley, but without any hope of receiving comfort from his communion.
Ned was a lively, thoughtless, light-hearted son of the soil, who was
very slow to understand sorrows of any kind; and least of all, those
which lie in the fancy of a dreaming and a doubtful lover. At this
moment, when the possession of a new violin absorbed all his thoughts,
his mind was particularly obtuse on the subject of sentimental
grievances, and the almost voluptuous delight which filled his eyes
when William entered his chamber, entirely prevented him from seeing the
heavy shadow which overhung the brows of the latter.
“What, back again, William? Why, you're as changeable as the last
suit of a green lizard. When I asked you to stop, and hear me play
'Cross-possum,' and 'Criss-cross,' off you went without giving me a
civil answer. I've a mind now to put up the fiddle and send your ears
to bed supperless. How would you like that, old fellow? but I'll be
good-natured. You shall have it, though you don't deserve it; she's
in prime tune, and the tones--only hear that, Bill--there. Isn't she
delicious?”
And as the inconsiderate cousin poured out his warmest eulogy of the
favorite instrument, his right hand flourished the bow in air, in a
style that would have cheered the heart of Jean Crapaud himself, and
then brought it over the cat-gut in a grand crash, that sounded as
harshly in the ears of his morbid visitor, as if the two worlds had
suddenly come together with steam-engine velocity. He clapped his hands
upon the invaded organs, and with something like horror in his voice,
cried out his expostulations.
“For heaven's sake, Ned, don't stun a body with your noise.”
“Noise! Did you say noise, Bill Hinkley--noise?”
“Yes, noise,” answered the other with some peevishness in his accents.
The violinist looked at him incredulously, while he suffered the point
of the fiddle-bow to sink on a line with the floor; then, after a
moment's pause, he approached his companion, wearing in his face the
while, an appearance of the most grave inquiry, and when sufficiently
nigh, he suddenly brought the bow over the strings of the instrument,
immediately in William's ears, with a sharp and emphatic movement,
producing an effect to which the former annoying crash, might well
have been thought a very gentle effusion. This was followed by an
uncontrollable burst of laughter from the merry lips of the musician.
“There--that's what I call a noise, Bill. Sweet Sall CAN make a noise
when I worry her into it; she's just like other women in that respect;
she'll be sure to squall out if you don't touch her just in the right
quarter. But the first time she did NOT go amiss, and as for stunning
you--but what's the matter? Where's the wind now?”
“Nothing--only I don't want to be deafened with such a clatter.”
“Something's wrong, Bill, I know it. You look now for all the world like
a bottle of sour son, with the cork out, and ready to boil over. As
for Sall making a noise the first time, that's all a notion, and a very
strange one. She was as sweet-spoken then as she was when you left
me before supper. The last time, I confess, I made her squall out on
purpose. But what of that? you are not the man to get angry with a
little fun!”
“No, I'm not angry with you, Ned--I am not angry with anybody; but just
now, I would rather not hear the fiddle. Put it up.”
“There!” said the other good-naturedly, as he placed the favorite
instrument in its immemorial case in the corner. “There; and now Bill,
untie the pack, and let's see the sort of wolf-cubs you've got to carry;
for there's no two horns to a wild bull, if something hasn't gored you
to-night.”
“You're mistaken, Ned--quite mistaken--quite!”
“Deuse a bit! I know you too well, Bill Hinkley, so it's no use to hush
up now. Out with it, and don't be sparing, and if there's any harm to
come, I'm here, just as ready to risk a cracked crown for you, as if the
trouble was my own. I'd rather fiddle than fight, it's true; but when
there's any need for it, you know I can do one just as well as the
other; and can go to it with just as much good humor. So show us the
quarrel.”
“There's no quarrel. Ned,” said the other, softened by the frank and
ready feeling which his companion showed; “but I'm very foolish in some
things, and don't know how it is. I'm not apt to take dislikes, but
there's a man come to our house with John Cross, this evening, that I
somehow dislike very much.”
“A man! What's he like? Anything like Joe Richards? That was a fellow
that I hated mightily. I never longed to lick any man but Joe Richards,
and him I longed to lick three times, though you know I never got at him
more than twice. It's a great pity he got drowned, for I owe him a third
licking, and don't feel altogether right, since I know no sort of way to
pay it. But if this man's anything like Joe, it may be just the same if
I give it to HIM. Now--”
“He's nothing like Richards,” said the other. “He's a taller and
better-looking man.”
“If he's nothing like Joe, what do you want to lick him for?” said the
single-minded musician, with a surprise in his manner, which was mingled
with something like rebuke.
“I have expressed no such wish, Ned; you are too hasty; and if I did
wish to whip him, I don't think I should trouble you or any man to
help me. If I could not do it myself, I should give it up as a bad job,
without calling in assistants.”
“Oh, you're a spunky follow--a real colt for hard riding,” retorted the
other with a good-natured mock in his tones and looks; “but if you don't
want to lick the fellow, how comes it you dislike him? It seems to me
if a chap behaved so as to make me dislike him, it wouldn't be an easy
matter to keep my hands off him. I'd teach him how to put me into a bad
humor, or I'd never touch violin again.”
“This man's a parson, I believe.”
“A parson--that's a difficulty. It is not altogether right to lick
parsons, because they're not counted fighting people. But there's a
mighty many on 'em that licking would help. No wonder you dislike the
fellow, though if he comes with John Cross, he shouldn't be altogether
so bad. Now, John Cross IS a good man. He's good, and he's good-humored.
He don't try to set people's teeth on edge against all the pleasant
things of this world, and he can laugh, and talk, and sing, like other
people. Many's the time he's asked me, of his own mouth, to play the
violin; and I've seen his little eyes caper again, when sweet Sall
talked out her funniest. If it was not so late, I'd go over now and give
him a reel or two, and then I could take a look at this strange chap,
that's set your grinders against each other.”
The fiddler looked earnestly at the instrument in the corner, his
features plainly denoting his anxiety to resume the occupation which his
friends coming had so inopportunely interrupted. William Hinkley saw the
looks of his cousin, and divined the cause.
“You shall play for me, Ned,” he remarked; “you shall give me that old
highland-reel that you learned from Scotch Geordie. It will put me out
of my bad humor, I think, and we can go to bed quietly. I've come to
sleep with you to-night.”
“You're a good fellow, Bill; I knew that you couldn't stand it long, if
Sweet Sall kept a still tongue in her head. That reel's the very thing
to drive away bad humors, though there's another that I learnt from John
Blodget, the boat-man, that sounds to me the merriest and comicalest
thing in the world. It goes--,” and here the fiddle was put in
requisition to produce the required sounds: and having got carte
blanche, our enthusiastic performer, without weariness, went through
his whole collection, without once perceiving that his comical and
merry tunes had entirely failed to change the grave, and even gloomy
expression which still mantled the face of his companion. It was only
when in his exhaustion he set down the instrument, that he became
conscious of William Hinkley's continued discomposure.
“Why, Bill, the trouble has given you a bigger bite than I thought for.
What words did you have with the preacher?”
“None: I don't know that he is a preacher. He speaks only as if he was
trying to become one.”
“What, you hadn't any difference--no quarrel?”
“None.”
“And it's only to-night that you've seen him for the first time?”
A flush passed over the grave features of William Hinkley as he heard
this question, and it was with a hesitating manner and faltering
accents, that he contrived to tell his cousin of the brief glimpse which
he had of the same stranger several months before, on that occasion,
when, in the emotion of Margaret Cooper, replying to a similar question,
he first felt the incipient seed of jealousy planted within his bosom.
But this latter incident he forbore to reveal to the inquirer; and Ned
Hinkley, though certainly endowed by nature with sufficient skill
to draw forth the very soul of music from the instrument on which he
played, had no similar power upon the secret soul of the person whom he
partially examined.
“But 'tis very strange how you should take offence at a man you've seen
so little; though I have heard before this of people taking dislikes
at other people the first moment they set eyes on 'em. Now, I'm not a
person of that sort, unless it was in the case of Joe Richards; and him
I took a sort of grudge at from the first beginning. But even then there
was a sort of reason for it; for, at the beginning, when Joe came down
upon us here in Charlemont, he was for riding over people's necks,
without so much as asking, 'by your leave.' He had a way about him that
vexed me, though we did not change a word.”
“And it's that very way that this person has that I don't like,” said
William Hinkley. “He talks as if he made you, and when you talk, he
smiles as if he thought you were the very worst work that ever went out
of his hands. Then, if he has to say anything, be it ever so trifling,
he says it just as if he was telling you that the world was to come to
an end the day after to-morrow.”
“Just the same with Joe Richards. I never could get at him but twice;
though I give him then a mighty smart hammering; and if he hadn't got
under the broadhorn and got drowned;--but this fellow?”
“You'll see him at church to-morrow. I shouldn't wonder if he preaches;
for John Cross was at him about it before I came away. What's worse, the
old man's been asking him to live with us.”
“What, here in Charlemont?”
“Yes.”
“I'll be sure to lick him then, if he's anything like Joe Richards. But
what's to make him live in Charlemont? Is he to be a preacher for us?”
“Perhaps so, but I couldn't understand all, for I came in while they
were at it, and left home before they were done. I'm sure if he stays
there I shall not. I shall leave home, for I really dislike to meet
him.”
“You shall stay with me, Bill, and we'll have Sall at all hours,” was
the hearty speech of the cousin, as he threw his arms around the neck
of his morose companion, and dragged him gently toward the adjoining
apartment, which formed his chamber. “To-morrow,” he continued, “as you
say, we'll see this chap, and if he's anything like Joe Richards--” The
doubled fist of the speaker, and his threatening visage, completed the
sentence with which this present conference and chapter may very well
conclude.