THE ENTHUSIAST.
The cheeks of the youth glowed. He felt how much he had suppressed in
his conference with his venerable counsellor. Mr. Calvert did not press
the topic, and the two remained silent, looking down, from the shaded
spot where they lay, upon the progress of Margaret Cooper and her
present attendant, Stevens. The eminence on which they rested was
sufficiently lofty, as we have seen, to enable them, though themselves
almost concealed from sight, to take in the entire scene, not only below
but around them; and the old man, sharing now in the interest of his
young companion, surveyed the progress of the new-comers with a keen
sense of curiosity which, for a time, kept him silent. The emotions of
William Hinkley were such as to deprive him of all desire for speech;
and each, accordingly, found sufficient employment in brooding over his
own awakened fancies. Even had they spoken in the ordinary tone of their
voices, the sounds could not have reached the persons approaching on the
opposite side. They drew nigh, evidently unconscious that the scene was
occupied by any other than themselves. Ned Hinkley was half-shrouded in
the shrubbery that environed the jutting crag upon which his form
was crouched, and they were not yet sufficiently nigh to the tarn to
perceive his projecting rod, and the gaudy fly which he kept skipping
about upon the surface. The walk which they pursued was an ancient
Indian footpath, which had without doubt conducted the red warriors,
a thousand times before, to a spot of seclusion and refreshment after
their long day's conflict on the “DARK AND BLOODY GROUND.” It was narrow
and very winding, and had been made so in order to lessen the fatigue of
an ascent which, though gradual enough, was yet considerable, and
would have produced great weariness, finally, had the pathway been more
direct.
The circuitousness of this route, which lay clear enough before the
eyes of our two friends upon the eminence--crawling, as it did, up the
woodland slopes with the sinuous course of a serpent--was yet visible to
Ned Hinkley, on his lowlier perch, only at its starting-point, upon
the very margin of the lake. He, accordingly, saw as little of the
approaching persons as they had seen of him. They advanced slowly, and
seemed to be mutually interested in their subject of conversation. The
action of Stevens was animated; The air and attitude of Margaret Cooper
was that of interest and attention. It was with something little short
of agony that William Hinkley beheld them pause upon occasion, and
confront each other as if the topic was of a nature to arrest the feet
and demand the whole fixed attention of the hearer.
It will be conjectured that Alfred Stevens had pressed his opportunities
with no little industry. Enough has been shown to account for the
readiness of that reception which Margaret Cooper was prepared to give
him. Her intelligence was keen, quick, and penetrating. She discovered
at a glance, not his hypocrisy, but that his religious enthusiasm was
not of a sort to become very tyrannical. The air of mischief which was
expressed upon his face when the venerable John Cross proposed to purge
her library of its obnoxious contents, commended him to her as a sort of
ally; and the sympathy with herself, which such a conjecture promised,
made her forgetful of the disingenuousness of his conduct if her
suspicions were true. But there were some other particulars which, in
her mind, tended to dissipate the distance between them. She recognised
the individual. She remembered the bold, dashing youth, who, a few
months before, had encountered her on the edge of the village, and,
after they had parted, had ridden back to the spot where she still
loitered, for a second look. To that very spot had she conducted him on
their ramble that afternoon.
“Do you know this place, Mr. Stevens?” she demanded with an arch smile,
sufficiently good-humored to convince the adventurer that, if she had
any suspicions, they were not of a nature to endanger his hopes.
“Do I not!” he said, with an air of EMPRESSMENT which caused her to look
down.
“I thought I recollected you,” she said, a moment after.
“Ah! may I hope that I did not then offend you with my impertinence? But
the truth is, I was so struck--pardon me if I say it--with the singular
and striking difference between the group of damsels I had seen and THE
ONE--the surprise was so great--the pleasure so unlooked for--that--”
The eye of Margaret Cooper brightened, her cheek glowed, and her form
rose somewhat proudly. The arch-hypocrite paused judiciously, and she
spoke:--
“Nay, nay, Mr. Stevens, these fine speeches do not pass current. You
would make the same upon occasion to any one of the said group of
damsels, were you to be her escort.”
“But I would scarcely ride back for a second look,” he responded, in a
subdued tone of voice, while looking with sad expressiveness into her
eyes. These were cast down upon the instant, and the color upon her
cheeks was heightened.
“Come,” said she, making an effort, “there is nothing here to interest
us.”
“Except memory,” he replied; “I shall never forget the spot.”
She hurried forward, and he joined her. She had received the impression
which he intended to convey, without declaring as much--namely, that his
return to Charlemont had been prompted by that one glimpse which he had
then had of her person. Still, that nothing should be left in doubt, he
proceeded to confirm the impression by other suggestions:--
“You promise to show me a scene of strange beauty, but your whole
village is beautiful, Miss Cooper. I remember how forcibly it struck me
as I gained the ascent of the opposite hills coming in from the east.
It was late in the day, the sun was almost setting, and his faintest
but loveliest beams fell upon the cottages in the valley, and lay with a
strange, quiet beauty among the grass-plats, and the flower-ranges, and
upon the neat, white palings.”
“It is beautiful,” she said with a sigh, “but its beauty does not
content me. It is too much beauty; it is too soft; for, though it has
its rocks and huge trees, yet it lacks wildness and sublimity. The rocks
are not sufficiently abrupt, the steeps not sufficiently great; there
are no chasms, no waterfalls--only purling brooks and quiet walks.”
“I have felt this already,” he replied; “but there is yet a deficiency
which you have not expressed, Miss Cooper.”
“What is that?” she demanded.
“It is the moral want. You have no life here; and that which would least
content me would be this very repose--the absence of provocation--the
strife--the triumph! These, I take it, are the deficiencies which
you really feel when you speak of the want of crag, and chasm, and
waterfall.”
“You, too, are ambitious, then!” she said quickly; “but how do you
reconcile this feeling with your profession?”
She looked up, and caught his eye tenderly fixed upon her.
“Ah!” said he, “Miss Cooper, there are some situations in which we find
it easy to reconcile all discrepancies.”
If the language lacked explicitness, the look did not. He proceeded:--
“If I mistake not, Miss Cooper, you will be the last one to blame me
for not having stifled my ambition, even at the calls of duty and
profession.”
“Blame you, sir? Far from it. I should think you very unfortunate
indeed, if you could succeed in stifling ambition at any calls, nor do I
exactly see how duty should require it.”
“If I pursue the profession of the divine?” he answered hesitatingly.
“Yes--perhaps--but that is not certain?” There was some timidity in the
utterance of this inquiry. He evaded it.
“I know not yet what I shall be,” he replied with an air of
self-reproach; “I fear I have too much of this fiery ardor which we call
ambition to settle down into the passive character of the preacher.”
“Oh, do not, do not!” she exclaimed impetuously; then, as if conscious
of the impropriety, she stopped short in the sentence, while increasing
her forward pace.
“What!” said he, “you think that would effectually stifle it?”
“Would it not--does it not in most men?”
“Perhaps; but this depends upon the individual. Churchmen have a great
power--the greatest in any country.”
“Over babes and sucklings!” she said scornfully.
“And, through these; over the hearts of men and women.”
“But these, too, are babes and sucklings--people to be scared by
shadows--the victims of their own miserable fears and superstitions!”
“Nevertheless, these confer power. Where there is power, there is room
for ambition. You recollect that churchmen have put their feet upon the
necks of princes.”
“Yes, but that was when there was one church only in Christendom. It was
a monopoly, and consequently a tyranny. Now there are a thousand, always
in conflict, and serving very happily to keep each other from mischief.
They no longer put their feet on princes' necks, though I believe that
the princes are no better off for this forbearance--there are others who
do. But only fancy that this time was again, and think of the comical
figure our worthy brother John Cross would make, mounting from such a
noble horse-block!”
The idea was sufficiently pleasant to make Stevens laugh.
“I am afraid I shall have greater trouble in converting you, Miss
Cooper, than any other of the flock in Charlemont. I doubt that your
heart is stubborn--that you are an insensible!”
“I insensible!” she exclaimed, and with such a look! The expression of
sarcasm had passed, as with the rapidity of a lightning-flash, from her
beautiful lips; and a silent tear rose, tremulous and large, with the
same instantaneous emotion, beneath her long, dark eyelashes. She
said nothing more, but, with eyes cast down, went forward. Stevens
was startled with the suddenness of these transitions. They proved,
at least, how completely her mind was at the control of her blood.
Hitherto, he had never met with a creature so liberally endowed by
nature, who was, at the same time, so perfectly unsophisticated.
The subject was gratifying as a study alone, even if it conferred no
pleasure, and awakened no hopes.
“Do not mistake me,” he exclaimed, hurrying after, “I had no purpose to
impute to you any other insensibility except to that of the holy truths
of religion.”
She looked up and smiled archly. There was another transition from cloud
to sunlight.
“What! are you so doubtful of your own ministry?”
“In your case, I am.”
“Why?”
“You will force me to betake myself to studies more severe than any I
have yet attempted.”
She was flattered but she uttered a natural disclaimer.
“No, no! I am presumptuous. I trust you will teach me. Begin--do not
hesitate--I will listen.”
“To move you I must not come in the garments of methodism. That faith
will never be yours.”
“What faith shall it be?”
“That of Catholicism. I must come armed with authority. I must carry
the sword and keys of St. Peter. I must be sustained by all the pomps of
that church of pomps and triumphs. My divine mission must speak through
signs and symbols, through stately stole, pontifical ornaments, the
tiara of religious state on the day of its most solemn ceremonial; and
with these I must bring the word of power, born equally of intellect and
soul, and my utterance must be in the language of divinest poesy!”
“Ah! you mistake! That last will be enough. Speak to me in poesy--let
me hear that--and you will subdue me, I believe, to any faith that you
teach. For I can not but believe the faith that is endowed with the
faculty of poetic utterance.”
“In truth it is a divine utterance--perhaps the only divine utterance.
Would I had it for your sake.”
“Oh! you must have it. I fancy I see it in some things that you have
said. You read poetry, I am sure--I am sure you love it.”
“I do! I know not anything that I love half so well.”
“Then you write it?” she asked eagerly.
“No! the gift has been denied me.”
She looked at him with eyes of regret.
“How unfortunate,” she said.
“Doubly so, as the deficiency seems to disappoint you.”
She did not seem to heed the flattery of this remark, nor did she
appear to note the expression of face with which it was accompanied. Her
feelings took the ascendency. She spoke out her uncommissioned thoughts
and fancies musingly, as if without the knowledge of her will.
“I fancy that I could kneel down and worship the poet, and feel no
shame, no humility. It is the only voice that enchants me--that leads
me out from myself; that carries me where it pleases and finds for me
companions in the solitude; songs in the storm; affections in the barren
desert! Even here, it brings me friends and fellowships. How voiceless
would be all these woods to me had it no voice speaking to, and in,
my soul. Hoping nothing, and performing nothing here, it is my only
consolation. It reconciles me to this wretched spot. It makes endurance
tolerable. If it were not for this companionship--if I heard not this
voice in my sorrows, soothing my desolation, I could freely die!--die
here, beside this rock, without making a struggle to go forward, even to
reach the stream that flows quietly beyond!”
She had stopped in her progress while this stream of enthusiasm poured
from her lips. Her action was suited to her utterance. Unaccustomed
to restraint--nay, accustomed only to pour herself forth to woods, and
trees, and waters, she was scarcely conscious of the presence of any
other companion, yet she looked even while she spoke, in the eyes of
Stevens. He gazed on her with glances of unconcealed admiration. The
unsophisticated nature which led her to express that enthusiasm which
a state of conventional existence prompts us, through fear of ridicule,
industriously to conceal, struck him with the sense of a new pleasure.
The novelty alone had its charm; but there were other sources of
delight. The natural grace and dignity of the enthusiastic girl,
adapting to such words the appropriate action, gave to her beauty,
which was now in its first bloom, all the glow which is derived from
intellectual inspiration. Her whole person spoke. All was vital,
spiritual, expressive, animated; and when the last word lingered on her
lips, Stevens could scarcely repress the impulse which prompted him to
clasp her in his embrace.
“Margaret!” he exclaimed--“Miss Cooper!--you are yourself a poet!”
“No, no!” she murmured, rather than spoke;--“would I were!--a dreamer
only--a self-deluded dreamer.”
“You can not deceive me!” he continued, “I see it in your eyes, your
action; I hear it in your words. I can not be deceived. You are a
poet--you will, and must be one!”
“And if I were!” she said mournfully, “of what avail would it be here?
What heart in this wilderness would be touched by song of mine? Whose
ear could I soothe in this cold and sterile hamlet? Where would be the
temple--who the worshippers--even were the priestess all that her vanity
would believe, or her prayers and toils might make her? No, no! I am
no poet; and if I were, better that the flame should go out--vanish
altogether in the smoke of its own delusions--than burn with a feeble
light, unseen, untrimmed, unhonored--perhaps, beheld with the scornful
eye of vulgar and unappreciating ignorance!”
“Such is not your destiny, Margaret Cooper,” replied Stevens, using
the freedom of address, perhaps unconsciously, which the familiarity of
country life is sometimes found to tolerate. “Such is not your destiny,
Margaret. The flame will not go out--it will be loved and worshipped!”
“Ah! never! what is here to justify such a hope--such a dream?”
“Nothing HERE; but it was not of Charlemont I spoke. The destiny which
has endowed you with genius will not leave it to be extinguished here.
There will come a worshipper, Margaret. There will come one, equally
capable to honor the priestess and to conduct her to befitting altars.
This is not your home, though it may have been your place of trial
and novitiate. Here, without the restraint of cold, oppressive, social
forms, your genius has ripened--your enthusiasm has been kindled into
proper glow--your heart, and mind, and imagination, have kept equal pace
to an equal maturity! Perhaps this was fortunate. Had you grown up in
more polished and worldly circles, you would have been compelled to
subdue the feelings and fancies which now make your ordinary language
the language of a muse.”
“Oh! speak not so, I implore you. I am afraid you mock me.”
“No! on my soul, I do not. I think all that I say. More than that, I
feel it, Margaret. Trust to me--confide in me--make me your friend!
Believe me, I am not altogether what I seem.”
An arch smile once more possessed her eyes.
“Ah! I could guess that! But sit you here. Here is a flower--a
beautiful, small flower, with a dark blue eye. See it--how humbly it
hides amid the grass. It is the last flower if the season. I know not
its name. I am no botanist; but it is beautiful without a name, and it
is the last flower of the season. Sit down on this rock, and I will sing
you Moore's beautiful song, ''Tis the last of its kindred.'”
“Nay, sing me something of your own, Margaret.”
“No, no! Don't speak of me, and mine, in the same breath with Moore.
You will make me repent of having seen you. Sit down and be content with
Moore, or go without your song altogether.”
He obeyed her, and the romantic and enthusiastic girl, seating herself
upon a fragment of rock beside the path, sang the delicate and sweet
verses of the Irish poet, with a natural felicity of execution, which
amply compensated for the absence of those Italian arts, which so
frequently elevate the music at the expense of the sentiment. Stevens
looked and listened, and half forgot himself in the breathlessness of
his attention--his eye fastened with a gaze of absolute devotion on her
features, until, having finished her song, she detected the expression
of his face, and started, with blushing cheeks, to her feet.
“Oh! sweet!” he murmured as he offered to take her hand, but she darted
forward, and following her, he found himself a few moments after,
standing by her side, and looking down upon one of the loveliest lakes
that ever slept in the embrace of jealous hills.