BLOWS--A CRISIS.
But this mood lasted not long. Youth, pride, anger, asserted themselves
before the lapse of many minutes. Darker feelings got possession of his
mind. He rose to his feet. If love was baffled, was there not revenge?
Then came the recollection of his cousin's counsel. Should this artful
stranger triumph in everything? Margaret Cooper had scarcely disguised
the interest which she felt in him. Nay, had not that exulting glance
of the eye declared that she, at least, knew what was the purpose
of Stevens in seeking the secluded village? His own wrongs were
also present to his mind. This usurper had possessed himself of the
affections of all he loved--of all of whose love he had till then
felt himself secure--all but the good old schoolmaster, and the sturdy
schoolmate and cousin. And how soon might he deprive him even of these?
That was a new fear! So rapid had been the stranger's progress--so
adroitly had he insinuated himself into this Eden of the
wilderness--bringing discontent and suffering in his train--that the
now thoroughly-miserable youth began to fancy that nothing could be safe
from his influence. In a short time his garden would all be overrun, and
his loveliest plants would wither.
Was there no remedy for this? There was! and traversing the solemn
recesses of that wood, he meditated the various modes by which the
redress of wrong, and slight and indignity, were to be sought. He
brooded over images of strife, and dark and savage ideas of power
rioting over its victim, with entirely new feelings--feelings new at
least to him. We have not succeeded in doing him justice, nor in our own
design, if we have failed to show that he was naturally gentle of
heart, rigidly conscientious, a lover of justice for its own sake, and
solicitously sensitive on the subject of another's feelings. But the
sense of suffering will blind the best judgment, and the feeling of
injury will arouse and irritate the gentlest nature. Besides, William
Hinkley, though meek and conscientious, had not passed through his
youth, in the beautiful but wild border country in which he lived,
without having been informed, and somewhat influenced, by those
characteristic ideas of the modes and manner in which personal wrongs
were to be redressed.
Perhaps, had his cousin said nothing to him on this subject, his
feelings would have had very much the same tendency and general
direction which they were taking now. A dark and somewhat pleasurable
anxiety to be in conflict with his rival--a deadly conflict--a close,
hard death-struggle--was now the predominant feeling in his mind;--but
the feeling was not ALTOGETHER a pleasurable one. It had its pains and
humiliations, also. Not that he had any fears--any dread of the issue.
Of the issue he never thought. But it disturbed the long and peaceful
order of his life. It conflicted with the subdued tastes of the student.
It was at war with that gentle calm of atmosphere, which letters diffuse
around the bower of the muse.
In the conflict of his thoughts and feelings, the judgment of the youth
was impaired. He forgot his prudence. In fact, he knew not what he did.
He entered the dwelling of his father, and passed into the dining-room,
at that solemn moment when the grace before meat was yet in course of
utterance by our worthy Brother Stevens. Hitherto, old Mr. Hinkley had
religiously exacted that, whenever any of the household failed to be
present in season, this ceremony should never be disturbed. They were
required, hat in hand, to remain at the entrance, until the benediction
had been implored; and, only after the audible utterance of the word
“Amen,” to approach the cloth.
We have shown little of old Hinkley. It has not been necessary. The
reader has seen enough, however, to understand that, in religious
matters--at least in the forms and externals of religion--he was a rigid
disciplinarian. Upon grace before and after meat he always insisted. His
own prayers of this sort might have been unctuous, but they were never
short; and the meats were very apt to grow cold, while the impatience
of his hearers grew warm, before he finished. But through respect to the
profession, he waived his own peculiar privilege in behalf of Brother
Stevens; and this holy brother was in the middle of his entreaty, when
William Hinkley appeared at the door. He paused for an instant without
taking off his hat. Perhaps had his father been engaged in his office,
William would have forborne, as usual, however long the grace, and have
patiently waited without, hat off, until it had reached the legitimate
conclusion. But he had no such veneration for Stevens; and without
scruple he dashed, rather hastily, into the apartment, and flinging his
hat upon a chair, strode at once to the table.
The old man did not once raise his eyes until the prayer was over. He
would not have done so had the house been on fire. But at the close, he
looked up at his son with a brow of thunder. The cloud was of serious
and very unusual blackness. He had for some time been dissatisfied with
his son. He had seen that the youth entertained some aversion for his
guest. Besides, he had learned from his worthy consort, that, in an
endeavor of Brother Stevens to bestow good counsel upon the youth, he
had been repulsed with as little respect as ceremony. There was one
thing that the stern old man had not seen, and could not see; and that
was the altered appearance of the lad. As he knew of no reason why he
should be unhappy, so he failed to perceive in his appearance any of the
signs of unhappiness. He saw nothing but the violation of his laws, and
that sort of self-esteem which produces fanaticism, is always the most
rigid in the enforcement of its own ordinances. Already he regarded the
youth as in a state of rebellion and for such an offence his feeling was
very much that of the ancient puritan. No one more insists upon duty,
than he who has attained authority by flinging off the fetters of
obedience. Your toughest sinner usually makes the sourest saint.
“And is this the way, William Hinkley, that you show respect to God? Do
you despise the blessing which Brother Stevens asks upon the food which
sustains us?”
“I presume, sir, that God has already blessed all the food which he
bestows upon man. I do not think that any prayer of Brother Stevens can
render it more blessed.”
“Ha! you do not, do you? Please to rise from this table.”
“Nay, sir--” began Stevens.
“Rise, sir,” continued the old man, laying down knife and fork, and
confronting the offender with that dogged look of determination which in
a coarse nature is the sure sign of moral inflexibility.
“Forgive him, sir, this time,” said Stevens; “I entreat you to forgive
him. The young man knows not what he does.”
“I will make him know,” continued the other.
“Plead not for me, sir,” said William Hinkley, glaring upon Stevens
with something of that expression which in western parlance is called
wolfish, “I scorn and spurn your interference.”
“William, William, my dear son, do not speak so--do not make your father
angry.”
“Will you leave the table, sir, or not?” demanded the father, his words
being spoken very slowly, through his teeth, and with the effort of one
who seeks to conceal the growing agitation. The eyes of the mother fell
upon the youth full of tears and entreaty. His fine countenance betrayed
the conflicting emotions of his soul. There was grief, and anger,
despair and defiance; the consciousness of being wrong, and the more
painful consciousness of suffering wrong. He half started from his
chair, again resumed it, and gazing upon Stevens with the hate and agony
which he felt, seemed to be entirely forgetful of the words and presence
of the father. The old man deliberately rose from the table and left the
room. The mother now started up in an agony of fear.
“Run, my son--leave the room before your father comes back. Speak to
him, Brother Stevens, and tell him of the danger.”
“Do not call upon him, mother, if you would not have me defy you also.
If YOUR words will not avail with me, be sure that his can not.”
“What mean you, my son? You surely have no cause to be angry with
Brother Stevens.”
“No cause! no cause!--but it matters not! BROTHER Stevens knows that I
have cause. He has heard my defiance--he knows my scorn and hate, and he
shall feel them!”
“William, my son, how--”
The steps of the father, approaching through the passageway, diverted
her mind to a new terror. She knew the vindictive and harsh nature of
the old man; and apprehensions for her son superseded the feeling of
anger which his language had provoked.
“Oh, my son, be submissive, or fly. Jump out of the window, and leave
Brother Stevens and me to pacify him. We will do all we can.”
The unlucky allusion to Brother Stevens only increased the young man's
obstinacy.
“I ask you not, mother. I wish you to do nothing, and to say nothing.
Here I will remain. I will not fly. It will be for my father and mother
to say whether they will expel their only son from their home, to make
room for a stranger.”
“It shall not be said that I have been the cause of this,” said Stevens,
rising with dignity from his chair; “I will leave your house, Mrs.
Hinkley, only regretting that I should be the innocent cause of any
misunderstanding or discontent among its members. I know not exactly
what can be the meaning of your son's conduct. I have never offended
him; but, as my presence does offend him, I will withdraw myself--”
“You shall not!” exclaimed old Hinkley, who re-entered the room at this
moment, and had heard the last words of the speaker. “You shall not
leave the house. Had I fifty sons, and they were all to behave in the
manner of this viper, they should all leave it before you should stir
from the threshold.”
The old man brought with him a cowskin; and the maternal apprehensions
of his wife, who knew his severe and determined disposition, were now
awakened to such a degree as to overcome the feeling of deference, if
not fear, with which the authority of her liege lord had always inspired
her.
“Mr. Hinkley, you won't strike William with that whip--you must not--you
shall not!” and, speaking thus, she started up and threw herself in the
old man's way. He put her aside with no measured movement of his arm,
and approached the side of the table where the young man sat.
“Run, William, run, if you love me!” cried the terrified mother.
“I will not run!” was the answer of the youth, who rose from his seat,
however, at the same moment and confronted his father.
“Do not strike me, father! I warn you--do not strike me. I may be wrong,
but I have suffered wrong. I did not mean, and do not mean, to offend
you. Let that content you, but do not strike me.”
The answer was a blow. The whip descended once, and but once, upon the
shoulders of the young man. His whole frame was in a convulsion.
His eyes dilated with the anguish of his soul; his features worked
spasmodically. There was a moment's hesitation. The arm that smote him
was again uplifted--the cruel and degrading instrument of punishment a
second time about to descend; when, with the strength of youth, and the
determination of manhood, the son grasped the arm of the father, and
without any more than the degree of violence necessary to effect his
object, he tore the weapon from the uplifted hand.
“I can not strike YOU.'” he exclaimed, addressing the old man. “That
blow has lost you your son--for ever! The shame and the dishonor shall
rest on other shoulders. They are better deserved here, and here I place
them!”
With these words, he smote Stevens over the shoulders, once, twice,
thrice, before the latter could close with him, or the father interfere
to arrest the attempt. Stevens sprang upon him, but the more athletic
countryman flung him off, and still maintained his weapon. The father
added his efforts to those of Stevens; but he shook himself free from
both, and, by this time, the mother had contrived to place herself
between the parties. William Hinkley then flung the whip from the
window, and moved toward the door. In passing Stevens, he muttered a few
words:--
“If there is any skin beneath the cloak of the parson, I trust I have
reached it.”
“Enough!” said the other, in the same low tone. “You shall have your
wish.”
The youth looked back once, with tearful eyes, upon his mother; and
making no other answer but a glance more full of sorrow than anger to
the furious flood of denunciation which the old man continued to pour
forth, he proceeded slowly from the apartment and the dwelling.