BULL-PUPS IN TRAINING.
Alfred Stevens was sufficiently familiar with the sex to perceive that
Margaret Cooper was resolved. There was that in her look and manner
which convinced him that she was not now to be overcome. There was no
effort or constraint in either her looks or language. The composure of
assured strength was there. The discovery of her weakness, which he
had so unexpectedly made, had rendered her vigilant. Suspecting
herself--which women are not apt to do--she became watchful, not only of
the approach of her lover, but of every emotion of her own soul; and
it was with a degree of chagrin which he could scarcely refrain from
showing, that he was compelled to forego, at least for the present, all
his usual arts of seduction.
Yet he knew not how to refrain. Never had Margaret Cooper seemed so
lovely in his eyes, so commanding, so eloquent with beauty, as now,
when remorse had touched her eyes with an unwonted shadow, and tears and
nightwatching had subdued the richer bloom upon her cheek. Proud still,
but pensive in her pride, she walked silently beside him, still brooding
over thoughts which she would not willingly admit were doubts, and
grasping every word of assurance that fell from his lips as if it had
been some additional security.
These assurances he still suffered to escape him, with sufficient
frequency and solemnity, to confirm that feeling of confidence which
his promise of marriage had inspired in her mind. There was a subdued
fondness in his voice, and an EMPRESSMENT in his manner, which was not
all practice. The character which Margaret Cooper had displayed in this
last interview--her equal firmness and fear--the noble elevation of
soul which, admitting her own errors, disdained to remind him of his--a
course which would have been the most ready of adoption among the weaker
and less generous of the sex--had touched him with a degree of respect
akin to admiration; and so strong was the impression made upon him of
her great natural superiority of mind to almost all the women he had
ever met, that, but for her one unhappy lapse, he had sought no other
wife. Had she been strong at first as she proved herself at last, this
had been inevitable.
When in his own chamber that night, he could not help recalling to his
memory the proud elevation of her character as it had appeared in that
interview. The recollection really gave him pain, since along with it
arose the memory also of that unfortunate frailty, which became more
prominent as a crime in connection with that intellectual merit which,
it is erroneously assumed, should have made it sure.
“But for that, Margaret Cooper, and this marriage were no vain promise.
But that forbids. No, no--no spousals for me: let John Cross and the
bride be ready or not, there shall be a party wanting to that contract!
And yet, what a woman to lose! what a woman to win! No tragedy queen
ever bore herself like that. Talk of Siddons, indeed! SHE would have
brought down the house in that sudden prostration--that passionate
appeal. She made even me tremble. I could have loved her for that, if
for that only. To make ME tremble! and with such a look, such an eye,
such a stern, sweet, fierce beauty! By Heavens! I know not how to
give her up. What a sensation she would make in Frankfort! Were she my
wife--but no, no! bait for gudgeons! I am not so great a fool as that.
She who is mine on my terms, is yours, sir, or yours--is anybody's, when
the humor suits and the opportunity. I can not think of that. Yet, to
lose her is as little to be thought of. I must manage it. I must get
her off from this place. It need not be to Frankfort! Let me
see--there is--hum!--hum!--yes, a ride of a few miles--an afternoon
excursion--quite convenient, yet not too near. It must be managed;
but, at all events, I must evade this marriage--put it off for the
present--get some decent excuse. That's easy enough, and for the rest,
why, time that softens all things, except man and woman, time will make
that easy too. To-morrow for Ellisland, and the rest after.”
Thus, resolving not to keep his vows to his unhappy victim, the criminal
was yet devising plans by which to continue his power over her. These
plans, yet immature in his own mind, at least unexpressed, need not be
analyzed here, and may be conjectured by the reader.
That night, Stevens busied himself in preparing letters. Of these he
wrote several. It will not further our progress to look over him as he
writes; and we prefer rather, in this place, to hurry on events which,
it may be the complaint of all parties, reader not omitted, have been
too long suffered to stagnate. But we trust not. Let us hurry Stevens
through Friday night--the night of that last interview.
Saturday morning, we observe that his appetite is unimpaired. He
discusses the breakfast at Hinkley's as if he had never heard of
suffering. He has said an unctuous grace. Biscuits hot, of best Ohio
flour, are smoking on his plate. A golden-looking mass of best fresh
butter is made to assimilate its luscious qualities with those of the
drier and hotter substance. A copious bowl of milk, new from the dugs of
old Brindle, stands beside him, patiently waiting to be honored by his
unscrupulous but not unfastidious taste. The grace is said, and the
gravy follows. He has a religious regard for the goods and gifts of this
life. He eats heartily, and the thanks which follow, if not from the
bottom of the soul, were sufficiently earnest to have emanated from the
bottom of his stomach.
This over, he has a chat with his hosts. He discusses with old Hinkley
the merits of the new lights. What these new lights were, at that
period, we do not pretend to remember. Among sectarians, there are
periodical new lights which singularly tend to increase the moral
darkness. From these, after a while, they passed to the love festivals
or feasts--a pleasant practice of the methodist church, which is
supposed to be very promotive of many other good things besides love;
though we are constrained to say that Brother Stevens and Brother
Hinkley--who, it may be remarked, had very long and stubborn arguments,
frequently without discovering, till they reached the close, that they
were thoroughly agreed in every respect except in words--concurred in
the opinion that there was no portion of the church practice so highly
conducive to the amalgamation of soul with soul, and all souls with God,
as this very practice of love-feasts!
Being agreed on this and other subjects, Mr. Hinkley invited Brother
Stevens out to look at his turnips and potatoes; and when this delicate
inquiry was over, toward ten o'clock in the day, Brother Stevens
concluded that he must take a gallop; he was dyspeptic, felt queerish,
his studies were too close, his mind too busy with the great concerns
of salvation. These are enough to give one dyspepsia. Of course, the
hot rolls and mountains of volcanic butter--steam-ejecting--could have
produced no such evil effects upon a laborer in the vineyard. At all
events, a gallop was necessary, and the horse was brought. Brother
Hinkley and our matronly sister of the same name watched the progress of
the pious youth, as, spurring up the hills, he pursued the usual route,
taking at first the broad highway leading to the eastern country.
There were other eyes that watched the departure of Brother Stevens
with no less interest, but of another kind, than those of the venerable
couple. Our excellent friend Calvert started up on hearing the tread
of the horse, and, looking out from his porch, ascertained with some
eagerness of glance that the rider was Alfred Stevens.
Now, why was the interest of Calvert so much greater on this than on any
other previous occasion? We will tell you, gentle reader. He had been
roused at an early hour that morning by a visit from Ned Hinkley.
“Gran'pa,” was the reverent formula of our fisherman at beginning,
“to-day's the day. I'm pretty certain that Stevens will be riding out
to-day, for he missed the last Saturday. I'll take my chance for it,
therefore, and brush out ahead of him. I think I've got it pretty
straight now, the place that he goes to, and I'll see if I can't get
there soon enough to put myself in a comfortable fix, so as to see
what's a-going on and what he goes after. Now, gran'pa, I'll tell
you what I want from you--them pocket-pistols of your'n. Bill Hinkley
carried off grandad's, and there's none besides that I can lay hold on.”
“But, Ned, I'm afraid to lend them to you.”
“What 'fraid of?”
“That you'll use them.”
“To be sure I will, if there's any need, gran'pa. What do I get them
for?”
“Ah, yes! but I fear you'll find a necessity where there is none. You'll
be thrusting your head into some fray in which you may lose your ears.”
“By Jupiter, no! No, gran'pa, I'll wait for the necessity. I won't look
for it. I'm going straight ahead this time, and to one object only. I
think Stevens is a rascal, and I'm bent to find him out. I've had no
disposition to lick anybody but him, ever since he drove Bill Hinkley
off--you and him together.”
“You'll promise me, Ned?”
“Sure as a snag in the forehead of a Mississippi steamer. Depend upon
me.”
“But there must be no quarrelling with Stevens either, Ned.”
“Look you, gran'pa, if I'm to quarrel with Stevens or anybody else,
'twouldn't be your pistols in my pocket that would make me set on, and
'twouldn't be the want of 'em that would make me stop. When it's my cue
to fight, look you, I won't need any prompter, in the shape of friend
or pistol. Now THAT speech is from one of your poets, pretty near, and
ought to convince you that you may as well lend the puppies and say no
more about it. If you don't you'll only compel me to carry my rifle, and
that'll be something worse to an enemy, and something heavier for me.
Come, come, gran'pa, don't be too scrupulous in your old age. YOUR
HAVING them is a sufficient excuse for MY HAVING them too. It shows that
they ought to be had.”
“You're logic-chopping this morning, Ned--see that you don't get to
man-chopping in the afternoon. You shall have the pistols, but do not
use them rashly. I have kept them simply for defence against invasion;
not for the purpose of quarrel, or revenge.”
“And you've kept them mighty well, gran'pa,” replied the young man, as
he contemplated with an eye of anxious admiration, the polish of the
steel barrels, the nice carving of the handles, and the fantastic but
graceful inlay of the silver-mounting and setting. The old man regarded
him with a smile.
“Yes, Ned, I've kept them well. They have never taken life, though they
have been repeatedly tried upon bull's eye and tree-bark. If you will
promise me not to use them to-day, Ned, you shall have them.”
“Take 'em back, gran'pa.”
“Why?”
“Why, I'd feel the meanest in the world to have a weapon, and not use it
when there's a need to do so; and I'm half afraid that the temptation
of having such beautiful puppies for myself--twin-puppies, I may
say--having just the same look out of the eyes, and just the same spots
and marks, and, I reckon, just the same way of giving tongue--I'm half
afraid, I say, that to get to be the owner of them, might tempt me to
stand quiet and let a chap wink at me--maybe laugh outright--may be suck
in his breath, and give a phew-phew-whistle just while I'm passing! No!
no! gran'pa, take back your words, or take back your puppies. Won't risk
to carry both. I'd sooner take Patsy Rifle, with all her weight, and no
terms at all.”
“Pshaw, Ned, you're a fool.”
“That's no news, gran'pa, to you or me. But it don't alter the case. Put
up your puppies.”
“No, Ned; you shall have them on your own terms. Take 'em as they are. I
give them to you.”
“And I may shoot anybody I please this afternoon, gran'pa?”
“Ay, ay, Ned--; anybody--”
Thus far the old man, when he stopped himself, changed his manner, which
was that of playful good-humor, to that of gravity, while his tones
underwent a corresponding change--
“But, Ned, my son, while I leave it to your discretion, I yet beg you
to proceed cautiously--seek no strife, avoid it--go not into the
crowd--keep from them where you see them drinking, and do not use
these or any weapons for any trifling provocation. Nothing but the last
necessity of self-preservation justifies the taking of life.”
“Gran'pa--thank you--you've touched me in the very midst of my
tender-place, by this handsome present. One of these puppies I'll name
after you, and I'll notch it on the butt. The other I'll call Bill
Hinkley, and I won't notch that. Yours, I'll call my pacific puppy,
and I'll use it only for peace-making purposes. The other I'll call my
bull-pup, and him I'll use for baiting and butting, and goring. But, as
you beg, I promise you I'll keep 'em both out of mischief as long as I
can. Be certain sure that it won't be my having the pups that'll make
me get into a skrimmage a bit the sooner; for I never was the man to ask
whether my dogs were at hand before I could say the word, 'set-on!' It's
a sort of nature in a man that don't stop to look after his weapons, but
naturally expects to find 'em any how, when his blood's up, and there's
a necessity to do.”
This long speech and strong assurance of his pacific nature and
purposes, did not prevent the speaker from making, while he spoke,
certain dextrous uses of the instrument's which were given into his
hands. Right and left were equally busy; one muzzle was addressed to the
candle upon the mantelpiece, the other pursued the ambulatory movements
of a great black spider upon the wall. The old man surveyed him with
an irrepressible smile. Suddenly interrupting himself the youth
exclaimed:--
“Are they loaded, gran'pa?”
He was answered in the negative.
“Because, if they were,” said he, “and that great black spider was
Brother Stevens, I'd show you in the twinkle of a musquito, how I'd put
a finish to his morning's work. But I'd use the bull-pup, gran'pa--see,
this one--the pacific one I'd empty upon him with powder only, as a sort
of feu de joie--and then I'd set up the song--what's it? ah! Te Deum. A
black spider always puts me in mind of a rascal.”