“ABSQUATULATING.”
Had a bolt suddenly flashed and thundered at the feet of the two
friends, falling from a clear sky in April, they could not have been
more astounded. They started, as with one impulse, in the same moment to
their feet.
“Keep quiet,” said the intruder; “don't let me interrupt you in so
pleasant a conversation. I'd like to hear you out. I'm refreshed by it.
What you say is so very holy and sermon-like, that I'm like a new man
when I hear it. Sit down, Brother Stevens, and begin again; sit down,
Ben, my good fellow, and don't look so scary! You look as if you had a
window in your ribs already!”
The intruder had not moved, though he had startled the conspirators. He
did not seem to share in their excitement. He was very coolly seated,
with his legs deliberately crossed, while his two hands parted the
bushes before him in order to display his visage--perhaps with the
modest design of showing to the stranger that his friend had grievously
misrepresented its expression. Certainly, no one could say that, at this
moment, it lacked anything of spirit or intelligence. Never were eyes
more keen--never were lips more emphatically made to denote sarcasm
and hostility. The whole face was alive with scorn, and hate, and
bitterness; and there was defiance enough in the glance to have put
wings to fifty bullets.
His coolness, the composure which his position and words manifested,
awakened the anger of Brother Stevens as soon as the first feeling of
surprise had passed away. He felt, in a moment, that the game was up
with him--that he could no longer play the hypocrite in Charlemont.
He must either keep his pledges to Margaret Cooper, without delay or
excuse, or he must abandon all other designs which his profligate heart
may have suggested in its cruel purposes against her peace.
“Scoundrel!” he exclaimed; “how came you here? What have you heard?”
“Good words, Brother Stevens. You forget, you are a parson.”
“Brain the rascal!” exclaimed the whiskered stranger, looking more
fierce than ever. The same idea seemed to prompt the actions of Stevens.
Both of them, at the same moment, advanced upon the intruder, with their
whips uplifted; but still Ned Hinkley did not rise. With his legs still
crossed, he kept his position, simply lifting from the sward beside him,
where they had been placed conveniently, his two “puppies.” One of these
he grasped in his right hand and presented as his enemies approached.
“This, gentlemen,” said he, “is my peace-maker. It says, 'Keep your
distance.' This is my bull-pup, or peace-breaker; it says, 'Come on.'
Listen to which you please. It's all the same to me. Both are ready to
answer you, and I can hardly keep 'em from giving tongue. The bull-pup
longs to say something to you, Brother Stevens--the pacificator is
disposed to trim your whiskers, Brother Ben; and I say, for 'em both,
come on, you black-hearted rascals, if you want to know whether a girl
of Charlemont can find a man of Charlemont to fight her battles. I'm man
enough, by the Eternal, for both of you!”
The effect of Hinkley's speech was equally great upon himself and the
enemy. He sprang to his feet, ere the last sentence was concluded,
and they recoiled in something like indecent haste. The language of
determination was even more strongly expressed by the looks of the
rustic than by his language and action. They backed hurriedly at his
approach.
“What! won't you stand?--won't you answer to your villanies?--won't you
fight? Pull out your barkers and blaze away, you small-souled scamps;
I long to have a crack at you--here and there--both at a time! Aint you
willing? I'm the sleepy trout-fisherman! Don't you know me? You've waked
me up, my lads, and I sha'n't sleep again in a hurry! As for you, Alfred
Stevens--you were ready to fight Bill Hinkley--here's another of the
breed--won't you fight him?”
“Yes--give me one of your pistols, if you dare, and take your stand,”
said Stevens boldly.
“You're a cunning chap--give you one of my puppies--a stick for my own
head--while this bush-whiskered chap cudgels me over from behind. No!
no! none of that! Besides, these pistols were a gift from a good man,
they sha'n't be disgraced by the handling of a bad one. Get your own
weapons, Brother Stevens, and every man to his tree.”
“They are in Charlemont!”
“Well!--you'll meet me there then?”
“Yes!” was the somewhat eager answer of Stevens, “I will meet you
there--to-morrow morning--”
“Sunday--no! no!”
“Monday, then; this evening, if we get home in season.”
“It's a bargain then,” replied Hinkley, “though I can hardly keep from
giving you the teeth of the bull! As for big-whiskered Ben, there, I'd
like to let him taste my pacificator. I'd just like to brush up his
whiskers with gun-powder--they look to have been done up with bear's
grease before, and have a mighty fine curl; but if I wouldn't frizzle
them better than ever a speckled hen had her feathers frizzled, then
I don't know the virtues of gun-powder. On Monday morning, Brother
Stevens!”
“Ay, ay! on Monday morning!”
Had Ned Hinkley been more a man of the world--had he not been a simple
backwoodsman, he would have seen, in the eagerness of Stevens to make
this arrangement, something, which would have rendered him suspicious
of his truth. The instantaneous thought of the arch-hypocrite, convinced
him that he could never return to Charlemont if this discovery was once
made there. His first impulse was to put it out of the power of
Ned Hinkley to convey the tidings. We do not say that he would have
deliberately murdered him; but, under such an impulse of rage and
disappointment as governed him in the first moments of detection, murder
has been often done. He would probably have beaten him into incapacity
with his whip--which had a heavy handle--had not the rustic been
sufficiently prepared. The pistols of Stevens were in his valise, but
he had no purpose of fighting, on equal terms, with a man who spoke with
the confidence of one who knew how to use his tools; and when the simple
fellow, assuming that he would return to Charlemont for his chattels,
offered him the meeting there, he eagerly caught at the suggestion as
affording himself and friend the means of final escape.
It was not merely the pistols of Hinkley of which he had a fear. But
he well knew how extreme would be the danger, should the rustic gather
together the people of Ellisland, with the story of his fraud, and the
cruel consequences to the beauty of Charlemont, by which the deception
had been followed. But the simple youth, ignorant of the language of
libertinism, had never once suspected the fatal lapse from virtue of
which Margaret Cooper had been guilty. He was too unfamiliar with the
annals and practices of such criminals, to gather this fact from
the equivocal words, and half-spoken sentences, and sly looks of the
confederates. Had he dreamed this--had it, for a moment, entered into
his conjecturings--that such had been the case, he would probably have
shot down the seducer without a word of warning. But that the crime was
other than prospective, he had not the smallest fancy; and this may
have been another reason why he took the chances of Stevens's return to
Charlemont, and let him off at the moment.
“Even should he not return,” such may have been his reflection--“I have
prevented mischief at least. He will be able to do no harm. Margaret
Cooper shall be warned of her escape, and become humbler at least, if
not wiser in consequence. At all events, the eyes of Uncle Hinkley will
be opened, and poor Bill be restored to us again!”
“And now mount, you scamps,” said Hinkley, pressing upon the two with
presented pistols. “I'm eager to send big-whiskered Ben home to his
mother; and to see you, Brother Stevens, on your way back to Charlemont.
I can hardly keep hands off you till then; and it's only to do so, that
I hurry you. If you stay, looking black, mouthing together, I can't
stand it. I will have a crack at you. My peace-maker longs to brush up
them whiskers. My bull-pup is eager to take you, Brother Stevens, by the
muzzle! Mount you, as quick as you can, before I do mischief.”
Backing toward their horses, they yielded to the advancing muzzles,
which the instinct of fear made them loath to turn their backs upon.
Never were two hopeful projectors so suddenly abased--so completely
baffled. Hinkley, advancing with moderate pace, now thrust forward
one, and now the other pistol, accompanying the action with a specific
sentence corresponding to each, in manner and form as follows:--
“Back, parson--back, whiskers! Better turn, and look out for the roots,
as you go forward. There's no seeing your way along the road by looking
down the throats of my puppies. If you want to be sure that they'll
follow till you're mounted, you have my word for it. No mistake, I tell
you. They're too eager on scent, to lose sight of you in a hurry, and
they're ready to give tongue at a moment's warning. Take care not to
stumble, whiskers, or the pacificator 'll be into your brush.”
“I'll pay you for this!” exclaimed Stevens, with a rage which was not
less really felt than judiciously expressed. “Wait till we meet!”
“Ay, ay! I'll wait; but be in a hurry. Turn now, your nags are at your
backs. Turn and mount!”
In this way they reached the tree where their steeds were fastened.
Thus, with the muzzle of a pistol bearing close upon the body of
each--the click of the cock they had heard--the finger close to the
trigger they saw--they were made to mount--in momentary apprehension
that the backwoodsman, whose determined character was sufficiently seen
in his face, might yet change his resolve, and with wanton hand, riddle
their bodies with his bullets. It was only when they were mounted, that
they drew a breath of partial confidence.
“Now,” said Hinkley, “my lads, let there be few last words between you.
The sooner you're off the better. As for you, Alfred Stevens, the sooner
you're back in Charlemont the more daylight we'll have to go upon. I'll
be waiting you, I reckon, when you come.”
“Ay, and you may wait,” said Stevens, as the speaker turned off and
proceeded to the spot where his own horse was fastened.
“You won't return, of course?” said his companion.
“No! I must now return with you, thanks to your interference. By
Heavens, Ben, I knew, at your coming, that you would do mischief; you
have been a marplot ever; and after this, I am half-resolved to forswear
your society for ever.”
“Nay, nay! do not say so, Warham. It was unfortunate, I grant you; but
how the devil should either of us guess that such a Turk as that was in
the bush?”
“Enough for the present,” said the other. “It is not now whether I
wish to ride with you or not. There is no choice. There is no return to
Charlemont.”
“And that's the name of the place, is it?”
“Yes! yes! Much good may the knowledge of it do you.”
“How fortunate that this silly fellow concluded to let you off on such a
promise. What an ass!”
“Yes! but he may grow wiser! Put spurs to your jade, and let us see
what her heels are good for, for the next three hours. I do not yet feel
secure. The simpleton may grow wiser and change his mind.”
“He can scarcely do us harm now, if he does.”
“Indeed!” said Stevens--“you know nothing. There's such a thing as hue
and cry, and its not unfrequently practised in these regions, when the
sheriff is not at hand and constables are scarce. Every man is then a
sheriff.”
“Well--but there's no law-process against us!”
“You are a born simpleton, I think,” said Stevens, with little scruple.
He was too much mortified to be very heedful of the feelings of his
companion. “There needs no law in such a case, at least for the CAPTURE
of a supposed criminal; and, for that matter, they do not find it
necessary for his punishment either. Hark ye, Ben--there's a farmhouse?”
“Yes, I see it!”
“Don't you smell tar?--They're running it now!”
“I think I do smell something like it. What of it?”
“Do you see that bed hanging from yon window?”
“Yes! of course I see it!”
“It is a feather-bed!”
“Well--what of that? Why tell me this stuff? Of course I can guess as
well as you that it's a feather-bed, since I see a flock of geese in the
yard with their necks all bare.”
“Hark ye, then! There's something more than this, which you may yet see!
Touch up your mare. If this fellow brings the mob at Ellisland upon us,
that tar will be run, and that feather-bed gutted, for our benefit. What
they took from the geese will be bestowed on us. Do you understand me?
Did you ever hear of a man whose coat was made of tar and feathers, and
furnished at the expense of the county?”
“Hush, for God's sake, Warham! you make my blood run cold with your
hideous notions!”
“That fellow offered to frizzle your whiskers. These would anoint them
with tar, in which your bear's oil would be of little use.”
“Ha! don't you hear a noise?” demanded the whiskered companion, looking
behind him.
“I think I do,” replied the other musingly.
“A great noise!” continued Don Whiskerandos.
“Yes, it seems to me that it is a great noise.”
“Like people shouting?”
“Somewhat--yes, by my soul, that DOES sound something like a shout!”
“And there! Don't stop to look and listen, Warham,” cried his companion;
“it's no time for meditation. They're coming! hark!--” and with a single
glance behind him--with eyes dilating with the novel apprehensions
of receiving a garment, unsolicited, bestowed by the bounty of the
county--he drove his spurs into the flanks of his mare, and went ahead
like an arrow. Stevens smiled in spite of his vexation.
“D--n him!” he muttered as he rode forward, “it's some satisfaction, at
least, to scare the soul out of him!”