THE REVELATION.
Having seen his enemy fairly mounted, and under way, as he thought, for
Charlemont, Ned Hinkley returned to Ellisland for his own horse. Here
he did not suffer himself to linger, though, before he could succeed
in taking his departure, he was subjected to a very keen and searching
examination by the village publican and politician. Having undergone
this scrutiny with tolerable patience, if not to the entire satisfaction
of the examiner, he set forward at a free canter, determined that his
adversary should not be compelled to wait.
It was only while he rode that he began to fancy the possibility of the
other having taken a different course; but as, upon reflection, he saw
no other plan which he might have adopted--for lynching for suspected
offences was not yet a popular practice in and about Charlemont--he
contented himself with the reflection that he had done all that could
have been done; and if Alfred Stevens failed to keep his appointment,
he, at least, was one of the losers. He would necessarily lose the
chance of revenging an indignity, not to speak of the equally serious
loss of that enjoyment which a manly fight usually gave to Ned
Hinkley himself, and which, he accordingly assumed, must be an equal
gratification to all other persons. When he arrived at Charlemont, he
did not make his arrival known, but, repairing directly to the lake
among the hills, he hitched his horse, and prepared, with what patience
he could command, to await the coming of the enemy.
The reader is already prepared to believe that the worthy rustic waited
in vain. It was only with the coming on of night that he began to
consider himself outwitted. He scratched his head impatiently, not
without bringing away some shreds of the hair, jumped on his horse, and,
without making many allowances for the rough and hilly character of the
road, went off at a driving pace for the house of Uncle Hinkley. Here he
drew up only to ask if Brother Stevens had returned.
“No!”
“Then, dang it! he never will return. He's a skunk, uncle--as great a
skunk as ever was in all Kentucky!”
“How! what!--what of Brother Stevens?” demanded the uncle, seconded by
John Cross, who had only some two hours arrived at the village, and now
appeared at the door. But Ned Hinkley was already off.
“He's a skunk!--that's all!”
His last words threw very little light over the mystery, and certainly
gave very little satisfaction to his hearers. The absence of Alfred
Stevens, at a time when John Cross was expected, had necessarily
occasioned some surprise; but, of course, no apprehensions were
entertained by either the worthy parson or the bigoted host that he
could be detained by any cause whatsoever which he could not fully
justify.
The next course of Ned Hinkley was for the cottage of Mr. Calvert. To
the old man he gave a copious detail of all his discoveries--not only
the heads of what he heard from the conspirators in the wood, but
something of the terms of the dialogue. The gravity of Calvert increased
as the other proceeded. He saw more deeply into the signification of
certain portions of this dialogue than did the narrator; and when the
latter, after having expressed his disappointment at the non-appearance
of Stevens on the field of combat, at least congratulated himself at
having driven him fairly from the ground, the other shook his head
mournfully.
“I am afraid it's too late, my son.”
“Too late, gran'pa! How? Is it ever too late to send such a rascal
a-packing?”
“It may be for the safety of some, my son.”
“What! Margaret you mean? You think the poor fool of a girl's too far
gone in love of him, do you?”
“If that were all, Ned--”
“Why, what more, eh? You don't mean!--”
The apprehensions of the simple, unsuspecting fellow, for the first time
began to be awakened to the truth.
“I am afraid, my son, that this wretch has been in Charlemont too long.
From certain words that you have dropped, as coming from Stevens, in
speaking to his comrade, I should regard him as speaking the language of
triumph for successes already gained.”
“Oh, hardly! I didn't think so. If I had only guessed that he meant such
a thing--though I can't believe it--I'd ha' dropped him without a word.
I'd have given him the pacificator as well as the peace-breaker. Oh, no!
I can't think it--I can't--I won't! Margaret Cooper is not a girl to my
liking, but, Lord help us! she's too beautiful and too smart to suffer
such a skunk, in so short a time, to get the whip-hand of her. No,
gran'pa, I can't and won't believe it!”
“Yet, Ned, these words which you have repeated convey some such fear to
my mind. It may be that the villain was only boasting to his companion.
There are scoundrels in this world who conceive of no higher subject
of boast than the successful deception and ruin of the artless and
confiding. I sincerely hope that this may be the case now--that it was
the mere brag of a profligate, to excite the admiration of his comrade.
But when you speak of the beauty and the smartness of this poor girl, as
of securities for virtue, you make a great mistake. Beauty is more apt
to be a betrayer than a protector; and as for her talent, that is seldom
a protection unless it be associated with humility. Hers was not. She
was most ignorant where she was most assured. She knew just enough to
congratulate herself that she was unlike her neighbors, and this is the
very temper of mind which is likely to cast down its possessor in shame.
I trust that she had a better guardian angel than either her beauty or
her talents. I sincerely hope that she is safe. At all events, let me
caution you not to hint the possibility of its being otherwise. We will
take for granted that Stevens is a baffled villain.”
“I only wish I had dropped him!”
“Better as it is.”
“What! even if the poor girl is--”
“Ay, even then!”
“Why, gran'pa, can it be possible YOU say so?”
“Yes, my son; I say so here, in moments of comparative calmness, and
in the absence of the villain. Perhaps, were he present, I should say
otherwise.”
“And DO otherwise! You'd shoot him, gran'pa, as soon as I.”
“Perhaps! I think it likely. But, put up your pistols, Ned. You have
nobody now to shoot. Put them up, and let us walk over to your
uncle's at once. It is proper that he and John Cross should know these
particulars.”
Ned agreed to go, but not to put up his pistols.
“For, you see, gran'pa, this rascal may return. His friend may have kept
him in long talk. We may meet him coming into the village.”
“It is not likely; but come along. Give me that staff, my son, and your
arm on the other side. I feel that my eyes are no longer young.”
“You could shoot still, gran'pa?”
“Not well.”
“What, couldn't you hit a chap like Stevens between the eyes at ten
paces? I'm sure I could do it, blindfolded, by a sort of instinct.”
And the youth, shutting his eyes, as if to try the experiment, drew
forth one of his pistols from his bosom, and began to direct its muzzle
around the room.
“There was a black spider THERE, gran'pa! I'm sure, taking him for
Stevens, I could cut his web for him.”
“You have cut that of Stevens himself, and his comb too, Ned.”
“Yes, yes--but what a fool I was not to make it his gills!”
By this time the old man had got on his spencer, and, with staff in
hand, declared himself in readiness. Ned Hinkley lowered his pistol with
reluctance. He was very anxious to try the weapon and his own aim, on
somebody or something. That black spider which lived so securely in the
domicil of Mr. Calvert would have stood no chance in any apartment of
the widow Hinkley. Even the “pacificator” would have been employed
for its extermination, if, for no other reason, because of the fancied
resemblance which it had always worn to Brother Stevens--a resemblance
which occurred to him, perhaps, in consequence of the supposed
similarity between the arts of the libertine and those for the
entrapping of his victims which distinguish the labors of the spider.
The two were soon arrived at old Hinkley's, and the tale of Ned was
told; but, such was the bigotry of the hearers, without securing belief.
“So blessed a young man!” said the old lady.
“A brand from the burning!” exclaimed Brother Cross.
“It's all an invention of Satan!” cried old Hinkley, “to prevent the
consummation of a goodly work.”
“We should not give our faith too readily to such devices of the enemy,
Friend Calvert,” said John Cross, paternally.
“I never saw anything in him that wasn't perfectly saint-like,” said
Mrs. Hinkley. “He made the most heartfelt prayer, and the loveliest
blessing before meat! I think I hear him now--'Lord, make us
thankful'--with his eyes shut up so sweetly, and with such a voice.”
“There are always some people, Brother Cross, to hate the saints of the
Lord and to slander them! They lie in wait like thieves of the night,
and roaring lions of the wilderness, seeking what they may devour.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Brother Cross, “how little do such know that they
devour themselves; for whoso destroyeth his best friend is a devourer of
himself.”
“The blindness of Satan is upon them, and they do his work.”
And thus--purr, purr, purr--they went on, to the end of the chapter.
Poor Ned Hinkley found the whole kennel was upon him. Not only did they
deny everything that could by possibility affect the fair fame of the
absent brother, but, from defending him, they passed, with an easy
transition, to the denunciation of those who were supposed to be his
defamers. In this the worthy old man Calvert came in for his share.
“All this comes of your supporting that worthless boy of mine in
defiance of my will,” said old Hinkley. “You hate Brother Stevens
because that boy hated him, and because I love him.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Hinkley,” said Calvert, mildly. “I hate nobody;
at the same time I suffer no mere prejudices to delude me against sight
and reason.”
“Ah!” said Brother Cross, gently, “it's that very reason, Brother
Calvert, that ruins you worldlings. You must not rely on human reason.
Build on faith, and you build on the Rock of Ages.”
“I propose to use reason only in worldly matters, Mr. Cross,” said the
other; “for which use, only, I believe it was given us. I employ it in
reference to a case of ordinary evidence, and I beg your regards now,
while I draw your attention to the use I make of it in the present
instance. Will you hear me without interruption?”
“Surely, Brother Calvert, but call me not Mr. Cross. I am not a Mister.
I am plain John Cross; by virtue of my business, a brother, if it so
please you to esteem me. Call me Brother Cross, or Brother John Cross,
or plain John Cross, either of these will be acceptable unto me.”
“We are all brothers, or should be,” said Calvert; “and it will not
need that there should be any misunderstanding between us on so small a
matter.”
“The matter is not small in the eye of the Lord,” said the preacher.
“Titles of vanity become not us, and offend in his hearing.”
The old teacher smiled, but proceeded.
“Now, Brother Cross, if you will hear me, I will proceed, according to
my reason, to dwell upon the proofs which are here presented to you, of
the worthlessness of this man, Alfred Stevens; and when you consider how
much the feelings and the safety of the daughters of your flock depend
upon the character of those moral and religious teachers to whom the
care of them is intrusted, you will see, I think, the necessity of
listening patiently, and determining without religious prejudice,
according to the truth and reason of the case.”
“I am prepared to listen patiently, Brother Calvert,” said John Cross,
clasping his hands together, setting his elbows down upon the table,
shutting his eyes, and turning his face fervently up to heaven. Old
Hinkley imitated this posture quite as nearly as he was able; while
Mrs. Hinkley, sitting between the two, maintained a constant to-and-fro
motion, first on one side, then on the other, as they severally spoke to
the occasion, with her head deferentially bowing, like a pendulum, and
with a motion almost as regular and methodical. The movements of her
nephew, Ned Hinkley, were also a somewhat pleasant study, after a
fashion of his own. Sitting in a corner, he amused himself by drawing
forth his “puppies,” and taking occasional aim at a candle or flowerpot;
and sometimes, with some irreverence, at the curved and rather
extravagant proboscis of his worthy uncle, which, cocked up in air, was
indeed something of a tempting object of sight to a person so satisfied
of his skill in shooting as the young rustic. The parties being thus
arranged in a fit attitude for listening, Mr. Calvert began somewhat
after the following fashion:--
“Our first knowledge of Alfred Stevens was obtained through Brother John
Cross.”
“And what better introduction would you have?” demanded old Hinkley.
“None,” said the other, “if Brother Cross knew anything about the
party he introduced. But it so happens, as we learn from Brother Cross
himself, that the first acquaintance he had with Stevens was made upon
the road, where Stevens played a trick upon him by giving him brandy to
drink.”
“No trick, Brother Calvert; the young man gave it me as a medicine, took
it as a medicine himself, and, when I bade him, threw away the accursed
beverage.”
“Ordinary men, governed by ordinary reason, Brother Cross, would say
that Stevens knew very well what he was giving you, and that it was a
trick.”
“But only think, Mr. Calvert,” said Mrs. Hinkley, lifting her hands
and eyes at the same moment, “the blessed young man threw away the evil
liquor the moment he was told to do so. What a sign of meekness was
that!”
“I will not dwell on this point,” was the reply of Calvert. “He comes
into our village and declares his purpose to adopt the profession of
the preacher, and proceeds to his studies under the direction of Brother
Cross.”
“And didn't he study them?” demanded Mrs. Hinkley. “Wasn't he, late and
early, at the blessed volume? I heard him at all hours above stairs.
Oh! how often was he on his bended knees in behalf of our sinful race,
ungrateful and misbelieving that we are!”
“I am afraid, madam,” said Calvert, “that his studies were scarcely so
profound as you think them. Indeed. I am at a loss to conceive how you
should blind your eyes to the fact that the greater part of his time was
spent among the young girls of the village.”
“And where is it denied,” exclaimed old Hinkley, “that the lambs of God
should sport together?”
“Do not speak in that language, I pray you, Mr. Hinkley,” said Calvert,
with something of pious horror in his look; “this young man was no lamb
of God, but, I fear, as you will find, a wolf in the fold. It is, I say,
very well known that he was constantly wandering, even till a late hour
of the night, with one of the village maidens.”
“Who was that one, Brother Calvert?” demanded John Cross.
“Margaret Cooper.”
“Hem!” said the preacher.
“Well, he quarrels with my young friend, the worthy son of Brother
Hinkley--”
“Do not speak of that ungrateful cub. Brother Stevens did not quarrel
with him. He quarrelled with Brother Stevens, and would have murdered
him, but that I put in in time to save.”
“Say not so, Mr. Hinkley. I have good reason to believe that Stevens
went forth especially to fight with William.”
“I would not believe it, if a prophet were to tell me it.”
“Nevertheless, I believe it. We found both of them placed at the usual
fighting-distance.”
“Ah! but where were Brother Stevens's pistols?”
“In his pocket, I suppose.”
“He had none. He was at a distance from my ungrateful son, and flying
that he should not be murdered. The lamb under the hands of the butcher.
And would you believe it, Brother Cross, he had gone forth only to
counsel the unworthy boy--only to bring him back into the fold--gone
forth at his own prayer, as Brother Stevens declared to Betsy, just
before he went out.”
“I am of opinion that he deceived her and yourself.”
“Where were his pistols then?”
“He must have concealed them. He told Ned Hinkley, this very day, that
he had pistols, but that they were here.”
“Run up, Betsy, to Brother Stevens's room and see.”
The old lady disappeared. Calvert proceeded.
“I can only repeat my opinion, founded upon the known pacific and
honorable character of William Hinkley, and certain circumstances in
the conduct of Stevens, that the two did go forth, under a previous
arrangement, to fight a duel. That they were prevented, and that Stevens
had no visible weapon, is unquestionably true. But I do not confine
myself to these circumstances. This young man writes a great many
letters, it is supposed to his friends, but never puts them in the
post here, but every Saturday rides off, as we afterward learn, to the
village of Ellisland, where he deposites them and receive others. This
is a curious circumstance, which alone should justify suspicion.
“The ways of God are intricate, Brother Calvert,” said John Cross, “and
we are not to suspect the truth which we can not understand.”
“But these are the ways of man, Brother Cross.”
“And the man of God is governed by the God which is in him. He obeys a
law which, perhaps, is ordered to be hidden from thy sight.”
“This doctrine certainly confers very extraordinary privileges upon the
man of God,” said Calvert, quietly, “and, perhaps, this is one reason
why the profession is so prolific of professors now-a-days; but
the point does not need discussion. Enough has been shown to awaken
suspicion and doubt in the case of any ordinary person; and I now come
to that portion of the affair which is sustained by the testimony of
Ned Hinkley, our young friend here, who, whatever his faults may be,
has been always regarded in Charlemont, as a lover and speaker of the
truth.”
“Ay, ay, so far as he knows what the truth is,” said old Hinkley,
scornfully.
“And I'm just as likely to know what the truth is as you, uncle!','
retorted the young man, rising and coming forward from his corner.
“Come, come,” he continued, “you're not going to ride rough shod over
me as you did over Cousin Bill. I don't care a snap of the finger, I can
tell you, for all your puffed cheeks and big bellied speeches. I don't,
I tell you!” and suiting the action to the word, the sturdy fellow
snapped his fingers almost under the nose of his uncle, which was now
erected heavenward, with a more scornful pre-eminence than ever.
The sudden entrance of Mrs. Hinkley, from her search after Stevens's
pistols, prevented any rough issue between these new parties, as it
seemed to tell in favor of Stevens. There were no pistols to be found.
The old lady did not add, indeed, that there was nothing of any kind to
be found belonging to the same worthy.
“There! That's enough!” said old Hinkley.
“Did you find anything of Stevens's, Mrs. Hinkley?” inquired Mr.
Calvert.
“Nothing, whatever.”
“Well, madam,” said Calvert, “your search, if it proves anything, proves
the story of Ned Hinkley conclusively. This man has carried off all his
chattels.”
John Cross looked down from heaven, and stared inquiringly at Mrs.
Hinkley.
“Is this true? Have you found nothing, Sister Betsy?”
“Nothing.”
“And Brother Stevens has not come back?”
“No!”
“And reason for it, enough,” said old Hinkley. “Didn't you hear that Ned
Hinkley threatened to shoot him if he came back?”
“Look you, uncle,” said the person thus accused, “if you was anybody
else, and a little younger, I'd thrash you for that speech the same as
if it was a lie! I would.”
“Peace!” said Calvert, looking sternly at the youth. Having obtained
temporary silence, he was permitted at length to struggle through his
narrative, and to place, in their proper lights, all the particulars
which Ned Hinkley had obtained at Ellisland. When this was done the
discussion was renewed, and raged, with no little violence, for a full
hour. At length it ceased through the sheer exhaustion of the parties.
Calvert was the first to withdraw from it, as he soon discovered that
such was the bigotry of old Hinkley and his wife, and even of John Cross
himself, that nothing short of divine revelation could persuade them of
the guilt of one who had once made a religious profession.
Brother Cross, though struck with some of the details which Calvert
had given, was afterward prepared to regard them as rather trivial than
otherwise, and poor Ned was doomed to perceive that the conviction
was general in this holy family, that he had, by his violence, and the
terror which his pistols had inspired, driven away, in desperation,
the most meek and saintly of all possible young apostles. The youth was
nearly furious ere the evening and the discussion were over. It was very
evident to Calvert that nothing was needed, should Stevens come back,
but a bold front and a lying tongue, to maintain his position in the
estimation of the flock, until such time as the truth WOULD make itself
known--a thing which, eventually, always happens. That night Ned Hinkley
dreamed of nothing but of shooting Stevens and his comrade and of
thrashing his uncle. What did Margaret Cooper dream of?