Charlemont; Or, The Pride of the Village Part 20

"By the lake."

"Ah! I remember. I was drowning. I felt it all--the choking--the struggle--the water in my ears and eyes! It was a dreadful feeling. How did I come here? Who saved me?"

"Ned Hinkley brought you to land, but he was helped by his cousin William, who a.s.sisted the stranger."

"The stranger? ah! yes, I remember: but where is he?"

She looked around wildly and anxiously, and beholding William Hinkley at a little distance, busy with the still unconscious form of Stevens, a quick, fearful shudder pa.s.sed over her frame. She almost crouched into the old man's arms as she asked, in husky accents--

"He is not dead--he lives?"

"I hope so. He breathes."

She waited for no more, but, starting to her feet, she staggered to the spot where Stevens lay. The old man would have prevented her.

"You are feeble; you will do yourself harm. Better, if you are able to walk, hurry homeward with me, when you can change your clothes."

"Would you have me ungrateful?" she exclaimed; "shall I neglect him when he risked his life for me?"

There was a consciousness in her mind that it was not all grat.i.tude which moved her, for the deathly paleness of her cheek was now succeeded by a warm blush which denoted a yet stronger and warmer emotion. The keen eyes of William Hinkley understood the meaning of this significant but unsyllabling mode of utterance, and his eyes spoke the reproach to hers which his lips left unsaid:--

"Ah! did I not risk my life too, to prevent--to save? When would she feel such an interest in me? when would she look thus were my life at stake?"

"He will not be neglected," said the old man, gently endeavoring to restrain her. Perhaps she would not have given much heed to the interruption, for hers was the strength of an unfettered will, one accustomed to have way, but that, at this moment, the eyes of Stevens unclosed and met her own. His consciousness had returned, and, under the increasing expression in his looks, she sunk back, and permitted the old man to lead her along the homeward path. More than once she looked back, but, with the a.s.surance of Mr. Calvert that there was no more danger to be apprehended, she continued to advance; the worthy old man, as they went, seeking to divert her mind, by pleasant and choice anecdotes of which his memory had abundant stores, from dwelling upon the unpleasant and exciting event which had just taken place.

Margaret Cooper, whose habits previously had kept her from much intimacy with the village sage, was insensibly taken by his gentleness, the purity of his taste, the choiceness of his expression, the extent of his resources. She wondered how a mind so full should have remained unknown to her so long--committing the error, very common to persons of strong will and determined self-esteem, of a.s.suming that she should, as a matter of inevitable necessity, have known everything and everybody of which the knowledge is at all desirable.

In pleasant discourse he beguiled her progress, until Ned Hinkley was met returning with horses--the pathway did not admit of a vehicle, and the village had none less c.u.mbrous than cart and wagon--on one of which she mounted, refusing all support or a.s.sistance; and when, Mr. Calvert insisted upon walking beside her, she grasped the bough of a tree, broke off a switch, and, giving an arch but good-natured smile and nod to the old man, laid it smartly over the horse's flank, and in a few moments was out of sight.

"The girl is smart," said Calvert, as he followed her retreating form with his eye--"too smart! She speaks well--has evidently read. No wonder that William loves her; but she will never do for him. She has no humility. Pride is the demon in her heart. Pride will overthrow her.

These woods spoil her. Solitude is the natural nurse of self-esteem, particularly where it is strong at first, and is coupled with anything like talent. Better for such a one if sickness, and strife, and suffering, had taken her at the cradle, and nursed her with the milk of self-denial, which is the only humility worth having. And yet, why should I speak of her, when the sting remains in my own soul--when I yet feel the pang of my feebleness and self-reproach? Alas! I should school none. The voice speaks to me ever, 'Old man, to thy prayers! Thy own knees are yet stubborn as thy neck!'"

Leaving him to the becoming abas.e.m.e.nt of that delusive self-comfort which ministers to our vain-glory, and which this good old man had so happily succeeded in rebuking, we will return to the spot where we left our other parties. Ned Hinkley had already joined them. With his horse he had providently brought a suit of his own clothes for the stranger, which, though made of homespun, and not of the most modern fashion, were yet warm and comfortable, and as Stevens was compelled to think, infinitely preferable to the chilly and dripping garments which he wore.

A few moments, in the cover of the woods, sufficed the neophyte to make the alteration; while the two cousins, to whom the exigencies of forester and fisherman life were more familiar prepared to walk the water out of their own habits, by giving rapid circulation to their blood and limbs. While their preparations were in progress, however, Ned Hinkley could not deny himself the pleasure of discoursing at length on the subject of the late disaster.

"Stranger," he said, "I must tell you that you've had a souse in as fine a fishing-pond as you'll meet with from here to Salt river. I reckon, now, that while you were in, you never thought for a moment of the n.o.ble trout that inhabit it."

"I certainly did not," said the other.

"There, now! I could have sworn it. That a man should go with his eyes open into a country without ever asking what sort of folks lived there!

Isn't it monstrous?"

"It certainly seems like a neglect of the first duty of a traveller,"

said Stevens good-humoredly; "let me not show myself heedless of another. Let me thank you, gentlemen, for saving my life. I believe I owe it to one or both of you."

"To him, not to me," said Ned Hinkley, pointing to his cousin. William was at a little distance, looking sullenly upon the two with eyes which, if dark and moody, seemed to denote a thought which was anywhere else but in the scene around him.

"He saved you, and I saved the woman. I wouldn't have a woman drowned in this lake for all the houses in Charlemont."

"Ah! why?"

"'Twould spoil it for fishing for ever."

"Why would a woman do this more than a man?"

"For a very good reason, my friend. Because the ghost of a woman talks, and a man's don't, they say. The ghost of a man says what it wants to say with its eyes; a woman's with her tongue. You know there's nothing scares fish so much as one's talking."

"I have heard so. But is it so clear that there is such a difference between ghosts? How is it known that the female does all the talking?"

"Oh, that's beyond dispute. There's a case that we all know about--all here in Charlemont--the case of Joe Barney's millpond. Barney lost one of his children and one of his negroes in the pond--drowned as a judgment, they say, for fishing a Sunday. That didn't make any difference with the fish: you could catch them there just the same as before. But when old Mrs. Prey fell in, crossing the dam, the case was altered. You might sit there for hours and days, night and day, and bob till you were weary; devil a bite after that! Now, what could make the difference but the tongue? Mother Frey had a tongue of her own, I tell you. 'Twas going when she fell in, and I reckon's been going ever since. She was a sulphury, spiteful body, to be sure, and some said she poisoned the fish if she didn't scare them. To my thinking, 'twas the tongue."

Stevens had been something seduced from his gravity by the blunt humor and unexpected manner of Ned Hinkley; besides, having been served, if not saved, by his hands, something, perhaps, of attention was due to what he had to say; but he recollected the a.s.sumed character which he had to maintain--something doubtful, too, if he had not already impaired it in the sight and hearing of those who had come so opportunely but so unexpectedly to his relief, He recovered his composure and dignity; forbore to smile at the story which might otherwise have provoked not only smile but corresponding answer; and, by the sudden coolness of his manner, tended to confirm in Ned Hinkley's bosom the half-formed hostility which the cause of his cousin had originally taught him to feel.

"I'll lick the conceit out of him yet!" he muttered, as Stevens, turning away, ascended to the spot where William Hinkley stood.

"I owe you thanks, Mr. Hinkley," he began.

The young man interrupted him.

"You owe me nothing, sir," he answered hastily, and prepared to turn away.

"You have saved my life, sir."

"I should have saved your dog's life, sir, in the same situation. I have done but an act of duty."

"But, Mr. Hinkley--"

"Your horse is ready for you, sir," said the young man, turning off abruptly, and darting up the sides of the hill, remote from the pathway, and burying himself in the contiguous forests.

"Strange!" exclaimed the neophyte--"this is very strange!"

"Not so strange, stranger, as that I should stand your groom, without being brought up to such a business for any man. Here's your nag, sir."

"I thank you--I would not willingly trespa.s.s," he replied, as he relieved our angler from his grasp upon the bridle.

"You're welcome without the thanks, stranger. I reckon you know the route you come. Up hill, follow the track to the top, take the left turn to the valley, then you'll see the houses, and can follow your own nose or your nag's. Either's straight enough to carry you to his rack. You'll find your clothes at your boarding-house about the time that you'll get there."

"Nay, sir, I already owe you much. Let them not trouble you. I will take them myself."

"No, no, stranger!" was the reply of our fisherman, as he stooped down and busied himself in making the garments into a compact bundle; "I'm not the man to leave off without doing the thing I begin to do. I sometimes do more than I bargain for--sometimes lick a man soundly when I set out only to tweak his nose; but I make it a sort of Christian law never to do less. You may reckon to find your clothes home by the time you get there. There's your road."

"A regular pair of cubs!" muttered the horseman, as he ascended the hill.

"To purse up his mouth as if I was giving him root-drink, when I was telling him about Mother Frey's spoiling the fish! Let him take care--he may get the vinegar next time, and not the fish!"

And, with these characteristic commentaries, the parties separated for the time.