Charlemont; Or, The Pride of the Village Part 27

It was while the little prattler was pouring forth her infantile sorrows in her mother's ear, that the voice of William Hinkley was heard, calling her name from the chamber.

"There, he's calling you now, Susan. Run to him and kiss him, and see what he wants. I'm sure he loves you just as much as ever. He's got no other sweetheart."

"I'll run, mamma--that I will. I'm so glad! I hope he loves me!" and the little innocent scampered away to the chamber. Her artless tongue, as she approached, enabled him to perceive what had been her grievances.

"Do you call me to love me, and to kiss me, Cousin William, and to make me your sweetheart again?"

"Yes, Susan, you shall be my only sweetheart. I will kiss n.o.body but you."

"You'll forget--you will--you'll put me out of your lap, and go away shaking your head, and looking so!--" and here the observant little creature attempted a childish imitation of the sad action and the strange, moody gestures with which he had put her down when he was retiring from the room--gestures and looks which the less quick eyes of her mother had failed utterly to perceive.

"No, no!" said he, with a sad smile; "no, Susan. I'll keep you in my lap for an hour whenever I come, and you shall be my sweetheart always."

"Your LITTLE sweetheart, your LITTLE Susan, Cousin William."

"Yes, my dear little Susan, my dearest little sweetheart Susan."

And he kissed the child fondly while he spoke, and patted her rosy cheeks with a degree of tenderness which his sad and wandering thoughts did not materially diminish.

"But now, Susan," said he, "if I am to be your sweetheart, and to love you always, you must do all that I bid you. You must go where I send you."

"Don't I, Cousin William? When you send me to Gran'pa Calvert, don't I go and bring you books, and didn't I always run, and come back soon, and never play by the way?"

"You're a dear Susan," said he; "and I want you to carry a paper for me now. Do you see this little paper? What is it?"

"A note--don't I know?"

"Well, you must carry this note for me to uncle's, but you mustn't give it to uncle, nor to aunty, nor to anybody but the young man that lives there--young Mr. Stevens."

"Parson Stevens," said the little thing, correcting him.

"Ay, ay, Parson Stevens, if you please. You must give it to him, and him only; and he will give you a paper to bring back to me. Will you go now, Susan?"

"Yes, I'll go: but, Cousin William, are you going to shoot the little guns? Don't shoot them till I come back, will you?"

The child pointed to a pair of pistols which lay upon the table where William Hinkley had penned the billet. A flush of consciousness pa.s.sed over the young man's cheek. It seemed to him as if the little innocent's inquiry had taken the aspect of an accusation. He promised and dismissed her, and, when she had disappeared, proceeded to put the pistols in some condition for use. In that time and region, duels were not often fought with those costly and powerful weapons, the pistols of rifle bore and sight. The rifle, or the ordinary horseman's pistol, answered the purposes of hate. The former instrument, in the hands of the Kentuckian, was a deadly weapon always; and, in the grasp of a firm hand, and under the direction of a practised eye, the latter, at ten paces, was scarcely less so. This being the case, but few refinements were necessary to bring about the most fatal issues of enmity; and the instruments which William Hinkley was preparing for the field were such as would produce a smile on the lips of more civilized combatants. They were of the coa.r.s.est kind of holster-pistols, and had probably seen service in the Revolution. The stocks were rickety, the barrels thin, the bore almost large enough for grape, and really such as would receive and disgorge a three-ounce bullet with little straining or reluctance. They had been the property of his own grandfather, and their value for use was perhaps rather heightened than diminished by the degree of veneration which, in the family, was attached to their history.

William Hinkley soon put them in the most efficient order. He was not a practised hand, but an American forester is a good shot almost by instinct; he naturally cleaves to a gun, and without instruction learns its use. William, however, did not think much of what he could hit, at what distance, and under what circ.u.mstances. Nothing, perhaps, could better show the confidence in himself and weapon than the inattention which the native-born woodman usually exhibits to these points. Let his weapon be such as he can rely upon, and his cause of quarrel such as can justify his anger, and the rest seems easy, and gives him little annoyance. This was now the case with our rustic. He never, for a moment, thought of practising. He had shot repeatedly, and knew what he could do. His simple object was to bring his enemy to the field, and to meet him there. Accordingly, when he had loaded both pistols, which he did with equal care, and with a liberal allowance of lead and powder, he carefully put them away without offering to test his own skill or their capacities. On this subject, his indifference would have appeared, to a regular duellist, the very extreme of obtuseness.

His little courier conveyed his billet to Stevens in due season. As she had been instructed, she gave it into the hands of Stevens only; but, when she delivered it, old Hinkley was present, and she named the person by whom it was sent.

"My son! what does he say?" demanded the old man, half-suspecting the purport of the billet.

"Ah!" exclaimed Stevens, with the readiness of a practised actor, "there is some hope, I am glad to tell you, Mr. Hinkley, of his coming to his senses. He declares his wish to atone, and invites me to see him. I have no doubt that he wishes me to mediate for him."

"I will never forgive him while I have breath!" cried the old man, leaving the room. "Tell him that!"

"Wait a moment, my pretty one," said Stevens, as he was about retiring to his chamber, "till I can write an answer."

The billet of Hinkley he again read. We may do so likewise. It was to the following effect:--

"Sir: If I understood your last a.s.surance on leaving you this day, I am to believe that the stroke of my whip has made its proper impression on your soul--that you are willing to use the ordinary means of ordinary persons, to avenge an indignity which was not CONFINED TO YOUR CLOTH.

If so, meet me at the lake with whatever weapons you choose to bring. I will be there, provided with pistols for both, at any hour from three to six. I shall proceed to the spot as soon as I receive your answer.

"W. H."

"Short and sharp!" exclaimed Stevens as he read the billet. "'Who would have thought that the YOUNG man had so much blood in him!' Well, we will not balk your desire, Master Hinkley. We will meet you, in verity, though it may compel me to throw up my present hand and call for other cards. N'importe: there is no other course."

While soliloquizing, he penned his answer, which was brief and to the purpose:--

"I will meet you as soon as I can steal off without provoking suspicion.

I have pistols which I will bring with me.

"A. S."

"There, my little damsel," said he, re-entering the dining-room, and putting the sealed paper into the hands of the child, "carry that to Mr.

Hinkley, and tell him I will come and speak with him as he begs me. But the note will tell him."

"Yes, sir."

"So----"

Mrs. Hinkley entered the room at this moment. Her husband had apprized her of the communication which her son had made, and the disposition to atonement and repentance which he had expressed. She was anxious to confirm this good disposition, to have her son brought back within the fold, restored to her own affections and the favor of his father. The latter, it is true, had signified his determined hostility, even while conveying his intelligence; but the mother was sanguine--when was a mother otherwise?--that all things would come right which related to her only child. She now came to implore the efforts of Stevens; to entreat, that, like a good Christian, he would not suffer the shocking stripes which her son, in his madness, had inflicted upon him to outweigh his charity, to get the better of his blessed principles, and make him war upon the atoning spirit which had so lately, and so suddenly wakened up in the bosom of the unruly boy. She did not endeavor to qualify the offence of which her son had been guilty. She was far from underrating the indignity to which Stevens had been subjected; but the offender was her son--her only son--in spite of all his faults, follies, and imperfections, the apple of her eye--the only being for whom she cared to live!

Ah! the love of a mother!--what a holy thing! sadly wanting in judgment--frequently misleading, perverting, nay, dooming the object which it loves; but, nevertheless, most pure; least selfish; truest; most devoted!

And the tears gushed from the old woman's eyes as she caught the hand of Stevens in her own, and kissed it--kissed HIS hand--could William Hinkley have seen THAT, how it would have rankled, how he would have writhed! She kissed the hands of that wily hypocrite, bedewing them with her tears, as if he were some benign and blessing saint; and not because he had shown any merits or practised any virtues, but simply because of certain professions which he had made, and in which she had perfect faith because of the professions, and not because of any previous knowledge which she had of the professor. Truly, it behooves a rogue monstrous much to know what garment it is best to wear; the question is equally important to rogue and dandy.

Stevens made a thousand a.s.surances in the most Christian spirit--we can not say that he gave her tear for tear--promised to do his best to bring back the prodigal son to her embrace, and the better to effect this object, put his pistols under his belt! Within the hour he was on his way to the place of meeting.

CHAPTER XXII.

FOOT TO FOOT.

William Hinkley was all impatience until, his little messenger returned, which she did with a speed which might deserve commendation in the case of our professional Mercuries--stage-drivers and mail contractors, hight! He did not withhold it from the little maid, but taking her in his arms, and kissing her fondly, he despatched her to her mother, while he wrapped up his pistols and concealing them in the folds of his coat, hurried from the house with the anxious haste of one who is going to seek his prey. He felt somewhat like that broad-winged eagle which broods on the projecting pinnacle of yonder rocky peak in waiting for the sea-hawk who is stooping far below him, watching when the sun's rays shall glisten from the uprising fins of his favorite fish. But it was not a selfish desire to secure the prey which the terror of the other might cause him to drop. It was simply to punish the prowler. Poor William could not exactly tell indeed why he wished to shoot Alfred Stevens; but his cause of hostility was not less cogent because it had no name. The thousand little details which induce our prejudices in regard to persons, are, singly, worth no one's thought, and would possibly provoke the contempt of all; but like the myriad threads which secured the huge frame of Gulliver in his descent upon Lilliput, they are, when united, able to bind the biggest giant of us all.

The prejudices of William Hinkley, though very natural in such a case as his, seemed to him very much like instincts. It seemed to him, if he once reasoned on the matter, that, as he had good cause to hate the intruder, so there must be justification for shooting him. Were this not so, the policy of hating would be very questionable, and surely very unprofitable. It would be a great waste of a very laudable quant.i.ty of feeling--something like omitting one's bullet in discharging one's piece--a profligacy only justifiable in a feu de joie after victory, where the bullets have already done all necessary mischief, and will warrant a small subsequent waste of the more harmless material.

Without designing any such child's play, our rustic hero, properly equipped with his antique pistols, well charged, close rammed, three-ounce bullets, or nearabouts, in each, stood, breathing fire but without cooling, on the edge of the lake, perched on an eminence and looking out for the coming enemy. He was playing an unwonted character, but he felt as if it were quite familiar to him. He had none of that nice feeling which, without impugning courage, is natural enough to inexperience in such cases. The muzzles of the pistols did not appear to him particularly large. He never once thought of his own ribs being traversed by his three-ounce messengers. He had no misgivings on the subject of his future digestion. He only thought of that blow from his father's hand--that keen shaft from the lips of Margaret Cooper--that desolation which had fallen upon his soul from the scorn of both; and the vengeance which it was in his power to inflict upon the fortunate interloper to whose arts he ascribed all his misfortunes! and with these thoughts his fury and impatience increased, and he ascended the highest hill to look out for his foe; descended, in the next moment, to the edge of the lake, the better to prepare for the meeting.