It was now generally understood in Charlemont that
Margaret Cooper had made a conquest of the handsome
stranger. We have omitted—as a matter not congenial

[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]

to our taste—the small by-play which had been carried
on by the other damsels of the village to effect the same
object. There had been setting of caps, without number,
ay, and pulling them too, an the truth were known among
the fair Stellas and Clarissas, the Daphnes and Dorises,
but, though Stevens was sufficiently considerate of the
claims of each, so far as politeness demanded it, and contrived
to say pleasant things, pour passer le temps, with
all of them, it was very soon apparent to the most sanguine,
that the imperial beauties and imperious mind of
Margaret Cooper had secured the conquest for herself.
As a matter of course, the personal and intellectual attractions
of Stevens underwent no little disparagement as
soon as this fact was known. It was now universally
understood that he was no such great things after all;
and our fair friend, the window Thackeray, who was not
without her pretensions to wit and beauty, was bold
enough to say that Mr. Stevens was certainly too fat in
the face, and she rather thought him stupid. Such an
opinion gave courage to the rest, and pert Miss Bella
Tompkins, a romp of first-rate excellence, had the audacity
to say that he squinted! and this opinion was very
natural, since neither of his eyes had ever rested with satisfaction
on her pouting charms.

It may be supposed that the discontent of the fair bevy,
and its unfavourable judgment of himself, did not reach
the ears of Alfred Stevens, and would scarcely have disturbed
them if it did. Margaret Cooper was more fortunate
than himself in this respect. She could not altogether
be insensible to the random remarks which sour
envy and dark-eyed jealousy continued to let fall in her
hearing; but her scorn for the speakers, and her satisfaction
with herself, secured her from all annoyance from
this cause. Such, at least, had been the case in the first
days of her conquest. Such was not exactly the case
now. She had no more scorn of others. She was no
longer proud—no longer strong. Her eyes no longer
flashed with haughty defiance on the train which, though
envious, were yet compelled to follow. She could no
longer speak in those superior tones, the language equally
of a proud intellect, and a spirit whose sensibilities had
neither been touched by love, or enfeebled by anxiety and
apprehension. A sad change had come over her heart

[figure description] Page 260.[end figure description]

and all her features in the progress of a few days. Her
courage had departed. Her step was no longer firm;
her eye no longer uplifted like that of the mountain eagle,
to which, in the first darings of her youthful muse, she
had boldly likened herself. Her look was downcast, her
voice subdued; she was now not less timid than the
feeblest damsel of the village in that doubtful period of
life when, passing from childhood to girlhood, the virgin
falters as it were, with bashful thoughts, upon the threshhold
of a new and perilous condition. The intercourse
of Margaret Cooper with her lover had had the most
serious effect upon her manners and her looks. But the
change upon her spirit was no less striking to all.

“I'm sure if I did love any man,” was the opinion of
one of the damsels, “I'd die sooner than show it to him,
as she shows it to Alfred Stevens. It's a guess what he
must think of it.”

“And no hard guess, neither;” said another, “I reckon
there's no reason why he should pick out Margaret Cooper,
except that he saw that it was no such easy matter any
where else.”

“Well! there can be no mistake about it with them;
for now they're always together, and Betty, her own
maid, thinks—but it's better not to say!”

And the prudent antique pursed up her mouth in a language
that said every thing.

“What! what does she say?” demanded a dozen
voices.

“Well! I won't tell you that. I won't tell you all; but
she does say, among other things, that the sooner John
Cross marries them, the better for all parties.”

“Is it possible!”

“Can it be!”

“Bless me—but I always thought something wrong.”

“And Betty, her own maid, told you? Well, who
should know, if she don't!”

“And this, too, after all her airs.”

“Her great smartness, her learning, and verse making!
I never knew any good come from books yet.”

“And never will, Jane;” said another, with an equivocal
expression, with which Jane was made content;
and, after a full half hour's confabulation, in the primitive
style, the parties separated, each, in her way, to give as

[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]

much circulation to Betty's innuendoes as the importance
of the affair deserved.

Scandal travels along the highways, seen by all but the
victim. Days and nights passed, and in the solitude of
lonely paths, by the hillside, or the rivulet, Margaret
Cooper still wandered with her lover. She heard not the
poisonous breath which was already busy with her virgin
fame. She had no doubts, whatever might be the event,
that the heart of Alfred Stevens could leave her without
that aliment, which, in these blissful moments, seemed to
be her very breath of life. But she felt many fears, many
misgivings, she knew not why. A doubt, a cloud of
anxiety hung brooding on the atmosphere. In a heart
which is unsophisticated, the consciousness, however
vague, that all is not right, is enough to produce this cloud;
but with the gradual progress of that heart to the indulgence
of the more active passions, this consciousness
necessarily increases, and the conflict then begins between
the invading passion and the guardian principle.
We have seen enough to know what must be the result
of such a conflict with a nature such as hers, under the
education which she had received. It did not end in the
expulsion of her lover. It did not end in the discontinuance
of those long and frequent rambles amidst silence,
and solitude, and shadow. She had not courage for this,
and the poor vain mother, flattered with the idea that her
son-in-law would be a preacher, beheld nothing wrong in
their nightly wanderings, and suffered her daughter, in
such saintly society, to go forth without restraint or rebuke.

There was one person in the village who was not satisfied
that Margaret Cooper should fall a victim either to
the cunning of another, or to her own passionate vanity.
This was our old friend, Calvert. He was rather inclined
to be interested in the damsel, in spite of the ill-treatment
of his protege, if it were only in consequence of the feelings
with which she had inspired him. It has been seen
that, in the affair of the duel, he was led to regard the
stranger with an eye of suspicion. This feeling had been
farther heightened by the statements of Ned Hinckley,
which, however loose and inconclusive, were yet of a
kind to show that there was some mystery about Stevens—
that he desired concealment in some respects—a fact

[figure description] Page 262.[end figure description]

very strongly inferred from his non-employment of the
village post-office, and the supposition—taken for true—
that he employed that of some distant town. Ned Hinkley
had almost arrived at certainty in this respect, and some
small particulars which seemed to bear on this conviction,
which he had recently gathered, taken in connexion with
the village scandal in reference to the parties, determined
the old man to take some steps in the matter to forewarn
the maiden, or at least her mother, of the danger of yielding
too much confidence to one of whom so little was, or
could be, known.

It was a pleasant afternoon, and Calvert was sitting
beneath his rooftree, musing over this very matter, when
he caught a glimpse of the persons of whom he thought,
ascending one of the distant hills, apparently on their way
to the lake. He rose up instantly, and seizing his staff,
hurried off to see the mother of the damsel. The matter
was one of the nicest delicacy—not to be undertaken
lightly—not to be urged incautiously. Nothing, indeed,
but a strong sense of duty could have determined him
upon a proceeding likely to appear invidious, and which
might be so readily construed, by a foolish woman, into
an impertinence. Though a man naturally of quick, warm
feelings, Calvert had been early taught to think cautiously—
indeed, the modern phrenologist would have said that,
in the excess of this prudent organ lay the grand weakness
of his moral nature. This delayed him in the contemplated
performance much longer than his sense of its
necessity seemed to justify. Having now resolved, however,
and secure in the propriety of his object, he did not
scruple any longer. A few minutes sufficed to bring him
to the cottage of the old lady, and her voice in very
friendly tenor commanded him to enter. Without useless
circumlocution, yet without bluntness, the old man broached
the subject; and without urging any of the isolated
facts of which he was possessed, and by which his suspicions
were awakened, he dwelt simply upon the dangers
which might result from such a degree of confidence as
was given to the stranger. The long, lonely rambles in
the woods, by night as well as day, were commented on,
justly, but in an indulgent spirit; and the risks of a young
and unsuspecting maiden, under such circumstances,
were shown with sufficient distinctness for the

[figure description] Page 263.[end figure description]

comprehension of the mother, had she been disposed to hear.
But never was good old man, engaged in the thankless
office of bestowing good advice, so completely confounded
as was he by the acknowledgments which his
interference incurred. A keen observer might have seen
the gathering storm while he was speaking; and, at every
sentence there was a low, running commentary, bubbling
up from the throat of the opinionated dame, somewhat like
rumbling thunder, which amply denoted the rising tempest.
It was a sort of religious effort which kept the old
lady quiet till Calvert had fairly reached a conclusion.
Then, rising from her seat, she approached him, smoothed
back her apron, perked out her chin, and fixing her keen
gray eyes firmly upon his own, with her nose elongated
to such a degree as almost to suggest the possibility of a
pointed collision between that member and the corresponding
one of his own face—she demanded—

“Have you done—have you got through?”

“Yes, Mrs. Cooper, this is all I came to say. It is the
suggestion of prudence—the caution of a friend—your
daughter is young, very young, and—”

“I thank you! I thank you! My daughter is young,
very young; but she is no fool, Mr. Calvert—let me tell
you that! Margaret Cooper is no fool. If you don't know
that, I do. I know her. She's able to take care of herself
as well as the best of us.”

“I am glad you think so, Mrs. Cooper, but the best of
us find it a difficult matter to steer clear of danger, and
error and misfortune; and the wisest, my dear madam,
are only too apt to fall when they place their chief reliance
on their wisdom.”

“Indeed! that's a new doctrine to me, and I reckon to
every body else. If it's true, what's the use of all your
schooling, I want to know?”

“Precious little, Mrs. Cooper, if—”

“Ah! precious little; and let me tell you, Mr. Calvert,
I think it's mighty strange that you should think Margaret
Cooper in more need of your advice, than Jane Colter, or
Besty Barnes, or Susan Mason, or Rebecca Forbes, or even
the window Thackeray.”

“I should give the same advice to them under the same
circumstances, Mrs. Cooper.”

“Should you, indeed! Then I beg you will go and

[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]

give it to them, for if they are not in the same circumstances
now, they'd give each of them an eye to be so.
Ay, wouldn't they! Yes! don't I know, Mr. Calvert,
that it's all owing to envy that you come here talking
about Brother Stevens.”

“But I do not speak of Mr. Stevens, Mrs. Cooper;
were it any other young man with whom your daughter
had such intimacy I should speak in the same manner.”

“Would you indeed? Tell that to the potatoes. Don't
I know better. Don't I know that if your favourite, that
you made so much of—your adopted son, Bill Hinkley—
if he could have got her to look at him, they might have
walked all night and you'd never have said the first word.
He'd have given one eye for her, and so would every girl
in the village give an eye for Brother Stevens. I'm not
so old but I know something. But it won't do. You can
go to the widow Thackeray, Mr. Calvert. It'll do her
good to tell her that it's very dangerous for her to be
thinking about young men from morning to night. It's
true you can't say any thing about the danger, for precious
little danger she's in; but lord! wouldn't she jump to it if
she had a chance. Let her alone for that. You'd soon
have cause enough to give her your good advice about the
danger, and much good would come of it. She'd wish,
after all was said, that the danger was only twice as big
and twice as dangerous.”

Such was the conclusion of Mr. Calvert's attempt to
give good counsel. It resulted as unprofitably in this as
in most cases; but it had not utterly fallen, like the wasted
seed, in stony places. There was something in it to impress
itself upon the memory of Mrs. Cooper; and she
resolved that when her daughter came in, it should be the
occasion of an examination into her feelings and her relation
to the worthy brother, such as she had more than
once before meditated to make.

But Margaret Cooper did not return till a comparatively
late hour; and the necessity of setting up, after her usual
time of retiring, by making the old lady irritable, had the
effect of giving some additional force to the suggestions of
Mr. Calvert. When Margaret did return, she came alone.
Stevens had attended her only to the wicket. She did not
expect to find her mother still sitting up; and started, with
an appearance of disquiet, when she met her glance. The

[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]

young girl was pale and haggard. Her eye had a dilated,
wild expression. Her step faltered; her voice was scarcely
distinct as she remarked timidly—

“Not yet abed, mother?”

“No! it's a pretty time for you to keep me up.”

“But why did you sit up, mother? It's not usual with
you to do so.”

“No! but it's high time for me to sit up, and be on the
watch too, when here's the neighbours coming to warn
me to do so—and telling me all about your danger.”

“Ha! my danger—speak—what danger, mother?”

“Don't you know what danger? Don't you know?”

“Know!” The monosyllable subsided in a gasp. At
that moment, Margaret Cooper could say no more.

“Well, I suppose you don't know, and so I'll tell you.
Here's been that conceited, stupid old man, Calvert, to tell
me how wrong it is for you to go out by night walking
with Brother Stevens; and hinting to me that you don't
know how to take care of yourself with all your learning;
and how nobody knows any thing about Brother Stevens;
as if nobody was wise for any thing but himself. But I
gave him as good as he brought, I'll warrant you. I sent
him off with a flea in his ear!”

It was fortunate for the poor girl that the light, which
was that of a dipped candle, was burning in the corner of
the chimney, and was too dim to make her features visible.
The ghastly tale which they expressed could not have
been utterly unread even by the obtuse and opinionated
mind of the vain mother. The hands of Margaret were
involuntarily clasped in her agony, and she felt very much
like falling upon the floor; but, with a strong effort, her
nerves were braced to the right tension, and she continued
to endure, in a speechless terror which was little short of
frenzy, the outpourings of her mother's folly which was
a frenzy of another sort.

“I sent him off,” she repeated, “with a flea in his ear.
I could see what the old fool was driving after, and I as
good as told him so. If it had been his favourite, his
adopted son, Bill Hinkley, it would have been another
guess story—I reckon. Then you might have walked out
where you pleased together, at all hours, and no harm
done, no danger; old Calvert would have thought it the
properest thing in the world. But no Bill Hinkley for

[figure description] Page 266.[end figure description]

me. I'm for Brother Stevens, Margaret; only make sure
of him, my child—make sure of him.”

“No more of this, dear mother, I entreat you. Let
us go to bed, and think no more of it.”

“And why should we not think of it? I tell you, Margaret,
you must think of it! Brother Stevens soon will be
a preacher, and a fine speck he will be. There'll be no
parson like him in all west Kentucky. As for John Cross,
I reckon he won't be able to hold a candle to him. Brother
Stevens is something to try for. You must play
your cards nicely, Margaret. Don't let him see too soon
that you like him. Beware of that! But don't draw off
too suddenly as if you didn't like him—that's worse still;
for very few men like to see that they ain't altogether
pleasing even at first sight to the lady that they like.
There's a medium in all things, and you must just manage
it, as if you wa'n't thinking at all about him, or love, or a
husband, or any thing; only take care always to turn a
quick ear to what he says, and seem to consider it always
as if 'twas worth your considering. And look round when
he speaks, and smile softly sometimes; and don't be too
full of learning and wisdom in what you say, for I've
found that men of sense love women best when they seem
to talk most like very young children—maybe because
they think it's a sign of innocence. But I reckon, Margaret,
you don't want much teaching. Only be sure and
fix him; and don't stop to think when he asks. Be sure
to have your answer ready, and you can't say `yes' too
quickly now-a-days, when the chances are so very few.”

The mother paused to take breath. Her very moral
and maternal counsel had fallen upon unheeding ears.
But Margaret was sensible of the pause, and was desirous
of taking advantage of it. She rose from her chair, with
the view of retiring; but the good old dame, whose
imagination had been terribly excited by the delightful
idea of having a preacher for her son-in-law who was to
take such precedence over all the leaders of the other
tribes, was not willing to abridge her eloquence.

“Why, you're in a great hurry now, Margaret. Where
was your hurry when you were with Brother Stevens?
Ah! you jade, can't I guess—don't I know? There you
were, you two, under the trees, looking at the moon, and
talking such sweet, foolish nonsense. I reckon, Margaret,

[figure description] Page 267.[end figure description]

'twould puzzle you to tell what he said, or what you said,
I can guess he didn't talk much religion to you, heh? Ah!
I know it all. It's the old story. It's been so with all
young people, and will be so till the end. Love is the
strangest thing, and it does listen to the strangest nonsense.
Ain't it so, Margaret? I know nothing but love
would ever dumbfounder you in this way; why, child,
have you lost your tongue? What's the matter with
you?”

“Oh, mother, let me retire now, I have such a headache.”

“Heartache, you mean.”

“Heartache it is,” replied the other desperately, with
an air of complete abandonment.

“Ah! well, it's clear that he's got the heartache quite as
much as you, for he almost lives with you now. But
make him speak out, Margaret—get him to say the word,
and don't let him be too free until he does. No squeezing
of hands, no kissing, no—”

“No more, no more, I entreat you, mother, if you would
not drive me mad! Why do you speak to me thus—why
counsel me in this manner? Leave me alone, I pray you,
let me retire—I must, I must sleep now!”

The mother was not unaccustomed to such passionate
bursts of speech from her daughter, and she ascribed the
startling energy of her utterance now, to an excited spirit
in part, and partly to the headache of which she complained.

“What! do you feel so bad, my child? Well, I won't
keep you up any longer. I wouldn't have kept you up
so long, if I hadn't been vexed by that old fool, Calvert.”

“Mr. Calvert is a good man, mother.”

“Well, he may be—I don't say a word against that;”
replied the mother, somewhat surprised at the mildly reproachful
nature of that response which her daughter had
made, so different from her usual custom:—“he may be
very good, but I think he's very meddlesome to come
here talking about Brother Stevens.”

“He meant well, mother.”

“Well or ill, it don't matter. Do you be ready when
Brother Stevens says the word. He'll say it before long.
He's mighty keen after you, Margaret. I've seen it in
his eyes; only you keep a little off, till he begins to press

[figure description] Page 268.[end figure description]

and be anxious; and after that he can't help himself.
He'll be ready for any terms; and look you, when a
man's ready, none of your long bargains. Settle up at
once. As for waiting till he gets permission to preach, I
wouldn't think of it. A man can be made a preacher or
any thing, at any time, but 'tain't so easy in these times,
for a young woman to be made a wife. It's not every
day that one can get a husband, and such a husband!
Look at Jane Colter, and Betsy Barnes, and Rebecca
Forbes, and Susan Mason; they'll be green again, I
reckon, before the chance comes to them; ay, and the
widow Thackeray—though she's had her day already.
If 'twas a short one she's got no reason to complain.
She'll learn how to value it before it begins again. But,
go to bed, my child, you oughtn't to have a headache.
No! no! you should leave it to them that's not so fortunate.
They'll have headaches and heartaches enough, I
warrant you, before they get such a man as Brother
Stevens.”

At last, Margaret Cooper found herself alone and in her
chamber. With unusual vigilance she locked and double-locked
the door. She then flung herself upon the bed.
Her face was buried in the clothes. A convulsion of
feeling shook her frame. But her eyes remained dry, and
her cheeks were burning. She rose at length and began
to undress, but for this she found herself unequal. She
entered the couch and sat up in it—her hands crossed
upon her lap—her face wan, wild, the very picture of
hopelessness if not desperation! The words of her weak
mother had tortured her; but what was this agony to
that which was occasioned by her own thoughts.

“Oh God!” she exclaimed at length, “can it be real?
Can it be true? Do I wake? Is it no dream? Am I,
am I what I dare not name to myself—and dread to hear
from any other? Alas! it is true—too true. That shade,
that wood!—oh, Alfred Stevens! Alfred Stevens! What
have you done! To what have you beguiled me!”

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