OPPOSING WILLS—CONFIDENCES BETWEEN MOTHER AND SON.
On the day after thanksgiving, Arnold and his friends were to have
returned to New Haven. Short as his visit had been, the young man was
more than anxious to leave his home again; but in this matter he had a
will, strong as his own, and a caprice far more uncertain, to contend
against. Laura de Montreuil would not quite confess herself overtaxed by
the journey she had taken only three days before, but she found the old
homestead so pleasant, the parlor so warm and cozy, when contrasted with
the drifting snow and keen frost out-of-doors, that Mrs. Arnold’s sweet
persuasion to remain a little longer was met with acceptance. Arnold’s
protestations that business compelled him to go at once, urged with a
dictatorial, half-insolent, air, had no effect upon Laura, though they
made the good housewife shrink away, with a troubled expression of the
eye painful to look upon.
Mademoiselle de Montreuil laughed when she saw this. “And so they are
all afraid of you, my hero! I see how it is. You won’t even be
persuaded. Now there; go kiss your blessed little mamma, and tell her
you won’t go away for the next thousand years, at least.”
She pointed her slender finger towards him an instant, then dropped her
hand and took the feather fan from her lap, shading her laughing face as
she saw his haughty frown lower over her.
“What! you are seriously determined to be rude to that angel, and
inhospitable to us,” she said, with a face dark as his own. “I beg your
pardon. It is not my pleasure, nor that of Paul, I dare say, to leave
this neighborhood for a day or two yet. There is some fine scenery about
the Falls, and a picturesque cabin or two, perched on the banks, that I
have a fancy to sketch; but we shall not force ourselves on your
hospitality. There must be a public house somewhere in the hill-side
town yonder.”
Arnold’s face had cleared off. An impatient curve of the lip remained,
but that was directly softened into a smile. He did not heed the anxious
face of his mother, but stole close to Laura’s chair, and, bending over
her with a grace that was more than half command, soften it as he would,
whispered a few words that sent the blood burning to her face.
“It was because I thought you were tired of my society,” he said, fixing
his glance upon her with a power that dazzled her eyes more completely
than the fire had done.
“But I like your mother, and that little saintly sister, enough to put
up with the rest,” she said, with an attempt at audacious cheerfulness.
“And it is not for my sake?” he whispered.
“Hush! your mother.”
“Oh, I had forgotten. Well, mother, it is determined, business or no
business, we are to remain a day or two longer. Will that please you?”
Mrs. Arnold brightened pleasantly, but this agitation had left her
rather pale; and as Arnold lifted his eyes to her face, he saw something
there that made him thoughtful.
His look of eager solicitude brought the tears into her eyes, while the
gentlest of all smiles hovered on his lips.
“Are you pleased, mother?”
Mademoiselle de Montreuil had left the room, or the good lady would
never have given way to her tears: that kind of sensibility was not much
in fashion with the New England mothers of her generation. They prayed
more than they wept, and hard work left them little time for any thing
more than an exhibition of honest family affection, now and then.
“What is it troubles you, mother?” said Arnold, pressing that pale face
to his bosom, with the purest gleams of tenderness that existed in his
nature. “Now that the excitement is off, I see that you look worn and
feeble. Is any thing really the matter?”
The old lady sighed heavily; but his tenderness comforted her, and
drawing herself away from his bosom, she wiped her eyes, trying hard to
smile.
“Yes, I have something. Come with me a little. I want to talk to you.
This idea of going away so soon frightens me. I didn’t expect it,
Benedict, and was putting every thing off to the last, like a poor
coward that I am.”
Again Arnold’s face grew black. Half the time it past under the
thunder-cloud of some passion. From his boyhood it had always been so;
but the contrast of cheerful humor and persuasive gentleness had a
wonderful fascination when they arose.
He followed his mother up-stairs into her bed-chamber, a square room in
the southwest corner of the house, where the turbulent heart in his
bosom had first begun to beat.
The room was close. Though it was now somewhat late in the morning, the
green paper blinds were all rolled down, and, notwithstanding the clear,
cold air without, a heavy, dead atmosphere filled the gloomy
twilight,—an atmosphere that Arnold felt at once, and the color in his
face deepened into fierce flushes.
“Is this _my_ father?” he exclaimed, striding up to the bed, and forcing
the counterpane down from where it was huddled over the old man’s face.
Mrs. Arnold laid her hand on his arm, growing pale, and holding her
breath. No fault could make her forget respect for the husband of her
youth.
“Is this _my_ father?” Arnold exclaimed again, shaking off her hold, and
grasping the exposed shoulder with a violence which made the old man
lurch heavily in his bed, and mutter to be left alone.
“It is my husband, Benedict, and your father. Never forget that. Take
your hand away; it was not for this I brought you here!”
Arnold slowly withdrew his hand, but looked fiercely back at the bed. As
the gentle mother strove to draw him away, his fingers worked and
clenched themselves, as if he would gladly have turned and strangled
that old man in his inebriate slumber. The mother’s face was full of
sorrow; his, the only son, was black with rage.
“And how long has this been?” he said, when the door was closed behind
them.
“Ever since you left us. I think he missed you, Benedict, and so went
oftener to town. It was very lonesome here evenings, with nobody but Dan
to order, and us to talk with, you know.”
“Do you mean to find fault with me for going, mother? as if a son must
stay at home forever, to keep his father from becoming a drunkard!”
“Hush! Benedict, nobody ever called him _that_ in my hearing before.”
“But I dare say he is called _that_ all over town,” answered the son,
savagely; “and these French people, this splendid young lady will soon
find it out.”
“No, no, I will persuade him. You will help me,—he is so amiable and
kind at all times. Last night, he saw a light in the out-room, and
thinking your friends were up, wandered about till he was almost frozen.
I was sitting up, you know, and at last saw him against the window, with
his breath frozen white in his beard, and his hat off: he had lost it by
the gate.”
“And _she_ might have seen this!”
“No, no; he would have frozen in the snow rather than make you blush,
Benedict. He had memory enough for that. So don’t think too hard of
him.”
“But what gave rise to this? He was as temperate a man as any in Norwich
when I went to New Haven.”
“I don’t know. It has always been a mystery to me; but, since his store
was burned down, and the insurance money paid, he’s never been the same
man,—always restless, always wanting to be in motion.”
“Since his store was burned down!” faltered Arnold, and a dusky glow
filled his eyes, and flushed his face all around them; “and the
insurance money paid. Surely he does not grudge me that little start in
life.”
“No, no. Of course not!” cried the mother, eager to clear her husband.
“I did not know that you had the money. He never speaks of the fire; but
always goes away, and comes home as you see, if any one else mentions
it. Sometimes people twit him about it, I’m afraid.”
“Twit him about it! What is that you say, madam?”
“Madam! my son; madam to your mother!”
“Well, I beg your pardon; but you spoke of some one twitting my father.
Who?” the voice in which Arnold asked this was terrible.
“Yes, he said it once,” answered the little woman, beginning to tremble,
she scarce knew why; “but he wasn’t quite himself, you know; and—and—I
don’t like to ask questions at such times. When you came home, I thought
perhaps you might be able to help me understand it!”
“Me? me?”
“It was one of my delusions, I dare say,” answered Mrs. Arnold,
shrinking from her son’s glance.
“One of your delusions! Why, you didn’t have these fancies formerly,
mother. I thought if there was a woman on earth every way above them,
you were that woman.”
“Did you, Benedict? Was I really so smart as that? Well, well, as one
gets old, and sees the sun of life going down, and the shadows coming
on, it makes a difference; and then I’m used to sitting up late at
nights now, and that weakens one so: but I am altered now, Benedict?”
There was something so earnest and touching in that sweet voice, that
Arnold felt the tears stealing to his eyes. The strange moisture fairly
startled him. He dropped the hand which he had half lifted to her head,
and turned away, biting his lips angrily.
“Come, come, it isn’t for me to torment you in this way, Benedict,” said
the kind mother. “Step this way. I want to show you something.”
Arnold followed her into the next room, where a large oaken chest,
clamped with brass, stood between the front windows. She opened the
chest, and revealed a store of fine home-made linen, white as snow,
delicately fine pillow-cases, fringed at the edge, and sheets, with
broad hems, daintily stitched. “Hannah had her setting-out ready ever so
long ago,” said the good woman, looking over her shoulders as she knelt
before the chest. “I began spinning and weaving for her when she was a
baby; but this was done since you left us. Hagar wanted to help, but I
was selfish and would do it all myself. So don’t marry any one that’ll
be above using homespun, or what would all this be good for?”
Dear soul, how transparent her little artifice was. She had no courage
to say how much too fine she thought the elegant French woman
down-stairs, and so made this excuse to bring on the subject, believing
herself the most crafty and wicked little woman in the world to attempt
it, quite a demoralizing example for her own son.
Arnold was rather softened by the sight of the linen. It reminded him,
painfully, of those quiet hours when he had hung on his mother’s chair,
while her two hands were so busy at the distaff, and her little foot
danced on the pedal of the flax-wheel, which was now unbanded in the
garret above. He remembered so well how she would dip her fingers into
the cocoanut shell hanging over the flyers, sprinkle the drops over her
shoulders, and then kiss them from his face, when she saw him grow
angry, as he was sure to do.
How pretty she looked in those days. Roses bloomed on her cheeks then,
and no strawberry was ever of a sweeter crimson than her mouth. But
there was a great change. He had not minded it so much at first; but
now, with the full light shining over her from an uncurtained window, a
host of fine wrinkles threaded that pure forehead, and the pallor of her
face was unnatural. Surely his mother could not be well.
The worst man that I ever saw—one who confessed to having murdered sixty
persons in a piratical career, without a single expression of
repentance—began to speak to me of his mother, and wept like a little
child. All those atrocious murders had failed to wash the holy image of
a mother from his soul. Then, do not think it unnatural that Benedict
Arnold, in his youth, should have loved the little woman kneeling at his
feet, with a force of affection that a better man might not have
possessed. With him all affections and all sentiments were passions; but
the most sacred that ever dwelt in that ambitious heart, was his love,
which made his haughty lip tremble, and his eyes dim, while she
exhibited her treasures.
“Oh, Benedict, don’t, or you’ll make me cry too!” she said, quite
heart-smitten by his look. “Don’t feel hurt at what I said. Of course
you can marry anybody on earth that suits you,—why not? The brighter and
handsomer all the better, of course: and if she’s rich——”
“She must be rich,” said Arnold, sharply. “I want no wife to drag me
down.”
“Oh, my son, what need——”
“The more need, mother, from what I have seen this morning. Tell me, is
my father in debt?”
“I—I don’t know. He never tells me any thing now”
“Well, that I can learn from him, as we stay over awhile. I suppose he
will manage to get sober before we go.”
Mrs. Arnold shrunk, and the color came to her face. He saw it, and
relented a little.
“But we will not talk of this any more. He must not be careless of your
comforts, that is all. So now, mother, close the chest, and let us sit
down on it a moment, while you tell me how this lady strikes you all at
home. Something a little out of the usual run, I fancy?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Arnold, doubtfully; “very,—that is, we haven’t any girl
in Norwich in the least like her.
“Handsome, though. Isn’t she, mother?”
“Oh, yes. A great deal handsomer than,—yes, I was going to say, than Amy
Leonard,—not near so nice, though; but then fine ladies don’t care about
being nice, I dare say. This one is handsome as a bird, especially with
those white ostrich-plumes in her bonnet all flying away with her curls.
How the people did stare when you drove up to the meeting-house,
thanksgiving-day, just at prayer time. It was as much as the minister
could do to keep his eyes shut. I was sorry about the disturbance; but
then, for the life of me, I couldn’t help looking out.”
“Then it made a little commotion among the natives? I thought so.”
“Indeed, how could that be helped? The Norwich people haven’t forgotten
that your father was one of the richest merchants among ’em before that
fire.”
Arnold was looking at his mother, but his eyes fell as she mentioned the
fire.
“Oh, I was wrong to name it again; but what could any one do? If you had
stayed a moment longer in the store, who could have saved your life? and
what was building or goods compared to that? I never thought of blaming
you.”
“And who has? I ask again,” said Arnold, fiercely, “I was only a boy
then. Did they expect me to put out a raging fire single-handed?”
“Indeed how could they? But we were speaking of the young lady
down-stairs. Tell me more about her? Is she really from over the sea?”
“Originally, yes, mother; but for a year or two she has lived in Canada,
where her brother inherited a great business from his father. Lately,
they have been in New York, and traveling about. This young lady was
educated in Paris, I am quite sure, for she has seen the court, and
there is a title in the family.”
Mrs. Arnold held her breath.
“Her grandfather had some place under the king; and she was educated in
a convent.”
“A convent! a Catholic!” cried Mrs. Arnold, clasping her hands in
intense dismay. “Oh, my son!”
“Does that frighten you, mother?” said Arnold laughing carelessly.
“Never mind, if she chooses to fall in love with me, I’ll soon make her
forget it. If I tell her to be sprinkled in the meeting-house, or dipped
in the Falls at high-flood, she’ll do it mother, or I’ll know why.”
“What, that high-spirited, handsome girl?” smiled the old lady, flushed
with the idea he so insolently brought forward. “How can you talk so,
Benedict? One would think you’d been in Paris too. But don’t talk any
more nonsense about our visitor. She’s as bright and beautiful as a
bird: but what is that to old-fashioned people like us? You haven’t
asked a word about Amy Leonard yet,—and that puts me in mind to send
Dan, with the cutter, after her this evening. She’ll expect it, poor
girl; she’s not been very well this fall: stays away from meeting, and
is getting a little unsocial, I’m afraid. I hope your coming will cheer
her up,—such friends as you were once,—only these things never last with
children.
“No, mother, they seldom last,” said Arnold, rising from the chest. “So
perhaps it’ll be as well not to send for Amy. I’ve been to visit the
family, and they won’t expect any thing more.”
Mrs. Arnold sighed. With every thread of the linen folded beneath her
she had woven a motherly thought of Benedict and Amy Leonard; and now
this French girl, with the feathers, must come dashing out from a
foreign convent, and tear all her delicate cobwebs of fancy into shreds.
The dear little woman wished to be hospitable, and there was something
very grand and imposing about the idea of a daughter-in-law who had been
educated in Paris,—who had seen the king,—possessed a title somewhere in
the family, and no doubt owned heaps on heaps of property. But still the
lovely face of Amy Leonard came closest to her heart, and she felt
inexpressibly saddened by her son’s triumphant manner.
Mrs. Arnold arose from the linen chest, and sighed, as she locked up her
treasures.
“Then you think I’d better not send for Amy?” she said, with a gleam of
fresh courage. “She’s lonesome up there, I know.”
“She’d be more lonesome with Mademoiselle de Montreuil,—a wren and bird
of Paradise together, dear mother. When I come to Norwich, it is to see
you and the rest of ’em. Don’t let me be tormented with girls.”
With a careless wave of the hand, which Mrs. Arnold longed to construe
into a permission to send for her favorite, Benedict moved towards the
head of the stairs; for a cheerful voice was calling him from below.
It was Paul de Montreuil, in a laughing skirmish with his sister.
“Arnold! Arnold! Come settle this matter.”
Benedict appeared at the head of the stairs, laughing through all his
ill-humor.
“Well, what is it?”
“We have been managing a sleigh-ride. Peter and I have been in to town,
and brought back a cutter that skims the snow like a hawk, with a whole
nest of bear-skins. You never saw such a day, sharp and clear as
diamonds: the snow is crusted like parian marble. I shall drive myself:
it’s no sleighing at all without that. Come and look at the
cockle-shell.”
“Nothing of the kind,” cried Laura, laughing, and hurrying on her
pelisse with its rich sable linings; while Hannah Arnold stood by,
holding a white-beaver hat, from which a long feather floated. “You will
spend no such idle time, Mr. Arnold. I have captured the cutter, put
Peter in charge, and we are to have the first drive. Where is your
greatcoat? Come, hurry, for the enemy is growing desperate.”
“But I intended to have a long drive with Miss Hannah Arnold,” said
Paul.
“Plenty of time,” cried his sister. “Why, Hannah isn’t half ready. We
can drive across the hills, and over to the Falls and back, while she
braids her hair. Can’t we, Hannah, dear?”
“Yes, indeed, I couldn’t go quite yet,” said Hannah, smothering a little
sigh. “After they get home, perhaps, if mother should not want me.”
“Of course your mother won’t think of wanting you. She never does want
anybody when it’s inconvenient,—the darling soul! Come, Mr. Arnold,
don’t you hear that crash of bells. It makes my blood tingle from head
to foot.”
“Here I am at command, fair lady,” cried Arnold, coming down-stairs with
a dashing overcoat on, and a richly-mounted whip in his hand. “If we are
to rob Mr. Paul of his ride, let us make an affair of it. Hannah, get
your overshoes for Miss de Montreuil.”
Hannah brought the oversocks, and Arnold bent to one knee while he
buried the shapely little foot with its satin slipper in the fur lining.
“Now we are ready,” she cried, settling her foot in its warm nest, and
tying the broad, pink, strings of her hat. “Ah, this is like Canada,
bright, frosty, and cold. Never fear, Paul: we won’t be gone forever.”
Away she went down the yard, and out of the front-gate, where Peter
stood before a dashing cutter crowded richly with furs, holding a
spirited little black horse that pawed the snow, and, tossing his saucy
head, made the bells ring out with a wonderful clash every few moments;
for the exuberant oxygen set him crazy to be in motion.
In sprang Laura de Montreuil, laughing a pretty defiance to her brother
and Hannah, who stood rather ruefully on the doorstep watching these
proceedings.
Arnold followed her, drew her close to his side, with a pressure of the
arm that made the breath tremble on her lip,—gathered the furs lovingly
about her, and took up the reins.
A plunge, an exultant leap, that made the strings of bells upon the
harness ring out _such_ a peal, and away.
“He—he—ki-e-e!”
It was Hagar and Dan at the gate, yelling like mad. Arnold looked back.
With a dexterous bend of his hand his horse was forced into a sweeping
curve, and back came the cutter making a superb halt.
“What is it, Hagar?” cried the young man, holding his steed in with both
hands. “What’s the trouble?”
“You went an’ forgot der foot-stove, Massa Benedict,” cried Hagar,
rushing through the gate with the stove held up high in her hand, while
she blew the embers within till her face looked like an India-rubber
ball that never could collapse. “Jes yer put her feets on this ere, an’
they’ll be like two biscuits in de oven,—dey will now, I tell ye.”
Arnold gave his whip a crack that almost took Hagar’s kerchief from her
head, touched his horse and away again, leaving Hagar so lost in
astonishment that she had no power to unpurse her mouth till the cutter
was dashing along the road again.
“Let ’em go,” said Hagar, looking all her indignation at Dan; “dem tings
nebber come to no good. Go a sleighin’ widout a foot-stove,—dem’s
company manners, am dey? Nebber mind. I’ll keep de coals hot for Miss
Hannah, an’ her sleigh-ride’ll be just as ’spectable if de pink ribbins,
and de white plumes, and de red shawls, ain’t a-flying out berhind. Thar
now, as I’ve ’pressed my mind, jest carry dat stove inter de kitchen,
and set it on de harth, Dan, if thar’s life enough in yer.”
Dan took the stove meekly enough; for as he had made up his mind to
gossip a little with Peter before going in, the arrangement was rather
comfortable than otherwise.
But this state of things did not last long. Hagar soon came pattering
down to the gate and carried Dan away; while she insinuated to Peter
that a back-log was wanted in the kitchen fire-place, and that it took
two men—if neither of them were over smart—to roll one from the
wood-pile to the nice bed of ashes that she’d just raked out for it.
Peter took the hint, and directly both negroes were discussing
church-matters before a splendid fire, whose foundations had been
properly laid by themselves, and whose superstructure Hagar was
completing with pine-knots, which blazed up at once and filled the whole
kitchen with yellow light.
The house was very quiet after this. Mrs. Arnold had crept up the back
stairs, carrying a plate of toast and cup of tea, with which she had
disappeared into the chamber we have seen before to-day; and, Hannah,
not knowing what else to do, entertained the young Frenchman in the
out-room, who, after all, did not seem so very much disappointed about
the sleigh-ride as one might have supposed.
What did they talk of there in that dim, old-fashioned room, into which
the sunshine came so goldenly, playing over the tall andirons, and
melting into the more ruddy glow of the hickory fire? Indeed, I cannot
tell you! Something very pleasant at first, if you might judge by the
soft warmth on that young cheek, and the smile that mellowed upon her
lip like ripeness in a strawberry; but this was while Paul was talking
so cheerfully, saying all sorts of pretty things with one of the most
musical voices in the world, trifling with his shy, little bird without
ruffling its plumage.
But after a while, when solitude made him bold, he began to talk
earnestly, passionately, as she had never heard him talk before. Then
Hannah grew frightened, and yet fascinated. She longed to run away and
find some one to protect her, but would not have gone for the world:
nay, she trembled at the very idea of her mother’s step on the stairs,
yet was tempted to call aloud for her every instant. Then she began to
grow very pale and solemn; her lips trembled as if some one had grieved
her. It was altogether a curious study, that sweet face, as it glided
away into the shadiest corner of the out-room, but never could be
entirely alone, for another face followed her everywhere, and would,
poor girl! forever and ever to the end of her life.