SECRET INTERVIEWS—REVIVALS AND REPENTANCE.
From some cause, Arnold had ceased to urge an immediate departure from
his old home, and lingered day after day at the farm-house, till his
guests began to wonder at a change which, nevertheless, gave them great
satisfaction; for, as birds love to hover about the nest where the first
brood of love has found shelter, these two ardent and excitable persons
could not force themselves away from a house where the pure and deep
sensations of a first love had found birth.
After an absence of some days, during which Amy had been at her worst,
Arnold came to the falls again. His old, half-loving, half-imperious
manner returned, and though his visits were always brief, they brought
hope and health back to that young creature’s heart. She began to smile,
and even laugh, again blooming into health like a half-parched rose
after an abundant fall of dew.
Laura was not surprised at these visits: for, with deep craft, Arnold
always managed that she herself urged him to make these inquiries after
Amy; and, as he seemed to go with reluctance, she only became the more
urgent to express, through him, the deep gratitude that really filled
her heart when she thought of the gentle creature who had saved her
life. She would gladly have gone to the cabin herself; but Arnold only
told the truth when he said that Amy shrunk from an interview with
strangers, and sensitively, drew back from all expressions of gratitude
for an act which was in itself only an impulse of common humanity.
This was all true. The very thought of meeting that bright, dashing
creature again filled Amy’s soul with a sort of terror. If the noise of
sleigh-bells penetrated to the cabin, she would start and turn pale; if
a strange foot sounded on the threshold-stone, she would look furtively
toward some door, as if impelled to escape.
But when Arnold’s step was heard on the snow-path, her cheeks would
flush into one bloom of roses, and the smiles that had forsaken her
mouth for weeks together came softly back. Her gentle soul was reassured
again.
One night, when Leonard and his wife had gone to a prayer-meeting,
Arnold found Amy alone. It was the first time they had been allowed an
opportunity to converse together; for, against their usual practice, the
old people had, from the time of the accident, invariably kept their
places at the hearth, no matter how long the young man lingered there.
Now the two were alone, with nothing but the plunge of the falls within
hearing,—with no more dangerous witnesses than the bright hickory-wood
fire to bear testimony against them. The paper curtains were rolled
down, the fire-light danced and shone on the pine ceiling, and the whole
floor surrounding them, with a pleasant twilight.
Arnold sat in the great splint-bottomed chair, which Joshua Leonard
usually occupied. Amy drew a little stool, covered with patchwork of red
and blue cloth, to his feet, and settled down upon it, with a soft
flutter of the breath, like a pretty pigeon when its nest is completed.
After all, Arnold loved this good child after a fashion, and might have
loved her well but for the ambition which clung around every good
impulse of his nature, as parasites check the growth of young trees and
at last wither them up.
That night his face was bright and genial. It was pleasant to feel how
completely that young creature loved him,—to know that with a single
word he could fill those blue eyes, looking so innocently into his, with
tears, or, with a smile, deepen the loving sunshine that flooded them.
Even the thirst of his ruling passion was slaked here. The wish for
control, the right of will, had a submissive object in that gentle
creature. He could trample on her and she would forgive,—forsake her,
even, and she would not avenge. Here he was all supreme.
She looked into his eyes, and her hand nestled itself into his. One
elbow was supported by his knee, and her chin rested in the palm of her
other hand, which was curved into a cup for its reception. All at once a
shadow crept over her face, and she shuddered perceptibly.
“What is it? What are you thinking of, Amy?” said Arnold, pressing the
hand in his a little tighter.
“Of that day,—of the water. You left me alone, Benedict,—all alone to
die.”
He frowned upon her. “So this is your faith, Amy Leonard?”
“Amy Arnold!” said the young girl, turning white as the name passed her
lips. “You must never call me any name but that when we are alone.”
Arnold’s face grew black; he lifted her hand, as if to toss it away, but
ended in grasping it closer, while his wrath cleared away in a forced
laugh.
“Well, Amy Arnold, for it shall be that some day. It sounds well,
doesn’t it, little wife?”
Amy gave a low cry. Her head fell forward on his knee, and she began to
sob, while deep, warm gusts of joy shook her frame.
“What are you crying for now, Amy?” he said, regarding her with a
triumphant smile, while his hand wandered through her thick curls.
She only answered by raising herself softly to his bosom, and resting
her head against his heart.
Again he buried his hand in her rich hair, pressing the face closer and
closer to his bosom. For one moment his ruling passion was beaten back
by the wings of Amy’s love-angel.
“Yes, Amy, it is a sweet word—wife—my wife. Some day it shall be yours.”
“And you will never,—never attempt to distress me so again?”
He did not answer, but kissed her forehead.
“But you did not mean it?”
“No, love, no; I did not mean it.”
“You—you wanted to try me—to be certain I would keep our secret. That
was all, Arnold,—tell me that was all. I am sure it was.”
“Yes, yes. I wanted to try you.”
“And you see—you are satisfied now; for when you said those cruel things
I did not speak even to my mother. When you left me in the water to
die——”
“Stop, child! Don’t say that again. I—thought it was you that filled my
arms. How could I tell in the dark? What could I do but seize the first
form that rose? I was coming back. It was all a mistake, Amy.”
“I know. I see it all now. How selfish,—how wicked I was to think it!
Forgive me, Benedict, but I was so unhappy,—so jealous! I hope you will
never know what it is to be heart-sick as I was then.”
“Well, well, don’t let us think of it. We will have no more of these
scenes. You know that I did not mean any thing, and I am sure that you
will keep our secret.”
“See how I have kept it——”
“And always will. I can trust you now, Amy. You will never disobey me.”
“No, no,” murmured the happy creature; “for you are my husband,—my own,
own husband.”
She trembled blissfully as the precious word passed her lips for the
first time, and stole glances at his face through her gathering blushes.
“You are my husband, and I must obey you. If mother owes duty to my
father above all things next to God, I am a wife as well, and must obey
every thing you tell me. Oh, I’m so glad mother got nothing out of me!”
“Did she ask? Did your father question you?” cried Arnold, sharply.
“No, no. How could they? But they were both so kind,—so anxious about
me; and I suffered so with the thought of your leaving me to die,
and—and with——”
“With what?”
“With—but you will be angry?”
“No, no; say all that is on your mind. It cannot be any thing very
terrible if you have betrayed no secrets.”
“Well, I was so miserable while that lady was in the house.”
“Miserably jealous. Foolish child!”
“Yes; I suppose it was that.”
“But it is over. You know better now.”
“Yes; oh, yes! I hope so—but—but will she stay in this country long?
When will she go back to Canada, or France? I should think she would be
homesick.”
Arnold laughed, and patted her cheek with his hand.
“Never mind her. Think of something pleasanter for us both, Amy.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure that isn’t pleasant. But one can’t always put
disagreeable things out of the way, or I’d never think of her again.”
Arnold smiled. This jealousy, while it threatened nothing, rather
pleased him. It was an evidence of his power. The sound of sleigh-bells
at a distance made Amy start from the arm which still held her.
“It is my father and mother,” she said.
“Yes; but half a mile off yet. Don’t be frightened. They shall not find
me here.”
“No, no. They would see in a minute how happy I am, and guess every
thing,—father is so smart. You must go away now. But—but——”
“Well, what are you stammering about?”
“Nothing,—nothing; only there is a meeting to-morrow night.”
“Well, I will come.”
“There is a revival now, and our people go all the time; but then if you
have company——”
“Never mind that. I’ll manage to get here evenings. But remember, Amy, I
must have no more distrust; and our secret must be kept. If a suspicion
gets abroad, I will never forgive you,—never see you again.”
“Indeed, I can promise now; for did I not keep my word through all that
terrible trouble?” she said, cheerfully. “Oh, how near the bells are
coming! Here is your greatcoat. When you are so kind, it breaks my heart
to have you leave me; but oh, dear, they are turning the corner. Go out
of the back-door. Good-by—good-by!”
Now, there was no earthly reason why Amy should have been so frightened.
Joshua Leonard had never uttered a word of objection to Arnold’s visits.
Indeed, he was rather indignant when, for a time, they became so rare;
but some suspicion of the young man’s good faith had seized upon him,
and he became watchful where he had before trusted. In this lay all that
Amy could have feared in her father. Still she flushed red, and trembled
as her parents drove up to the door-yard fence, hurried across the room
to put the foot-stool in its place, and took great pains to move the
splint-bottomed easy-chair some distance from the fire.
When her mother came in, rosy from the frost, with a foot-stove in one
hand, Amy busied herself at once in taking out the little, square pan,
from which she emptied a quantity of dead embers into the fire; then she
helped untie her mother’s hood, and unfastened her cloak, from which she
shook particles of snow with a lively zeal that charmed the good
woman,—it was in such cheerful contrast with the lassitude which had
possessed her daughter so long.
When Joshua Leonard came in from putting away his horse, he found a
pitcher of hot flip creaming over on the hearth, and a tray of doughnuts
toasting by its side; while his daughter stood before the fire, flushed
and heated, shading her cheek with one hand, and looking more beautiful
than he had ever seen her before.
“Ah, this is snug and comfortable,” he said, drawing the splint-bottomed
chair on to the hearth. “Trust our Amy for taking care of her father and
mother. What, nobody been here? That’s right. Had a good time all by
yourself, Amy?”
Amy did not seem to hear, but thrust the heavy tongs among the hickory
logs, which sent a storm of sparks up the chimney, and a glow over the
whole room.
“It must be very cold out-of-doors,” she said, turning into the next
room to hang up her mother’s cloak.
“Yes,” answered Joshua, setting down the pitcher, which was now more
than half empty. “Yes, darter, it is cold to the outer man, but we felt
nothing of it in the meeting; for there the Lord was around and about
us. Such a season of divine grace I have never witnessed,—never in my
whole life.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Leonard, taking the subject from her husband’s lips.
“It was a refreshing time, Amy. Such prayers, such gifts, and breaking
out all at once, showed that the power of the Lord was over us. Six new
converts ready to break put into hallelujahs, seven struck with
conviction, and on the anxious-seat together,—and who do you think was
among ’em, Amy?”
“I cannot guess, mother.”
“You couldn’t guess in a week of Sundays,—a-crying like a child, and
looking so broken down, shaking on the seat as if he couldn’t believe
that there was any hope for a backslider;—and it’s my opinion that there
isn’t, though your father thinks otherwise, which is his right, you
know;—but _such_ a prayer as your father made after the new convert
came, staggering right up to the throne of grace out of the depths of
iniquity,—such a prayer! It laid right hold of the horns of the altar,
and made every heart around tremble. Oh, Amy, your father has a gift of
prayer that makes me think about the angels that come under one’s roof
unawares. What if we had been waiting on one all our lives, thinking it
was only a common man tending a saw-mill?”
“My dear, dear father. Yes, I do know how good he is,” said Amy,
stealing behind Leonard’s chair.
“You are right, Amy Leonard,” chimed in the good woman. “Look at him
sitting up so straight in your grandfather’s chair. You wouldn’t believe
it was in him; neither should I. But if ever there was a babe of
grace,—there now, don’t hold up both your hands, Joshua, as if it was to
say that you ain’t nothing particular, ’cause you are. Don’t shake your
head, for I won’t stop, because here it’s my privilege. If women folks
must keep silent in meeting, which I don’t see the reason of,—do you,
Amy?—they ain’t to be kept still in their own homes, by no manner of
means; and if one has got a born angel all for her own property, why
shouldn’t she say so, and praise the Lord for it? I’d be glad if
somebody would tell me. Don’t talk in that way? Why not, indeed? I’m
sure if the Lord has blessed you with such gifts, I should be a great
sinner not to own up to it, and blind as a bat not to see it. Well,
well, I’ll stop if you say so; but as for the flip, if it wasn’t for
setting you an example, I wouldn’t touch a drop, cold as it is. Creature
comforts don’t seem natural after a meeting like that, though it was
thoughtful—as a child should be to such a father—for Amy to remember and
have it ready. Now, Joshua, take off your boots, for the snow is melting
on ’em, and give your feet a good toasting before the fire. Amy, bring
the foot-stool for your pa, and now—what was I talking about?—dear me!”
“About the person who came up to the anxious-bench, mother? You haven’t
told me his name, yet,” said Amy, gently, for she was too well
accustomed to her mother’s habit of conversation to get out of patience
with it.
“No more I have; and you won’t believe it when I tell you. Who would?
Such a change! His beard all shaved smooth, his shirt-bosom and collar
clean as your father’s. I declare it made me a’most burst out a-crying,
just to see him, with his wild eyes and his thin hair, getting gray so
fast. But your father’s prayer helped him right on his feet; and when
the brethren all said ‘Amen,’—they couldn’t help it, you know,—his face
was lifted up to heaven, and it trembled all over, till at last he said
‘Amen,’ too, but it was in a whisper, and great big tears came rolling
down his cheeks like drops after a thunder breaks. I only wish Mrs.
Arnold had been there!”
“Oh, mother! what does this mean? What can Mrs. Arnold have to do with
this?” cried Amy, going close to her mother, and speaking with great
eagerness.
“Mrs. Arnold! Oh, yes! I forgot to tell you it was her
husband—Benedict’s father—who came to the anxious-bench. Didn’t you
understand that? I wish you could a-seen our deacon when the poor
backslider came in. I wish young Ben had been there, instead of running
about with that French girl, which I’m sure he does.”
“No, mother, no. I am sure he does not care in the least for her, only
as a visitor. I’ll tell you something. The young French gentleman, her
brother, you know, is paying attention to Hannah Arnold, and that’s what
keeps them all at the farm so long.”
“How did you find that out?” demanded the mother, quickly.
“A little bird told me, mother,” replied Amy, blushing, and casting a
playful look into her mother’s face.
“Oh!” ejaculated the mother, shaking her head at the fire, and casting a
side glance at Leonard, who had fallen into thoughtfulness, and paid no
attention to what was said; for when his wife started off with a rush of
language, he generally took refuge in reflection, soothed by the soft
patter of her words as if they had been rain-drops on a roof. “Who told
you that, Amy?”
“He did, mother.”
“Well, didn’t I say so all the time? but you wouldn’t believe me. No,
no; just as if I couldn’t see into a millstone just as far as anybody.
Come now, pa, supposing we rake up the fire and go to bed? I wonder if
Mrs. Arnold knows what her husband has been about? I declare, Amy, if a
backslider ever can get into the fold, your father has lifted that poor
sheep half over the wall. Don’t you think so, Joshua?”
“What were you saying, wife?” replied Leonard, taking up the great
fire-shovel.
“There now, did you ever!” cried the mother, appealing to Amy, with both
her hands uplifted. “Why, pa, I was talking about neighbor Arnold.”
“Yes, yes: God be with him!”
“And about your prayer.”
“Don’t speak of that. Prayers should not be talked about.”
“And why not, as well as sermons?”
“Because, if good for any thing, they rise to God, and ought to be left
there.”
“See!” whispered the mother, leaning toward Amy. “Look in his face, and
remember what I said about angels unawares.”
Amy did look in her father’s face. Its rough features were in a glow of
thankfulness; no lake ever received the sunshine more genially than that
face reflected the pious ardor of his soul. Every look seemed to thank
God that a human soul was on its way to salvation.
“Oh, father, is it possible? Will he have the strength to break off that
terrible habit?” she said.
“Ask God to give him strength, my darter.”
“I—I?” murmured Amy, shrinking back with a look of affright, for she
remembered how she had deceived her parents, and all the sinfulness of
her conduct rushed upon her with a violence that made her faint.
Leonard was shoveling ashes over the fire, and the room grew dark. He
did not remark her dismay, and she crept to her bed without a word, too
happy for sorrow, and yet with a cloud upon her heart. Alas! this human
love,—how it stands between the soul and its God!