THE UNNATURAL ENCOUNTER.
Arnold was a self-sufficient egotist, and considered his own will, in
every case, the higher law. He possessed intense pride, but of that rude
sort which is distinguished by an entire absence of sensitiveness or
delicacy. Nay, I have given his ruling passion the wrong term: it was
arrogance, which takes its root in vanity, not that laudable pride which
springs from self-esteem. This young man did not even desire to respect
himself: his intellect was too sharp for that species of self-deception.
It was enough for him that others recognized his pretensions, and
yielded to the force of character which rushed headlong on the right or
wrong with equal impetuosity. But one little grain of pure love can for
a time soften the hardest nature; and, in a character, like this, many
fine traits are sure to be found, rendering the evil that predominates
still more dangerous.
That evening Arnold’s better nature had been uppermost. He had put the
young French girl and her unascertained wealth into the background, and
Amy stole like an angel of light into his heart, calling forth every
gentle feeling of which it was capable.
He had gone to the cabin with systematic caution, intending to
conciliate the poor girl and re-establish his influence over her
entirely; for he began to dread the result if her sensitive nature was
outraged beyond its strength. So far his plans, and even wishes, were
all afloat. Men can be fastidious without one particle of true delicacy;
and even a refined nature may, and will, sometimes, recoil from the love
which is too evident in a woman.
Had one doubt assailed Arnold of Laura’s devotion to himself, he would
have been restless and eager for a conquest so flattering to his vanity;
but that warm and noble heart had betrayed itself too early for him to
feel his triumph in all its zest. In fact, he had already made it a
matter of calculation. How much power, how much wealth, how much of
position could this love secure to him? These were the questions. He did
not hesitate at the most cruel social treason that man is guilty of,—but
the reward, that must be certain and substantial.
It was difficult to obtain an account of the true position which Paul
and his sister occupied. The letters of introduction, with which they
were abundantly furnished, spoke of them generally as persons occupying
an honorable place in society, of good family, and possessed of wealth.
But the exact amount, and how much belonged exclusively to the sister,
was the doubt which kept him in suspense. But there was plenty of time.
The girl loved him, and Arnold was a man who knew how to wait.
But it was necessary to conciliate and control Amy Leonard. She had been
urged too far. If once satisfied of his indifference, she might appeal
to her father for help, notwithstanding her solemn promise of secrecy.
While in doubt of Laura’s attachment, he had been imprudently reckless
regarding Amy; but now that his restless vanity was appeased in that
quarter, this must be remedied. With this object he had visited Amy
again; but the man was not all evil, and the love which had been a part
of his boyhood rose through his selfish nature like incense in a prison.
For the time he put all ambitious projects aside, it was both his policy
and his pleasure to meet that affectionate nature half-way. Besides,
there was something of mystery and daring in the affair, which seemed
like an adventure.
As Arnold rode home, the sweet figure of Amy Leonard kept with him. Deep
feeling had rendered her something more than the lovely child he had
been weak enough to marry. That which was timidity once, had now
mellowed down to deep and delicate tenderness. The gentle reticence of
her character had a peculiar charm when contrasted with the energy and
almost reckless frankness of Laura’s. He was drawing these contrasts,
and thinking over the scene through which he had just passed, on his way
home.
The snow was thickly trampled along his way, and muffled the steps of
his horse, so that the stillness made his reverie like a dream, and his
horse took a wrong turn, leading him towards Norwich. All at once he
became conscious of a figure walking before him in the darkness, and,
checking his horse, he waited for it to come up; for he was not quite
sure of his position.
“Halloo, friend!” he said. “Can you tell me which way I am going. My
head is completely turned. Do these lights come from Norwich?”
“Benedict, is it you?” answered a kindly voice, “and asking that
question? What! lost in the old town, my boy?”
“What, father!” exclaimed the young man, drawing in his horse sharply.
“Coming home as usual?”
“No, not as usual, Benedict. I haven’t been to the old place since that
night. God forgive me that I ever went there. God forgive us all.”
“But you have been out every night. I have hardly had a chance to speak
a word with you since.”
“Don’t speak of it again, Benedict. I can’t bear it. God help me, I’m
trying to forget what you said; but such words burn into the brain. You
might as well try to rub out a scar. It is God’s mercy they didn’t draw
me back again.”
“Back where?”
“To the tavern,—to the tavern!”
“And if you haven’t been to the tavern, what takes you out so late at
night, I should like to know?”
“I have been to meeting every night since then,” answered the old man,
meekly. “Every night.”
“To prayer-meeting?” cried the young man, drawing up his horse with a
jerk which made him run backward. “To prayer-meeting?”
“Every night,—every night. At first, I crept in when they were all on
their knees, and hid in corners; but some of the brothers saw me, and
would make me come in among the rest, so I did; and to-night——”
“Well, what folly did you commit to-night, sir?”
“To-night I knelt down before them all, and asked my old neighbors to
pray for me.”
“You did!”
“Yes; it was all I could do; for the Evil One had been struggling with
me all day. Up to the very meeting-house steps he followed me with that
awful thirst. The tavern was in sight, with the bar-room door open.
Every breath I drew was parched; but I shut my eyes close, and staggered
into the meeting-house, and down upon my knees. Some one was praying,
and, when the others joined in the ‘Amen!’ I held both hands on my mouth
to stifle the cry for something to drink that rose up from my breast,
choking back the Amen, as I have heard that snakes strangle little
innocent birds when they are attempting to fly.”
The old man’s voice was broken, and full of tears. He shivered, and
would have been struggling still, but for the exhaustion that had
prostrated his strength. There was something so heart-broken and humble
in his tones, that the hardest heart must have grown pitiful under them.
But Arnold had found in this painful confession a source of uneasiness
far greater than lay in any degree of intemperance that his father could
have reached. He knew well how near true brotherhood approaches to
actual confession of sins and shortcomings. Better a thousand times
drunkenness than this dangerous repentance!
“And so you have changed folly for treason, old man,” he said, with a
degree of sternness that was almost savage. “In one way or another you
are determined to ruin or disgrace the family!”
“No, no! Not the family!”
“Well, your son, then,—your only son. I suppose that these sanctified
people will sweep out every thought of your life for them to pray over
and denounce. They would consider it a duty to drag every foible or
mistake of your family through the open church.”
“No, no. I wouldn’t do that. I will confess every thing to God; but, as
for the rest, Benedict, I would rather die and be lost forever and ever
than see a hair of your head harmed. I would, boy, just as sure as I
live. So don’t be afraid.”
“Afraid!” repeated Arnold, with a sneer. “Did you ever see any thing
like cowardice in your son, old man?”
“Dear, no! You were always brave as a lion. I’ve seen you strike at your
mother when she wanted to put you in the cradle. We thought it very
funny when your little fist wasn’t bigger than a walnut; but now it’s
terrible to see it as you clenched it the other night!”
“And as I will again, old man, if that infernal subject ever comes up.”
“It must, once more,” said the old man, meekly.
“Never, sir, unless you wish me to forget that you are my father. I tell
you it was the dream of a drunkard.”
“No, Benedict, no! I did not drink then!”
“I tell you, sir, it was nothing else!” cried the young man, through his
shut teeth. “Do not attempt to torture such nightmare visions into
facts. For your own sake, for my mother’s sake, I warn you.”
“Oh, Benedict, how I wish you could make me believe this! but I can’t,—I
can’t!”
“You had better, sir, or this new religious fit will end in mischief.”
“No, Benedict, it will end in death. This thing has been gnawing at my
heart ever since. It will only die when your father does.”
“Drive it away then. I tell you it is all a lie.”
“Oh, don’t!—don’t, my son. It makes me tremble to hear you. Remember,
though you and I are all alone, God hears us, and he knows all.”
“Then he knows you are crazy with drink, and have been for years.”
The old man groaned heavily, and, drawing close to the horse, seemed
about to press some other argument on his son; but Arnold backed his
horse, wheeled him fiercely, and dashed away, leaving the heart-broken
father standing in the snow. With his dull eyes, bloodshot with thirst
rather than drink, following his wild flight towards home, the old man
fell on his knees in the beaten snow.
“Oh, my God! my God! what can I do!” he sobbed, lifting his clasped
hands to heaven, in a passion of entreaty. “Look upon me, O Lord! for I
am a miserable old man,—broken down, helpless, trying to be good, and
yet thirsting for my old sin. Help me! help me! or I shall go back, now,
now; for where else is there a place for me on earth?”
He looked vaguely around, as if expecting some answer; but the far-off
beat of those retreating hoofs was all the sound he heard. He looked
upward. A single star would have given him light, and perhaps hope, but
the sky was drifted over with clouds, and all was dark.