Chapter XV

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!