Chapter II: Going Home—a Shooting-Match

While these preparations were going on in the old farm-house, a little cavalcade, consisting of two gentlemen and a lady, followed by a negro servant, was galloping through a sweep of woods half a score of miles south of Norwich.

They were a merry party, with their gay laughter and jests, as they spurred quickly on over the frozen road; for the day was cold, and it was evident that a gust of snow was fluttering up on the wind from the eastern hills.

The girl was in the first bloom of womanhood; a rich, dark brunette, with cheeks like the side of a September peach that has ripened next the sun, and eager, changing eyes that anticipated every smile upon her full lips, and gave to her face a piquant beauty quite indescribable. She sat her horse admirably, and her lithe form showed to advantage, in spite of the fur wrappings which the day demanded. With it all, there was something very un-English in her appearance, although she spoke the language with no perceptible accent.

The gentleman at her right hand bore sufficient resemblance to her to betray the relationship between them, but the brother’s dark features had none of the brilliant color or expression which gave such life to her countenance. Although he joined in the conversation, and smiled frequently at his sister’s lively sallies, he seemed naturally a reserved, silent man; and there was something in the stern, black eyes, and about the firm mouth, which betokened a temper when once aroused.

Their companion was a man still young, twenty-seven perhaps, almost handsome at times, although the slightly Roman features looked somewhat cold and severe in repose. He was conversing gayly with the girl, and his eyes at times, fastened themselves up her face, with an expression which sent a riper color to her cheek, though a smile would tremble over her lips, in spite of every effort to prevent it.

“And you think I will like your sister?” she said, laughingly. “Really, if she is so sweet and charming as you say, I doubt if I am acting wisely in bringing Paul within her influence.”

“My poor Hannah!” he replied, smiling and shaking his head. “She has no more idea of coquetry than a wood-pigeon.”

“Oh, don’t be too sure of that, sir,” she interrupted. “Woman’s nature is the same the world over, and I would wager my pet curl that, if the truth were known, you would find that even the most innocent and retired little pigeon has her own ideas about subjugating every pert young male within her reach.”

“Is that the principle upon which Miss de Montreuil acts?” he asked, quickly.

“Oh, it is unjust to turn my argument against myself,” she said, bravely, though the tell-tale color dyed her cheeks again. “It is only your quiet women that I distrust. I am never afraid of any other where Paul is concerned. Do you hear, brother?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied, with a slight accent. “Haven’t you learned, Arnold, that it is useless to contend with Laura? When she finds herself worsted, she leaps clean beyond the argument, and brings up in a totally different quarter.”

“It is beginning to snow!” exclaimed Miss de Montreuil, only noticing her brother’s remark by a graceful shrug of the shoulders. “See there, Mr. Arnold, it is coming towards us quite rapidly.”

“We are nearly through the woods now,” he answered, “and there is a little town not far beyond, where we can rest if it snows too badly to go on.”

“Better push ahead, massa,” chimed in the old negro. “’Tain’t gwine to be much snow; but afore mornin’ dar’ll be sleighin’, or I misses my guess.”

“Peter’s lame arm is an unfailing barometer,” said de Montreuil.

The old negro glanced down at the injured member with a puzzled look, as if doubtful what manner of thing that might be, saying, hesitatingly,—

“‘Spect it are, Massa Paul; and it am achin’ dolefull all this blessed mornin’. Dis barometer is mighty hard on a cullered pusson when his wool b’gins to get white.”

“Here we are out of the woods!” exclaimed Arnold, as they reached the brow of the hill, from whence the sloping fields betrayed considerable cultivation. “On a bright day, Miss de Montreuil, there is a fine view from this spot.”

“But this is not exactly a June zephyr,” said her brother.

“Oh, fie, Paul. You never did really appreciate the beautiful. I am sure that it must be very lovely.”

“On a day like this it makes but little difference,” persisted de Montreuil. “I can see no more pleasure in freezing to death in the garden of Eden than in Nova Zembla.”

“There is the tavern,” said Arnold, pointing to a long log building at the foot of the descent.

“Is there a little hamlet there?”

“The customary blacksmith’s shop and school-house. It would not be Connecticut, you know, without these.”

“There is a crowd of men in the field back of the school-house,” said de Montreuil. “Surely, they cannot be holding a patriotic meeting in this storm?”

“More likely a shooting-match. Remember, to-morrow will be Thanksgiving.”

“Prime turkeys, I’se warrant,” muttered old Peter, elevating himself in his stirrups. “Oh, golly! ain’t it worth while?”

“I have heard so much of these matches,” said Laura, “but have never had the good fortune to witness one.”

“That comes of being shut up in a city all your life, Miss de Montreuil. See how sadly your education has been neglected!”

“I plead guilty, and lament my ignorance. Is there no way of remedying it now?”

“Oh, certainly. You can watch all the proceedings very comfortably from the tavern window. What do you say, de Montreuil? Shall we beg or hire a rifle and take a shot at the old gobbler?”

“Just as you please, _mon ami_. I should rather like to see the sport.”

“I haven’t tried my hand for years. I should be glad to know if I have lost my skill.”

“After all,” said Laura, “it seems rather cruel amusement.”

Arnold’s look expressed amused astonishment; then a sneer, which she did not see, altered the lines of his mouth into an expression almost revolting,

“It may be,” he replied; “but Connecticut youths are not trained to think so. Our fair saint will give us absolution if we follow the barbarous customs of those about us.”

“Oh, I confess a desire to see the sport; but I don’t half like it after all.”

“Come on, then, where your curiosity can be gratified, and I’ll warrant that you will forget your scruples.”

A vigorous ride down the hill soon brought them to the little tavern, where they dismounted, and were ushered, with due ceremony, into the best room of which the house could boast.

The crowd in the field were not so busy with their preparations but that the strangers were duly remarked; and they proved themselves possessed of that laudable spirit of curiosity which has so fully developed itself in the descendants of our worthy Puritan fathers.

Old Peter went into the field to hire a rifle for his master, and a little group immediately gathered about him, plying the old servant with so many questions that he stood rolling his eyes about in open-mouthed and helpless amazement. But Peter’s elocutionary powers were upon too grand a scale for him to be long crushed, even by overpowering numbers; and, recovering his speech, he poured forth such a voluble account of the glory of his master and all his family, past and present, that even Yankee curiosity could not well have craved any thing more satisfactory.

“And that ’ere’s young Arnold with him?” asked a long, gaunt specimen, when the sable servitor paused for breath. “He used to live down to Norridge, and his folks is there yet, I reckon.”

“And he and that French fellow want to try a hand at shootin’ agin us, dew they?” asked another, bringing his rifle heavily upon the ground. “Wall, tell ’em to come on. I’ll let ’em have my old soger cheap, though it ain’t used to bein’ hired out to furriners.”

“And what dew they think of imports and taxations?” asked a stout old farmer. “The time’s come when a man likes to know who he’s a-neighborin’ with.”

“Oh, git out!” rejoined the first speaker. “Old Arnold’s a riglar true blue, and his son takes after him. I’ll bet there hain’t a drop o’ tea wet their whistles since the last taxation.”

“Arnold’s got a darter, hain’t he?” asked some one.

“Of course he has!” retorted the stout farmer. “Dew you think Jake Dennis would stand up for him so ef there wasn’t a female in the case?”

“That’s all yew know about it,” grumbled the discomfited defender of Mr. Arnold’s patriotism, when the laugh at his expense had ceased. “I guess you’d better finish your business, if you want any shootin’ to-day, and leave me alone.”

The hint was a timely one, and the crowd moved away from Peter and busied themselves about their concluding arrangements. The luckless fowls were taken out of the baskets, and flung, securely tied, upon the ground; and one fine old turkey gobbler, with his blood red crest quivering irefully, was selected as the first to be put up at the “mark.”

Several men tried their skill, but proved unsuccessful, as it was only by hitting the turkey’s head that the prize could be gained; and, as the indignant old gobbler was by no means inclined to keep his red crest erect and allow his enemies a fair shot, the task was by no means an easy one.

The discomfited men were greeted with shouts of laughter; for it is a peculiarity of human nature that we are more than usually delighted with other people’s failures, when about running the same risk ourselves.

Jake Dennis proved the fortunate competitor, and then a variety of trials followed in quick succession. When the sport was at its height, Arnold and his friend came out of the tavern and crossed the field to the match-ground.

De Montreuil gazed about him with amused curiosity—and to one unaccustomed to things of the sort, the scene was not devoid of interest. The animated looks of the crowd, the eagerness of the competitors, the ill-concealed chagrin of those defeated, and the self-complacency of the winners, were excessively amusing.

“Dew you want to try your hand?” asked the old farmer, of Arnold, after another fine turkey had been set up.

“If I may, certainly.”

He took the rifle which the old man handed him, and lifting it with a sure aim, fired. The bird’s head fell upon the snow several feet from the body. A shout of applause followed, for there had been no shot equal to it.

“There ain’t no Tory blood in yew, I’ll bet,” said the old farmer. “Yew are the sort to be depended on.”

Arnold looked at him keenly.

“You seem a true patriot,” he said.

“I guess they’ll find me one when the time comes.”

Arnold placed in his hand the turkey he had won, and thanked him for the use of his rifle.

“Come, de Montreuil, as you won’t try your skill, let us leave. Your sister will be tired of waiting. How it does snow. We shall be in the midst of a storm!”

“Where is Peter?” asked the Frenchman, when they had reached the tavern. “I declare the fool is going to take a shot, and he is as timid with a gun as an old woman.”

The truth was, Peter had bragged and vaunted of his powers until he found himself in an unpleasant situation. Several slaves had followed their masters, armed with blunderbusses, shot-guns, horse-pistols, or any other species of fire-arms they could lay their hands upon, in the expectation of being allowed a share in the sport, towards the close. Now, one bad-tempered negro was an excellent marksman, and Peter had irritated him until it was decided that they must either fight it out, rough-and-tumble, or shoot against each other at a mark.

Affairs had reached a crisis. The belligerent negro threatened, and Peter showed the whites of his eyes in terror. His vaunting spirit had carried him farther than he intended. He looked about for his master,—who was too far off to protect him, nor did he show any disposition to interfere. He looked among the crowd: the matchers had ceased their sport to watch the coming fun.

“My massa wants me,” stuttered Peter.

The tall negro extended a rifle in his left hand, and doubled up his ponderous right fist directly under Peter’s rolling eyes.

“Yer kin take yer chise,” he said, coolly. “Can’t hev no city niggers a-flourishin’ it over ’spectable cullered pussons.”

“Stand up to him, Jupe!” shouted the laughing crowd. “Don’t let any strange darkies impose upon you.”

“I ain’t a strange darkey,—I ain’t, no how; but was born and broughten up in these parts as well as the rest on yer,—now, who wants to ’pose upon him?” expostulated Peter. “I’ll meet him like a cullered purson ort ter meet anuder gemmen, but just now massa wants me.”

“Can’t help it,” said Jupe, determinedly; “I wan’t yer tew. Now, which is it to be, this blunderbuss, or a taste of this ’ere,” and he brought his huge fist into dangerous proximity with his frightened opponent’s nose, which was in all conscience flat enough by nature.

Peter trembled in his shoes. He glanced at the fist and at the rifle,—either was bad enough! He grabbed the rifle, shut his eyes, pulled the trigger, and fired. They had given him an unloaded gun, but it was all the same to Peter! He gave one bound, while the crowd were in convulsions of laughter, and started for the tavern, followed by a crowd of hooting boys.

So extreme was the poor fellow’s terror that he dashed past his master, and flew into the room where Laura de Montreuil stood laughing as heartily as the others.

“Save me, missus,” he screamed. “I’se killed a man, and now dey want ter hang me fur doin’ on’t.”

With this pathetic appeal, Pete crowded himself under the settee, and it required half-an-hour’s persuasion to get him out. Not till after he had been repeatedly assured that the crowd was dispersed and Jupe had gone home with his master, could he be induced to creep forth; and a pitiful-looking object he was when he came into the light. His portly carcass seemed really flattened, his snowy wool was specked with dust, and his neat riding-suit woefully soiled.

In pity to the poor darkey’s terror they started as quickly as possible. Peter spoke never a word during a full hour; but when they came in sight of Norwich, his courage began to revive, and his vaunting spirit returned.

He rode close behind his master and whispered, confidentially.

“Massa Paul, ’spec that ar Jupe was wuss skeered than he made believe; but I’se glad I didn’t kill him, anyhow.”

The mirth with which this confidence was received excited Peter’s displeasure. He snorted disdainfully, drew his horse back, and rode on in solemn silence, reserving all attempts at convincing himself and others of his bravery until a more auspicious period.

The hour in which one sits full-dressed to wait for company, is always a tedious one. Until that time, Mrs. Arnold had not really had time to feel of a certainty that her son was coming home. While there was any thing to embellish or arrange, she could ward off all impatience; but now the very rustle of her dress reminded her every instant that he was on the way to her. The heart in that gentle bosom beat and fluttered with yearning eagerness to behold him.

Hannah, too, was in a state of considerable excitement. She moved softly from seat to seat, smoothed her glossy hair before the looking-glass, and smiled to see how bright and blooming was the face reflected back upon her.

“I wonder if he will think me improved!” she thought. “The last time he came home, I remember he complained of my stooping. It was because we had just finished the fall-weaving, and one gets a habit of stooping in the loom; but he won’t find fault about that now. Hagar says I am as straight as an arrow. I wish my hands wasn’t quite so brown and hard: he spoke about that, too; but then hard work will show itself, do what one will.”

“Isn’t that the sound of horses coming down the road, Hannah?” cried Mrs. Arnold, half rising.

“No, mother, I think not. It is father coming round the house in his heavy boots.”

“No, no; I am sure,—I am sure he is coming.”

How that motherly heart began to swell and beat! The glow of tenderness in her eye was beautiful to look upon.

“He is coming, Hannah. Hark!”

That moment the front-door opened, and a face, all tanned and weather-beaten with out-door work, looked in,—a strong earnest face, such as we seldom meet in these days. You would not have believed that such depth of affection could belong to the face; for, after all, it was but the ruins of great manly beauty that you looked upon.

“Wife! daughter! he is coming! Our son is in sight.”

They started forward in a group, and, standing upon the door-stone, gazed eagerly along the road, regardless of the snow that fell softly around them, scattering their heads and garments with floating down.

A group of persons on horseback,—two men and a woman, with another dark figure lagging behind,—were coming, full gallop, through the storm.

Yes, it was Arnold and his friends. They rode swiftly up to the gate. Both the young men dismounted, and Mrs. Arnold stood waiting, with heart in mouth, while her son deliberately lifted the young lady from her saddle. Then he came forward, looking pleased and happy. It was not in human nature to resist the love in that dear old face. Her arms were outstretched to receive him; glad tears flooded her meek eyes. She clung to his neck, lifted herself to a level with his face, and showered motherly kisses upon it, soft and loving as the snow-flakes that fell around them. “Oh, Benedict! Benedict! my son!”

In uttering these words, full of ineffable tenderness, the little woman subsided into a soft rain of tears, and, turning her face to the strangers, begged pardon for loving her son so much. Then she looked encouragingly at her husband, who had shrunk away into the background, and stood there pale and troubled, as if afraid to show himself side by side with his wife.

The moment he was relieved from his mother’s arms, Arnold cast a keen glance at his friends, anxious to see what effect her impulsiveness had made upon them.

Laura was smiling, but her eyes were full of tears, and a thrill of sympathy passed over her sensitive mouth as she met Arnold’s glance. As for the brother, his handsome face was bright with feeling.

Hannah looked anxiously around on her father, but seeing that he hesitated, gave way to her glad impulse, and came forward, so bright and pretty that any brother might have been proud of her. Then the mist that had gathered over Paul’s vision cleared away, a look of admiration beamed from his eyes, and when he saw Hannah’s red lips upturned for her brother’s kisses, it seemed to him that the careless fellow was gathering ripe fruit in the snow-storm, leaving him in the cold.

“Father! come, father!” pleaded Hannah, casting a yearning glance on the old man, who came forward very slowly, with a look of doubt and distress that filled the heart of his wife with pain.

Arnold held out his hand.

“Well, father, I am home again; but you do not seem well. You—you—”

The old man shook his son’s hand in a hurried, nervous way, and looked at his wife as if appealing for help.

“Your father has not been quite well. We are both growing old, you know,” said the little woman, in a breathless, eager fashion, quite unusual to her. “Pray, invite your friends in. I am sure they are welcome.”

For one instant a cloud lowered on Arnold’s brow, but an effort swept it off, and with some cheerful words of welcome he led the way into the house.