Chapter VII: A Half Declaration—passionate Struggle

“Where on earth are you driving to, Mr. Arnold?”

“Into the town. I wish to show you the view from some of those terraces; it is peculiarly fine.”

“Town!” cried the lady, with a pretty scream, “town! when you know I detest the very sight of a house that isn’t built of logs. No—no, I am dying to see the Falls, that we only got a glimpse of the other day. It was for that I stole Paul’s horse and kidnapped you.”

Arnold tried to say something of the happiness of a captivity like that; but secret annoyance distorted the words on his lips, and he said, rather sharply,

“Indeed, mademoiselle, you will find the road rough, and the Falls frozen to marble.”

“That is exactly what I want,—a good jolting,—jumpers all along the road, as you call those ridges, that shake one up so; and an overturn in the snow, if one does not plunge too deep. Now, don’t talk of roads to me. I like obstacles and difficulties, or how should I ever endure you, the most cross-grained, obstinate person in the world, every one says.”

“But I hope you will not say so, Laura.”

“Laura!”

“Have I offended?”

“I don’t know. Yes, of course.”

She blushed scarlet under his glance, for she felt that her own headlong encouragement had kindled the audacity burning there.

“Oh, if I only had a right,—if every glance at that face was not a presumption.”

She looked up, softened by the humility of his speech, but still dissatisfied by the tones of his voice.

“Why do you speak of presumption? It is no great crime to forget strict proprieties for once,” she said, gently.

“The word,—yes, you might forgive that,—but the feelings, the burning imprudence here,—who will forgive that?”

He waited a moment expecting her to speak, but she was looking out up the glittering snow-crust, while her cheeks glowed like ripe peaches.

“You will not say one word to reassure me,” he said, stooping his head to feast upon her blushes, as a rapacious child devours fruit.

She laughed, half nervously, half in pretty defiance of her own feelings.

“I should not fancy that you required reassuring, Arnold.”

“No. Doubtless you scoff at the audacity of a farmer’s son claiming a right to possess human feelings where so much wealth and beauty are concerned. I have exposed the bareness of my antecedents,—taken you into the bosom of my family. Do you scorn me for the plainness that seems like poverty to one like you?”

“You know that I do not scorn you for any thing,—least of all for what I have seen in your home,” she said, with feeling.

“But you are rich, very rich, I dare say,—of gentle blood, too, and that means so much in foreign countries. Yours is an old name, a proud family: while I,—what on earth do I possess which can bring me on an equality in any one point with you?”

“It is not for me to point out your advantages, Mr. Arnold. But all the possessions you point out, are things in which I have no claim to merit. What is good blood but an accident, over which we have no control? Or wealth, which comes from the past without merit or exertion? All that relates to you as a man, or me as a woman, you have left out: thought, energy, feeling, all that makes up life and honor.”

Laura was greatly agitated as she said this. The color flashed in and out of her face like gleams of lightning; her lips grew bright with the words that passed them. He could feel her form tremble amid the furs.

She had answered his question,—twice answered it—and now he had no desire to press the conversation further: this was neither the time nor place. She was rich: she loved him,—this brilliant, stately creature. What could the ambition of man ask for more?

She was listening with parted lips. Her very soul was thirsty for the answer which her generosity should have brought; but he only said, very softly, and with a humility that charmed, while it disappointed her,

“Oh, if I dared,—if I only dared!”

The blood burned in her cheek now; the very snow-flakes melted into tears of shame as they fell upon its hot crimson. Every word she had uttered stung her like a disgrace. Was he modestly retreating, now that she had gone so far? She clenched the restless hand in her lap till the grasp pained her; she bit her lips till they glowed like wounded coral; and at last dashed her little foot down into the bottom of the sleigh in a paroxysm of selfcensure.

“What is the matter? Have I wearied you with my slow driving?” asked her companion, with tender deference.

“Yes,—yes,—no,—it is not that. You will persist in driving the wrong way. I wish to see the Falls. I will see the Falls.”

“But—”

“I will not listen to a but. Here, give me the lines and the whip. I know how to drive. You won’t. Oh, very well. If you do not turn toward the Falls, I will get out and walk there. Nothing can prevent that.”

The young French girl said this with great satisfaction, for her spirit was all in revolt. She longed to do something hateful,—to perpetrate an act of despotism which would convince him how very little her heart had been in the whole conversation. The coquetry of her impulsive nature came out in force then. She was glad that there was some one thing which he seemed reluctant to undertake. Her desire to see the Falls flamed into a passion. She would go. It was what had brought her from New Haven. Nothing else could have induced her to take so long a journey on the very edge of winter.

Arnold listened with a curve of the lip that might mean wounded pride, might be audacious self-confidence. But he turned his horse, and drove toward the Yantic Falls without a word.

“The youth is father to the man.” Benedict Arnold was not a person to be taken unawares, even at that early age. Of all places in the world, he would have shunned the Yantic Falls and its neighborhood, had the choice been left to him; but the willful girl at his side had doomed him, and on toward that romantic pass they dashed, he too restless for silence, and she exactly in that state of mind when wit flashes like chain lightning from the heart of a woman wounded in her pride.

You never saw a more beautiful creature than that young French girl appeared, as they swept through the frosty air, along that line of shimmering snow, listening to the bells as if they had been bursts of martial music, her face all one glow of roses; her eyes bright as diamonds; and her heart swelling with a storm of angry shame. Arnold could hardly maintain his cautious reserve as he glanced toward her.

But he would not commit himself farther, at least in that dangerous neighborhood. If she would go to the Yantic Falls, it must be with a burning heart. His was cold enough, at any rate.