Chapter XII: The Guest’s Return

When Mr. Arnold’s double sleigh drove up to the farm-house the next morning, the whole family gathered at the front-door to receive the guest, now rendered doubly interesting from her recent peril. She was subdued and pale,—not so much from illness, it would seem, as from the chastening reflections that sprung out of the great peril she had been in, and a deeply grateful feeling toward those who had saved her from it. There was no light coquetry in her manner to Arnold now. With delicate and touching humility she had leaned upon his arm, and permitted him almost to carry her from the cabin, though Paul stood by, ready to perform this brotherly office. She smiled gratefully, as Arnold’s hands gathered the furs around her and held them in place with his circling arm. She was so thankful for life,—so glad to flee from that black, ravenous vortex of waters where death had seemed dragging her down and engulfing her in terrible darkness. An intense love of life, of her own personality, had seized upon her, with the first realization of what death was. She clasped her rosy palms together under the fur, with a sort of ecstacy, rejoicing in the warmth, and shuddering to think how cold and dark they might have been, weltering under those logs. Now and then she would lift one hand to her hair and smile to think that it was dry,—that the horrible dripping of those icy waters had ceased forever.

All the night long, while lying in Leonard’s cabin, she had thought of herself only as dead, and sunken under the mill, with the black waters rippling through her hair, and her frozen limbs floating up and down in the dark eddies. The picture would not leave her; and the falls, which grew louder and louder after midnight, seemed to be rushing wildly that way to overwhelm her again.

But she was in the sunshine now. The clear, bracing air made her strong again. She was fleeing from all thoughts of death into the broad light of heaven. The winter’s sun blessed her as it shimmered down upon the snow. The sleigh-bells sounded like a jubilee. Her heart was brimful of thankfulness; but alas! that warm heart turned in its gratitude rather to the man at her side than to the good God to whom the firstlings of every human soul are due.

When she reached the farm-house and saw the whole family coming forth to meet her, tears of gratitude swelled into Laura’s eyes, and she stood upon the threshold-stone a moment, returning the soft kisses of the mother and of gentle Hannah Arnold, with a voice of thanksgiving whispering sweetly at her heart.

The family began to love her after this. With so much of her outward finery swept off in the mill-race, she was obliged to depend on Hannah, not only for her outer garments, but for the dainty little hat, turned up in front and behind, which looked coquettish on her, when it only proved modestly becoming to its owner.

These household garments, provided for her out of Hannah’s little stock, brought the strange girl more completely into the bosom of the family; it seemed natural to love her when she appeared like one of themselves. Then Hannah had her own secret reasons for a generous access of affection. Was not Laura Paul’s sister? and—and?—The young girl was alone when these thoughts came into her head; but she blushed crimson nevertheless, and looked shyly around, as if some one could hear her heart beating, and guess the cause.

Several days passed, and still these guests remained at the homestead, notwithstanding the restless impatience of Arnold, who was almost inhospitable in his haste to be off. Laura was well now, and rosy with happiness, but she would not leave the place while one of her preservers suffered; and Amy Leonard was very ill. The shock and cold had settled on her frail being. Dr. Blake gave no opinion, but his brow clouded darker and darker every time he rode away from the cabin.

All the Arnold family went to the Falls; but no one was admitted to Amy’s room except Mrs. Arnold. She found Amy lying white and worn in the little out-room of the cabin. One thrill,—half fear, half love,—and a glance of yearning deprecation was given to the little woman as she came in. Then the violet eyes closed, and two bright tears forced themselves through the shadowy lashes and were broken like crushed diamonds on her cheek. How that poor young face changed as those soft footsteps came close to the bed! You could see other tears swelling under the white lids, and the beautiful lip begin to quiver.

“Amy!”

The young creature grasped the coverlet convulsively with her hand, her eyes opened wildly, and she shrunk away toward the farther side of the bed.

“My dear child,—are you so very weak,—what is it that grieves you?—poor thing,—poor thing. Don’t cry. Mother Arnold has come to cheer you up a little.”

“Yes, yes. I know you are very kind.”

“Kind,—oh, not at all! But tell me, dear, what is it frets you so. It isn’t the shock of falling in the water: that wouldn’t last so long, or make you look so wild. Tell me—what is it, Amy?”

Amy shrunk away nervously. “Oh don’t,—don’t. I can’t bear it. Please say something harsh and cruel,—cruel as death. I can face that, but kind words break my heart. Mother gives them to me,—father gives them to me,—and now you come. If I could only die, that would be best,—that would be best.”

“Why, Amy, are you growing sinful,—you, a church-member?”

Amy started up in bed. “Yes, yes: I am a church-member; but you need not twit me with it. Don’t think I ever forget that I am a church-member.”

“Twit you with it, poor lamb. I bless God with all my heart that you are in his fold.”

“But what if I get out? What if I grow obstinate, and break loose; will you look at me with such kind eyes then?”

Amy clasped both hands, pressing them downward on the bed, where she crouched like a pretty, wild rabbit prisoned in a trap.

“Will you be kind to me then?”

“How wildly you talk, darling child. Of course, I shall always be kind to you. Why not? Haven’t you been to me like a daughter ever since you were born?”

Amy looked into that gentle face with a gush of yearning gratitude.

“How good, how beautiful you are!” she broke forth. “Oh! if his heart were only like yours!”

“His heart!” repeated the little lady, in a low voice. “Amy dear, do you speak of my son?”

“Your son,—no, no. How could I? What right have I to speak of him?” cried the poor girl, in sudden terror.

“Don’t talk so, Amy. Of course you have a right.”

“How—how? Do you think that?”

“Just as good a right as Hannah has, for you are almost as much his sister as she is.”

The guilty color came into that innocent woman’s face as she spoke, for she remembered Arnold’s words in the homestead chamber, and drew back on the very verge of comforting the weary-hearted girl, sadly conscience-stricken. Amy looked into her half-averted eyes with wistful earnestness, then her little hand, whitened into delicacy by illness, stole out and touched that of Mrs. Arnold.

“You seem like a mother to me.”

Her pretty face was full of love, yearning and tender.

Mrs. Arnold bent forward and kissed it, then the two clung together and began to cry.

“Tell me, Amy, is it because you love him?” whispered the gentle home-mother.

“Yes, I love him! Oh, I love him! No one will ever believe how dearly!”

Their arms interlaced closer, Mrs. Arnold pressed Amy’s head to her bosom and kissed it, saying,

“But did he do this on purpose,—did he make you love him?”

“I—I think. No, no; of course it was my own fault. I am such a forward, bold girl,—it is there all the blame lies. He make me love him! It didn’t need that. I can’t tell when I didn’t love him.”

“How could you help it, Amy dear? He’s so handsome and noble,—so true.”

“Is he? Are you sure,—very, very sure?” cried Amy, with a flame of scarlet on either cheek.

“Who should be sure if his mother isn’t?” answered the little lady, flushing also, but with a fainter red. “In some things, you know, I don’t quite understand him. He is proud and shy, especially about his likings. Don’t tell him, Amy, because I’m almost ashamed of it; but I laid the most artful little plot to find out if he really did care about,—about any one, you know.”

“Did you,—did you, indeed. And what was his answer? He couldn’t help but tell you the truth, I’m sure.”

“Well, dear, I’m not so bright and penetrating as some women, and though I was very crafty, I think he found me out, and put me aside just to punish me for being so deep.”

Amy drew a long breath, heavy with trouble.

“Did he speak of,—of any one in particular?”

“Oh, yes; he mentioned you and that stylish French girl that you saved from drowning; but that amounted to nothing. He wasn’t to be taken in by his mother, not he.”

“But you see him; you are by when they talk together; you—you—oh, Mrs. Arnold, Mrs. Arnold, tell me, does your son love this lady?”

Mrs. Arnold reflected a little, still holding Amy’s head against her bosom. Feeling the shiver that ran through that delicate frame, she conquered the vague doubt in her own bosom, and smoothing down the golden tangles of Amy’s hair with her hand, said, in her sweet, low way,

“No, dear; I don’t think he loves her.”

“But _she_ loves him. I know that she loves him,” cried the young girl, and a flame of passionate red came to her cheeks again.

“It wouldn’t be nice to say that about one’s own son, dear.”

“But you think it; you see it. But how can she help it? With him all the time, how could she help loving him?”

“Well, my dear, we must not talk of that. The young lady is our guest, and it isn’t for me to criticize her. Only cheer up and get well. I want you to come over to the homestead and make us a long visit.”

“How good you are—how kind! Sometimes when you smile, it is so like him,” cried Amy, clinging to her, comforted in spite of her doubts.

Mrs. Arnold smiled again. “Yes, I think he does look like me just a little about the mouth and eyes; but then what is only a little nice in a little old woman is grand in him. There is no real comparison.”

Closer and closer the young girl crept to that motherly bosom.

“You wouldn’t be angry with Benedict, even if he had done wrong: that is, just a little wrong,—not told you something that he ought, I mean?” she whispered.

“Angry with Benedict, the dear boy! No, no, I couldn’t be that for a trifle. Young people will have their little secrets. You are very good to tell me yours. Be sure I’ll keep it.”

Amy kissed her soft cheek.

“And I’ll pray God to turn his heart into home paths, little Amy, and lead his thoughts back to those good old times when he would trample down a path for you in the snow, as you went to school together. What a pretty couple you did make. I had my own thoughts early as that. You are smiling child; that is right, cheer up! Remember, I’m almost as old a friend as your mother, and I’ll stand by you as if you were my own child. That’s right, smile again. How warm and wet your cheeks are,—crying and laughing at the same time: that is a good sign. How a nice, comfortable chat warms one up. When I came in you were shivering with cold, but now——”

“Now,” whispered Amy, “I feel as if roses were blossoming in my heart. Dear, dear Mrs. Arnold, how I love you!”

“That’s right. Now, snuggle down to the pillow and drop to sleep. I’ll come again.”

“Mrs. Arnold.”

“Well, child?”

“You are quite sure he does not care for her?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And Mrs. Arnold.”

“Well, again?”

“How soft the air is. I—I—am getting—getting very sleep—sleepy.”

“I’m glad of it.”

“Yes, yes. I feel like a little bird sinking down in a nest lined with thistledown and silk-weed, and—and—Oh, I’m so happy—so happy!”

The young creature dropped away, with these words melting like ripe fruit on her lips.

Mrs. Arnold stood over her a moment, with the benign look of an angel in her glance.

How gently the young creature had sunk into that healthful sleep! Comfort and warmth lay all around her. The breath came up from her bosom like perfume from a waterlily.

Mrs. Arnold longed to kiss her, but that sleep was too sweet and precious: she would not disturb it, but glided softly from the room, holding up a warning finger to Mrs. Leonard, who drew close to her, anxious and weary.

“She is sound asleep.”

Mrs. Leonard burst into tears. It was the first wholesome sleep Amy had known since that dark hour under the mill.

Without a word, but smiling encouragement as she moved, Mrs. Arnold left the cabin, resolving—the gentle Christian—to talk more earnestly to her son, and so far as womanly faith to the sex would permit, plead her young friend’s cause.