Chapter XIII

OLD FRIENDSHIP RENEWED—THE HOLY FORCE OF PRAYER.

Mr. Arnold, the elder, had driven to the falls; and, while his wife was holding her motherly conference in the sick-room, he went down to the saw-mill and found Leonard busy among his timber-logs.

In former years there had been great intimacy between these two men; but of late Arnold had sought associates more congenial to his habits, and they had become almost strangers. There was nothing of Arnold’s former manner as he approached his old friend, who came gravely forward to meet him. Formerly, when he had been the richer and more prosperous man, his approach might have had something of patronage about it; but now he seemed shy and doubtful of a warm reception.

It was painful to see a man, really superior, with that down look,—a look that had sprung out of conscious self-degradation. He hesitated, cast anxious glances at the mill-tender, and once turned away, as if tempted to walk toward the falls. But Leonard’s heart warmed toward his old friend, and he called him back.

“Ho, neighbor Arnold! Don’t turn your back on old friends. Come in! Come in! It isn’t often one gets a chat while the saw is going. After all, it’s a lonesome place up here; so, while the women folks make a little visit, supposing we sit down and talk over old times.”

Arnold’s hand always trembled now, but it shook like a dead leaf as Leonard grasped it. He brushed the other hand across his face with a hasty movement, complaining that the cold brought the water to his eyes; and then Leonard’s heart smote him that he had kept so completely away from a man who had been a member of the same church with him, and, in more than the Christian sense, almost like a brother. So all the former friendship came gushing in a glow over his honest face, and shaking the hand in his grasp most heartily, he broke out in the old way:

“How do you do, brother? I’m right glad to see you at the mill.”

Arnold gave one grasp of the hand that shook his, struggled against something in his throat an instant, and then, fairly turning his back, walked off towards that end of the mill which looked upon the falls. One or two great sobs broke from him, and then he went slowly back, trying to appear unconcerned.

“I haven’t seen the falls since this mill was put up, it seems to me; but we had a grand raising that day, anyhow.”

“Yes, and a prayer-meeting after it that none of us ought to forget.”

“I never shall forget it,” said Arnold, with a quick turn of the eye. “It was the last I ever went to—the last time I ever made a prayer out loud.”

“Yes, yes. I remember the prayer, brother. The Lord was with us that night,” said Leonard, kindling up. “You asked him to bless the work our hands had done in the day, and he did bless it. That prayer-meeting was a glorious house-warming. It was like taking up one’s abode in a sanctuary, when the old woman and little Amy went to bed in the cabin for the first time.”

Arnold’s face began to quiver; holy memories were unfolding, like bird-wings, in his bosom.

“They were pleasant times, Leonard. Our children were young and innocent: we had strength and faith in those days.”

“And will they never come back, brother? The merciful God rules over us just the same as then.”

Arnold shook his head; and, as if to escape the closeness of the subject, began to examine the timbers of the mill.

“They have stood the weather famously,” he said; “for, after all, it is an old mill.”

“Oh, not so very bad for that. It was raised within a few days of the time your store was burnt down. Don’t you remember?”

Arnold gave a start, and the unhealthy red left his face. “Don’t,—don’t. I can’t bear to think of that. It was—it was a——”

“A great trouble I know, brother Arnold; but you got the insurance money, and that ought to have kept you a-going.”

“Yes, I—we got the money, but I—I was worn out, you know, and it’s hard to begin life agin arter a fire like that. Such things take all the courage out of a man, Leonard. You wouldn’t blame me if—if——”

The poor man sat down on a log that lay ready for the saw, and wiped the great drops of perspiration that had begun to gather on his forehead the moment this subject of the fire came up.

“Why, brother, I didn’t think you took that one piece of bad luck so much to heart.”

“Oh, it’s over now; but I come to say something about our children,—about Amy and Benedict.”

Leonard’s face darkened, and a look of distress came over it.

“The poor gal is sick,” he said. “She was left in the cold water till the other could be dragged out. I was jest in time to save her dear life, brother, and no more. It’s a’most too tough to see that foreign gal a-going about fresh as a rose, while Amy lies there moaning her life out.”

“Is Amy as sick as that? Poor gal—poor gal! I remember her when she wasn’t more’n so high. I’ve watched her growing up to the harnsome creature she is now. It’s hard to know that she must have sickness and trouble like the rest of us, Leonard,—very hard; and I want to save her from more. That’s why I’m here, old friend.”

“What is all this about?” said Leonard, wondering at the agitation which was evident in these rapid words. “What harm threatens Amy, more than has happened already?”

Arnold folded his trembling hands over each other again and again, looked to the right and left, as if tempted to run away and leave a painful task half done. At last he faltered out:

“Leonard, tell me: has my son, Benedict, been about the falls much of late years,—that is, since little Amy’s been old enough to care about such things? I’ve been in a sort of dream,—a long, long dream,—and hadn’t a chance to find out for myself; but you are careful, always at home,—you have kept your senses, Leonard. I don’t like to ask anybody else; but you can tell me. Are the young folks fond of one another?”

“They ought to be,—and why not?” said the father, sternly; for he fancied that Arnold, with some of the old pride, was about to protest against his sweet daughter as a fit wife for his more prosperous son.

“Because,” said Arnold, with an effort that made him shake from head to foot,—“because he mustn’t have her!”

“You say that to me, bro—Mr. Arnold? If it wasn’t for the fear of God I’d——”

“Don’t,—don’t take it in that way. It’s all for her good I speak. She’s too young,—too tender: a little spring lamb that ought to be fed with white clover, and nothing else. He mustn’t have her!”

“What _do_ you mean, old friend?” said Leonard, feeling that, however strange all this might be, no offence was intended to him or his child. “I hope, as a Christian—I hope you have not been—that is you—you are all right, Arnold.”

The poor man shrunk into himself at this insinuation vague as it was. He swallowed once or twice as if sobs were swelling to his throat, and then he spoke in a voice so broken with sorrow that it went like a prayer to his brother’s heart.

“It’s a cruel thing to undertake,—it’s unnatral; but I don’t want to drag anybody else down with me, least of all you or yours. I don’t know how far this thing has gone, Leonard; but don’t let my son—he’s my only son, you know, and that makes it worse—don’t let him marry your darter. I charge you,—I warn you,—don’t let him marry your child. I won’t stand by and see it done, for it’d be a sinful thing.”

“Why would it be sinful?” demanded Leonard, struck by the passion of distress with which all this was spoken.

“Because your child is innocent; and mine—oh, God help me!—mine is not.”

The unhappy man fell back to the log from which he had risen, and, clasping his hands, began to cry piteously.

“Don’t,—don’t ask me any more. I’ve done my duty, and you see how I am. You haven’t a drink of something in the mill, just to give me a little strength? I wouldn’t take a drop this morning, but it came harder than I expected. When a thing has taken root down in the darkness of your soul, it makes one tremble to pull it up. It’s to save you from trouble I did it, Leonard; so don’t be hard on me.”

“I know you are in earnest, and think there is good reason for this warning, Arnold. But what if the trouble is upon us?—what if she loves him as our wives loved us before we married them?”

“But she mustn’t,—indeed she mustn’t! Let him fall in love with that French girl, I shan’t trouble myself to warn her; but little Amy,—I couldn’t see Amy carried off in that way. She’s like my own darter. Now do remember that I warn you. Words that make a father’s heart ache as mine does now, should be listened to, and minded. Mark that, minded!”

“I will listen to them. Without asking another question I will respect the warning. If he comes here again I will take this thing in hand.”

“That’s right,—that’s right; but be firm. Don’t let him find you wavering like his poor old father. Be firm!”

“I will!”

“As a rock?—as a rock?”

“I will lean upon the Rock of ages!” said Leonard, reverently.

“Oh, if I had something to lean on!” cried Arnold, clasping his hands; but the next minute they trembled apart again.

“You have, old friend,” and Leonard took both the trembling hands in his. “The same God that answered us once will listen again. You asked for drink to give you strength just now; let us ask for something better than that, brother. Let us pray together.”

“Me—me pray?” faltered the old man.

That instant the saw had traveled its course down the log and stopped. The sudden stillness fell upon the old man like a shock; he looked strangely around, muttering,

“Me,—me,—and here?”

“Come,” said Leonard, taking him lovingly by the arm; “come, old friend, let us go away,—you and I together, as we have done a hundred times before. Let us go to the right place for strength and courage. This way,—this way. Never fear!”

They trod a little footpath together, the strong man leading the weak, till they found a shelf of rock overlooking the falls; and, hedged in by evergreens on all sides but that which faced on the water, which sung an anthem around them that made the spot like a chapel, Leonard knelt down on the snow that crusted the rock. It was not his habit to kneel for prayer; but just then his soul was full of devotion, and, before he knew it, the good man bent himself to the earth, even as the Saviour bowed when the most terrible of all sorrows fell upon him.

Prayer was the great outburst for eloquence in those days. The best gifts that a man possessed were offered to his God. I do not know that Leonard had any great wealth of words or ideas; but his whole being was alive with one purpose, and faith turned every thought that sprang to his lips into eloquence. Up through the clear winter morning rose the voice of that prayer, above the anthem of the waves, above the winds that whispered continually in the evergreens, above the sobs of that feeble man, who kept his face bowed to the earth, and shrunk together with shame while the other prayed.

But there is mighty strength in a good heart really inspired! Never—to use Joshua Leonard’s own words—had his soul taken such hold on the throne of God. He literally wrestled with the angels for that poor drooping life at his side.

The powerful words that burned on his lips at last kindled gleams of the old faith in Arnold. His head was slowly lifted, his shrunken shoulders grew broader, the crouching attitude changed; then his face was turned heavenward, and the bright sun fell like a glory upon it. The old nature was giving way. He had no words for prayer; but when a warm and more ardent rush of faith came from Leonard, a single “Amen” broke up all the ice at his heart, and a shower of warm tears rained over his upturned face. Those pure, penitential tears! Angels might have crowned themselves with such drops, and still remain all heavenly.