Chapter XIV: Father and Son—rebellion and Repentance

After the morning when Arnold became acquainted with his father’s frailty, he had dared to despise the old man in his heart,—dared to let this unnatural contempt be manifest in his manner, if not in words, so that a new cause of separation had sprung up between them, which threatened to grow wider and wider.

The father had not felt this so keenly till after his visit to the saw-mill; for, when he suffered the pain of these things, there was the liquor-case to flee to, and that deadened sensibility if it could do no more.

But after that day all that was sensitive and refined in his nature took sharpness and force. With his system all deranged, and his nerves unstrung, he had taken a solemn resolution which was sure to shake his physical being to the centre. He was a broken down man, and habits that had preyed upon him like wolves were sure to turn and rend him as he refused them food. A little kindness at this time, a word even of respectful sympathy from the son he could not help looking up to in many respects, would have aided him greatly in the terrible battle of appetite against principle that lay before him.

But Benedict Arnold was a man incapable of repentance; a strong, hard character, who never had and never could believe himself in the wrong. His own iron will was the only law he recognized, and the greatest sin that any of his fellow-men could commit in his eyes was to oppose that will. Perhaps he was lifted above petty sins because they were not the best aids to selfish ambition. He was a man to commit crimes, not drop into foibles,—a man of iron, with nerves of steel that vibrated only to his ruling passion.

From this character, with all the fiery passions of youth inflaming his selfishness, what had the poor father to hope?

Two days after his visit to the mill, the old man went into the parlor, where Benedict was sitting with Laura De Montreuil,—who had been thoughtful and languid, but gentle as an infant since her accident. There was no more badinage, no coquetry in her intercourse with young Arnold now. The pride had been all broken from her heart in those cold waters, and a light word would have been sacrilege to her gratitude. It was her duty to worship him,—a sweet duty, to which she submitted herself without stint or protest.

Arnold kept half aloof, both from her gratitude and her love. He did not evade or tease her as formerly; but no engagement, not even a declaration, had passed his lips. Yet she was content from the very wealth of her own feeling, and she would whisper to herself again and again, “Surely I could not love him so entirely if he were indifferent. It is not in my nature.”

This unexacting state of mind pleased the young man. There was no longer a necessity to be on the defensive,—to skirmish around a declaration which he was resolved not to make at that time, or in that place but which it had seemed almost impossible to avoid. It was pleasant to sit by her side hour after hour and witness the utter subjection which love had made of her pride,—to hear it in the soft tones of her voice, and read it in the timid glances of her eyes; for an all absorbing vanity formed the leading trait in his ambitious character.

Laura had been more than usually gentle that morning, and Arnold’s self-love was gratified to the full. It was a triumph to have so completely subdued this spirited young creature by an act of simple courage which cost him nothing; for many a time in his boyhood had he clung to the great water-wheel at the falls, and been dashed now into the waves, then lifted high into the sunshine, for the mischievous excitement of the exploit alone. Still, admiration was not the less acceptable to him because it was undeserved. Arnold had no sensitiveness of that sort to contend against during his whole life.

But the entrance of old Mr. Arnold was a shock to these complacent feelings. He had only come to seek Hannah, and, not finding her, was about to go away. The first terrible effects of total abstinence were gnawing at his vitals, and he staggered in his walk, glancing wildly around, disturbed by his son’s look and voice when he rose from Laura’s side and sharply demanded what was wanted, plainly showing the old man that he was considered an intruder in his own sitting room.

This question and the unfilial gesture of the young man gave the poor father a shock under which he broke down altogether. A trembling fit seized him, and, holding out his hands as if to ward off a blow, he cried out,

“Don’t! Oh, my son, don’t!”

Laura started up. She was painfully surprised by the scene and the distress in the old man’s face. The tears that gushed up to his eyes went to her heart. But before she could speak, Arnold strode across the room, laid a heavy hand on his father’s shoulder, and thrust him through the open door into the kitchen. As he closed the door and returned to the room it was easy to see the unfavorable impression this scene had left on the mind of his guest. She was very pale, and her eyes shone with indignation.

“How could you? _Mon Dieu!_ how could you speak so harshly to the kind old man? It will break his heart,” cried the brave girl.

“You don’t understand. He had no right to appear before my guests in that state,” said Arnold, impetuously. “I will allow no man, father or not, to degrade me in this way.”

Laura moved a step forward with the old imperious air. Her eyes glittered with tears as she turned them on Arnold.

“I’m sorry, very sorry for your father, Mr. Arnold. He seems ill. If you refuse to go and comfort him, I must.”

Arnold colored violently under this rebuke. He really believed his father to have been drinking; and wounded pride had stung him into the brutal act which the woman whom he looked upon as his worshiper a moment before had so pointedly condemned.

“You cannot understand, mademoiselle. Every house has its skeleton. You have unfortunately obtained a rude glimpse of ours.”

Laura smiled painfully, and shook her head,—

“Go,—go out and beg his pardon, Arnold.”

“What,—I?”

“Yes. You are brave: be generous,—be just. This scene disturbs my idea of your character, and I cannot bear that. Every thing about you seemed grand a moment ago.”

Arnold’s vanity was touched. He also could not bear that any thing should check the idolatry of her regard. He kissed her hand, whispered that she was an angel, and went out, not to apologize, but to upbraid the unhappy father, whose state of moral and physical depression was pitiable.

“Father, how dare you come in that room when you could not walk for staggering?” hissed the young man, through his shut teeth, bending close to the stooping figure that sat heavily by the fire, with great tears rolling down his face. “How dare you?”

The old man lifted his head, and looked sorrowfully into the flushed face bending over him.

“I—I didn’t mean to mortify you, Ben.”

“You have done nothing but mortify me since I came home,” whispered his son, fiercely. “Couldn’t you keep sober one week?”

The old man winced.

“I am sober, now, Ben, and that’s what makes me seem as if I wasn’t. It’s three days since I’ve tasted a drop of any thing stronger than coffee.”

“Then what makes you stagger in this way?”

“It’s because of the craving want; because—oh, my God! my God! help me,—help me, for this is more than I can bear!”

“Hush!” commanded the son. “Do you wish to disturb our visitors?”

“No, no; I will disturb nobody, if I can help it. Let me alone, Benedict. It’s hard to fight this out all by one’s self. Don’t make it worse, for God’s sake! Have mercy on me. I am wretched enough! Do let me try and hold out! It’s hard,—it’s hard!”

“This is unbearable! Can’t you be a man, sir?”

“A man! Well, yes; I—I am trying. Half the night I was on my knees, in the cold barn, praying God to help me be a man once more,—out in the barn, remember,—for I didn’t want to disturb any one, and crept away alone. I dropped the key of the liquor-case into the well as I went along, for it seemed to hold me down like a chain. That key might have been ten thousand weight of iron dragging at me, but I flung it down, down, down!”

“This is delirium. You have reached the last stage of a drunkard’s life, sir! Why, every nerve and muscle in your frame is quivering. What use can there be in talking to a man who doesn’t know what he is saying?”

“My son—oh, Benedict, this is hard! Don’t say it again! No wonder I tremble! The devil tempting me every step I take,—mocking at me when I try to pray,—taking all my strength when I walk,—tugging at my heart like a wolf, and crying out, drink! drink! when I sit down to rest. And now you come,—you, my only son, that I was so proud of once,—that I never refused any thing to in my whole life—you—you! Oh, Benedict, this is tough!”

“I tell you, sir, this raving will be heard! If you cannot command yourself I will leave the house this night, and forever.”

“You, Ben, you? If you had never left it I had not come to this! But don’t say that now; you don’t understand how hard it is to stifle this craving. It makes me talk wildly; but it isn’t drink that does it. That would make me quiet.”

“Then, for heaven’s sake, drink! Any thing is better than this state!”

The father shook the hand from his shoulder, and stood up, firm and strong, like a man.

“So Satan comes in the form of my own son with his temptations! This is horrible!”

He spoke loud and full; the force of his rebuking eye, wild as it was, startled the young man.

“Hush! father, hush! She will hear you!”

“Hear me denounce my own son? No human being shall ever hear that. Nothing but God and my own soul knows any thing about it.”

“About what, sir?”

“How it was I began to—to drink. That is what I mean. How it was that I lost a hold on all that makes a man strong. There was cause, when a father’s conscience goes against his heart,—when justice calls him one way and love another—when——”

“Once more, sir, what does this mean?” whispered Arnold, clenching his teeth again.

“Stoop down here, Benedict, close, close! You are sure Hagar is out?—no one within hearing?—you _will_ know then?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Closer, closer! You remember that night—closer——”

The rest of the sentence was whispered close in Benedict Arnold’s ear. He turned deadly pale; but clutched his hand on the old man’s shoulder, whispering,

“Never breathe those words again to God or man!”