Chapter XVIII: Wild Hopes and Deep Wishes

New Haven is one of the most beautiful places on earth, even at the present day, when the green mountains are shorn of their forest-crowns, and cultivation has taken the place of picturesque loveliness. But it was wilder, more broken, and altogether more romantic before the Revolution. Then a few pleasant houses, with church-spires and the college-buildings, were to be seen through a bower of trees only. The country that lay between the sound and the steep foot of the green mountains was wild as a forest. Here and there patches of cultivation gleamed out from the shadows, and rustic dwellings sent their smoke up through the pines and hemlocks; but the great features of the landscape were altogether at variance with the scene which now presents itself.

Two or three dwellings were nestled at the foot of East Rock, forming the germ of what was, in my first remembrance, called Holchkisstown, and the precipitous cliff which still overhangs that village, seemed far less bold and forbidding, from the undergrowth and great trees that clothed it half-way up, and crowned it on the top with a noble forest that swayed and tossed to every passing wind.

In one glance of the eye was combined the most lovely arcadian scenery, guarded by rugged mountains, and almost circled by a zone of sparkling waters, over which the white sails flew like doves in the northward and southward passage.

A few rods down from the college-green, fronting on Chapel Street, stood a large, wooden building, with double verandahs and low, oaken doors. A huge elm swept the roof with its foliage, and from one of its great branches swung a weather-beaten sign, on which the British lion had raved and pawed his way upward for more than twenty years.

In this house young Arnold made his home. The birdlike ships we have spoken of, brought the merchandise which was fast enriching him from the West Indies; and, far down on the “long wharf,” he had erected a stone warehouse of considerable pretension. In fact, of all the traders settled in that town, he was among the most daring and the most energetic.

Beyond these evident proofs of prosperity, vague rumors had gone abroad of events that might cast into his power, at a single grasp, greater wealth and position than he could hope to obtain, even by a lifetime of the most successful enterprise. It was said that the bold, handsome person of this young man had won a heart which would bring almost fabulous wealth into his control.

The beautiful young French girl, who had turned even wise heads with her grace and fascinations,—who had driven half the students of Yale College crazy with admiration of her black eyes and superb toilet,—had fallen under willing subjection to Benedict Arnold. During the winter she had generally been seen in his sleigh, enjoying long drives along the coast, or by his side in the promenade, when her subdued and almost timid air of happiness gave force to the current rumor.

If she went to a party, the joyous sparkle of her eyes was clouded till he appeared. In truth, though a proud and sensitive girl, she took no pains to conceal her love,—nay, her adoration,—for it amounted to that, which filled her being in his presence; nay, she rather gloried in her devotion, and not only forgave his display of it, but seemed pleased that he should so openly claim her.

Thus the winter passed. Paul had made one or two trips to Norwich, where his quiet and almost disregarded suit prospered with gentle Hannah Arnold. So he was in no haste to move farther from her presence, and rested content within reach of her home.

Paul was a sensitive and over-refined man,—so delicate in his mental organization that he shrunk from interfering in the love affairs of his sister, and was, in truth, less informed of her real position than many a stranger who had made the lovers objects of attention. Thus he never spoke of this evident attachment to Hannah Arnold, and she, sensitive and shy as himself, asked no questions. In fact it came about, no one knew how, that the whole subject was a forbidden one. Arnold had managed to convey this feeling so completely, without committing himself by words, that it was an idea rather than an understanding between himself and the lady.

And were these two persons engaged? Not in the usual acceptation of the term. From the time that Arnold left his home, the irresolution and amazing variability of spirit that had marked his conduct there, changed. In his attentions he was frank and ardent: imperious certainly,—that was in his nature. Even self-interest could not change any thing in this respect; but, as far as manner went, he was every thing that ardent and devoted young creature could desire. What was the need of words where two persons understood each other so well?

Up to the spring, Paul and his sister had lived at the same public house with Arnold,—that which fronted on Chapel Street, and was sheltered by the great elm-tree, with its sheltering foliage and creaking sign. But when the violets came out under the East Rock, and the hemlock-buds put forth their soft, golden green all along the mountains, Laura began to grow a little restive. The winter months had flown, and there she was, engaged in spirit, but not in word, exactly as she had been at the Christmas time. Even her generous faith began to waver a little now; and when Paul, one day, suggested a desire to know something of her plans, that he might regulate his own by them, she flew into a girlish passion and burst into tears, protesting that she had no plans. How could she have and he not know them?

Paul heard this with a glow of indignation, for he believed that Laura was trifling with him; but when he saw that she was in earnest, and that no actual engagement existed between his sister and Arnold, all the iron in his nature rose to the surface; and, taking his hat, he went down to the wharf, for the first time in his life, and entered Arnold’s place of business.

What passed between the two young men is of no moment here, save that the interview left Arnold in clear possession of all the information he had been constantly searching for regarding the amount of wealth with which Laura would be endowed on the day of her marriage, while Paul became more and more thoughtful as the conversation proceeded; for, with the keen intuition which is the blessing and curse of refined natures like his, he felt the selfishness of Arnold’s character, but was altogether too good for condemnation, where no positive proof existed. Perhaps his own heart was a little at fault. In his love for the gentle sister, Paul was willing to believe himself unjust when a thought against one of her blood rose in his heart.

All that afternoon Laura was in tears, with the quick transition so natural to an impulsive character. She had passed from a state of confidence to one of deep, deep depression. No, she was sure of it. Arnold had been amusing himself with her; his vanity had been interested, nothing more. Paul was right. She had read this opinion clearly in his face. Arnold did not love her. She had been deceiving herself all the time. Paul knew it,—the whole world would know it. The very thought drove her wild. She walked to and fro in the room, restless and wretched.

She flung herself on the high-backed sofa, and, shutting her eyes, tried to think steadily, while she listened for some footstep which would bring her news. The security in which she had been dwelling made her present state of turbulent doubt all the more painful.

At last Paul came home, grave and sad. He said nothing of his interview with Arnold, and Laura only questioned him with her great, eager eyes, that grew heavy with dread when she saw no cheerfulness in his glance.

“Paul, brother Paul,” she said at last, holding out her hands. “Have you nothing to tell me?”

Paul was touched by her pleading humility. He knelt down by the sofa, as a lover might have done, and took her head between his hands, laying his cheek against the heavy braids of her hair.

“Have patience, my sister,—only a little patience. In another day all this shall be settled.”

“Ah! does he want time?” faltered Laura, turning pale. “Have you made a claim on his honor? Oh, Paul!”

“I have to deal with his honor and ours,” said the young man, with decision.

“His honor! And has it come to that? His honor!”

Her face began to burn like fire, and hot flushes ran down her hands and arms.

“Hush! be quiet, Laura. There is nothing as yet to distress yourself about. He was not so frank as I could wish; but that may be from embarrassment. The peculiar nature of our interview was enough to unsettle any man.”

“Embarrassment!” said Laura, brightening a little; for her imagination had run so far ahead of the facts that Paul’s words gave an immediate sense of relief. “Embarrassment! No, no; he is never embarrassed. Nothing ever takes him unawares. His self-possession is regal. It is for this I—there, there, don’t look at me so anxiously—how foolish we have been—nothing has happened, after all. You have been to him with that darling, grave face, like a grand signor, and asked him serious questions, which are always awkward between men. He is proud as an emperor,—my Arnold,—and would not be forced into answers that aught only be whispered, you know, blush for our delicacy, Paul. It makes me shiver in all my nerves that you should have spoken to him,—offered your sister on compulsion, as it were.”

“No; I have not done that. Your delicacy is safe in my hands, Laura. I have made the way clear, if he loves you, that is all.”

“If he loves me, Paul! And have you a doubt?” cried the poor girl, turning white.

“God forbid!” faltered the young man, growing more and more distressed as he marked these evidences of the deep passion that possessed her. “To-morrow, I hope, you will be satisfied that I need have no distrust on that point. There is no reason why he should not speak out now. Before this he may have hesitated to offer his small prosperity against your wealth, for he is very proud.”

“Oh, yes; as he should be,—for who is his equal!”

“But that is all done away with. I have even sacrificed a little proper reserve to save this pride. Don’t look reproachful. I know how to protect your delicacy, sister.”

“Ah, if I knew how to protect my own pride!” said Laura, turning her face impatiently on the sofa pillow. “But with him it melts away like snow. Don’t trust me, Paul. I have no dignity left.”

Paul shook his head, and regarded her with an anxious smile, muttering to himself,

“Will any one ever love me so?”

Laura did not heed him; for a clock which stood in a corner of the room rang out the hour from its heavy oaken case, and she was startled to find how late it was. Rising from the sofa, she glanced at her morning-dress of fine chintz, and, blushing like a naughty child, cried out,

“He will be here in a few minutes. See how I look! Good-by, Paul, for a little time. To-morrow we will be happier.”

“Yes,” muttered Paul, in a low voice; “happier or · away from this place.” But his heart sank as he reflected how completely his own fate was involved in that of his sister. Henceforth he must be closely connected with Arnold, or his enemy. The enemy of Hannah’s brother! He shrunk from the idea, and hoped, almost as passionately as Laura herself, that this, a position so painful every way, might be spared to him.

Burdened with these thoughts, he had scarcely removed from his seat when Laura returned, with her red-heeled shoes pattering on the floor, and her dress of brocaded silk looped up with knots of green ribbon, over a quilted skirt of rose-colored satin, which was short enough to exhibit the embroidered clocks on each side her symmetrical ankles. Fine old yellow lace floated around her arms and on her bosom. All the folds of her dress rustled as she moved, giving an idea of sumptuousness to her presence which accorded well with the taste of her lover.

Paul smiled as the idea presented itself. Laura blushed under his gaze, and strove to throw off all embarrassment by a conscious laugh, which gave a charm to her singular beauty touchingly childlike. She seemed half ashamed of her rich toilet,—more than ashamed of the impulse that had induced her to put it on: all of which her brother read at a glance. He held out his hand. She came close to his side, flushing like a tea-rose.

“Am I very ugly, my brother?” she said, pressing a pair of lips that glowed like ripe cherries on his forehead.

He looked up to her face with a glance of tender admiration.

“You are too lovely,—too good for——”

She stopped his mouth with her hand, and looked seriously down into his eyes.

“Not that. Oh, don’t say that, Paul! He is not gentle and good as you are. But who is worthy of him? Think how brave, how lordly and full of ambition he is. Then remember, brother Paul, that he saved my life.”

Still Paul looked grave. All her charming blandishments could not win the suspicion from his heart. Laura saw this, and the impatient blood rushed to her forehead.

“At any rate he has one merit,” she said, with malicious playfulness.

“What is that, lady bird?”

“He is Hannah Arnold’s brother.”

She had her revenge; the thrill that passed through his whole frame was proof enough of that. So her mouth curved and trembled with smiles as she triumphed over his confusion.

“Ah! have I found you out, brother? The love folly does not lie entirely on the female side of our house. Look up! look up! I cannot see your eyes for those long, black lashes; besides, you are blushing,—upon my word and honor you are blushing like a girl.”

“It is at your folly, then.”

“Well, well, it is all in the family, you know; so don’t be hard on Benedict, or I will retaliate and point out the faults of _la petite sœur_.”

“Her faults! She has none, the angel!”

“Oh! ha! So it has gone so far as that. Angel in deed! The demure little mouse, with her smooth hair and soft step. A fine example of deceit you have been placing before an innocent sister, Monsieur Paul. I blush for your duplicity.”

“Hush, Laura! This is not a subject for jesting.”

“Jesting! Upon my word I am delightfully in earnest. What a charming family party we shall make. Does Arnold know of it?”

“There is nothing for him to know,—nothing but what your wild imagination invents.”

“Oh, brother!”

“You look incredulous; but it is true.”

“Then Hannah Arnold is nothing! There is no love-history between you! I don’t believe it.”

“I did not say so,—only that there was nothing to tell. When you speak of love and that sweet girl it should be with reverence and in a low voice, as we whisper our prayers. I have scarcely dared to breathe the word in her presence, and yet I worship her.”

“Ah, Paul, my dear, dear brother, then you can feel for me and have charity for him! Perhaps, with all his bravery, he trembles at the thought of speaking out such feelings in language. It is like shaking the bright dew from one’s violets in the gathering. Don’t you think so, Paul?”

The young man looked at her glowing face, and his eyes filled with loving admiration. He felt all the beauty of her bright sayings. How true this one was to his inward thought! What a clear, delicate mind the girl had, with all her waywardness and passion! Surely the mate for a creature like that should be full of strength and honor. Was Arnold that man?

Again his heart misgave him, and to conceal the depression that came on with each vague doubt, he arose and left the room.

Laura was glad to see him go. Every moment she expected to hear Arnold’s step on the stairs. She knew that a crisis in her fate was approaching, and wished to be alone. The dreamy happiness in which she had been reposing was broken up forever; and she felt like a bird let loose in some dreary wilderness, doubtful of any place where its nest could be built.

Laura grew impatient as the dusk stole on. Arnold’s hour for visiting her little parlor had passed, and the oaken clock went ticking on with harassing steadiness into the next hour. She walked to the window softly, as if there existed some sin in the movement, and peered through the crimson curtains. The street was empty, or if any one passed it was some stranger, whom she hated for being the wrong person. Then she strove to walk off her impatience, and paced up and down the room, passing and repassing a little mirror, out of which her face gleamed back and forth like that of a sybil, waiting, pale and trembling, for the inspiration for which she has watched and prayed.

A hundred times that evening the young girl stopped to listen, holding her breath and turning white with keen expectation. Some noise at the door,—some foot-fall in the street,—had arrested her; but the sound invariably passed away, leaving her like a statue: as cold, and almost as lifeless.

Then the strife of hope recommenced, and the pain of renewed expectation smote her with fresh poignancy. Up and down before the mirror; hating the clock for its methodical ticking, as a soulless thing that cruelly measured her way to fresh disappointment; listening with a double sense, and with the cold tears standing on her cheek, she wandered through that lonesome evening, waiting for him in vain.

When hope had almost left her, and she was chilled through with a feeling of desertion, the outside door opened, and she heard footsteps on the stairs. Again each breath came like a frightened thing from her heart, the heavy lustre of her eye kindled, and through her frame went the thrill of revived hope. It was his step; surely it was his step. No, no. The imperious resonance was wanting. It was,—alas, it was Paul, coming to find her there alone, heart-broken, humbled to the dust!

She could not bear that; but, with a wild sob, burst from the room and hid herself, like a frightened deer, under the covert of drapery that fell over a couch where she was to find nothing but pain and unrest. No matter, she had secured darkness in which to hide herself,—profound silence which would receive her sobs without mocking them. That moment her humiliation seemed complete.