Chapter XIX: In the Depths of Darkness

Where was Benedict Arnold all this time? Was he indeed the recreant this sudden desertion seemed to proclaim him?

Far in the depths of the forest that clothed the foot of East Rock and spread up to the verge of the town he had wandered; not for solitude, nor in search of that quiet which leads to the enjoyment of happy feelings, but in search of a place where the evil thought which had for months been engendering in his heart could be worked out in safety.

A narrow footpath ran along what is now a broad highway, and curved down into the very heart of the forest, where a thick grove of pines made a pleasant twilight, even of the noonday sun. The path wandered on through entangled elms, beeches, and maples, up to the very summit of the mountain, and fitful gleams of moonlight fell upon it through the branches; while dogwood, wild honeysuckles, and budding grape-vines, perfumed the night air, and streamed over the path, like banners, through all its windings.

Still Arnold sought the black heart of the forest, and stood under its densest pines, before he spoke a word of the thoughts that were consuming him to the companion who had accompanied him from the town.

Rapidly, and in silence, he had threaded the narrow footpath, trampling down the soft woodmosses, and crushing the violets under his feet, as if a sense of destruction satisfied the fierce excitement that possessed him. Sometimes he would push aside the flowering branches that fell across his path, with a burst of muttered wrath, dashing the lovely blossoms over the man who walked behind him, in a storm of unheeded sweetness.

The recoiling branch struck this man in the face more than once, but he made no complaint, and only answered the half-sneering apology offered by Arnold with a vague smile, which gleamed like trouble on his face as a ray of moonlight fell athwart it through the trembling leaves.

Thus, with but brief snatches of speech, the two men penetrated the woods, till they stood on a swelling undulation of land, which afforded a dreamy view of the country around. In this spot some of the trees had been cut away, preparatory to a clearing. The undergrowth in full blossom, and trailing vines, tangled themselves overhead without obstructing the view. The moonlight was full and bright, weaving its silver with the mists of the forest, and giving the clear, black outlines of the East and West Rocks with minute distinctness. The Sound lay below them, like a lake of sleeping mist. As they looked toward the mountains, the town lay to the right, far out of view or hearing, save that here and there a slender steeple shot into the sky against a background of burning stars.

After standing for a moment on this swell of land, bathed in the moonlight,—the two men looking away from each other all the time,—they descended the slope which led into the deep forest, and walked very rapidly down to the centre of the pine woods, where the darkness was dense as midnight, and a thick carpet of dead leaves muffled their footsteps, as if they were treading on velvet.

When the darkness was so thick that the very outlines of their persons were lost, Arnold paused, leaned against a tree for an instant, and then slid noiselessly down to the carpet of pine leaves, which were heavy and wet with rain that had fallen the day before, and in that deep shade had scarcely begun to exhale. Arnold pressed his hands down hard upon the mass of leaves, as if the moisture and coolness were pleasant to him.

“Sit down,” he said to the young man who stood in the darkness. “Sit down, for I have a good deal to talk about, and you will get tired standing there like the steeple to a ruined church.”

“No; the ground is wet; I can feel the chill through my boots already. You had better stand up yourself, for it strikes me the air has made you hoarse. A cold may be serious at this time of the year.”

“I am not at all delicate,” said Arnold, sweeping a moist hand over his forehead, and dropping it to the earth again. “Besides, the air is close and hot here; my forehead is burning.”

“And yet, as I have said, there is a hoarseness in your voice I never heard there before. It seems unnatural, and chills me through and through.”

“You are sensitive,—as sensitive as ever,” answered Arnold, with a sneer; “but that is a part of your profession.”

The young man shuddered under this sneer.

“Come out of this darkness,” he said; “I do not like it.”

“I do,” was the rude reply; “but if you are afraid of the dark I will indulge you for once; but remember, my dear Osborne, that whatever I desire to do, that do I. Spare me further argument or advice about any thing I may say or propose.”

The minister’s pale cheek flushed a little at the insolent tone, but he made no reply: and the darkness concealed his agitation.

“I want to talk with you,” said Arnold. “Sit down, if you please. I hate to see a man look so deucedly uncomfortable.”

“There is really no safe place to sit,” he answered.

“Oh, nonsense! There’s a log lying in that gleam of moonlight. I don’t think that you will be injured.”

Osborne seated himself upon the log, yielding, like all who came in contact with that singular man, to a will always exercised in the least as in the greatest things.

“What do you wish to say?” asked the minister.

Arnold did not answer. He lay gloomily watching the moonlight flicker through the branches, and listening to the solemn music of the pines, as if the sound troubled him.

“This is a pretty scene,” he said, laughing hoarsely. “If either you or I were a poet, friend Osborne, we should find ample material here for a dozen sonnets.”

The clergyman smiled, but with an effort. He knew Arnold well enough to suspect that there was something hidden beneath his forced playfulness, and he felt a deeper sense of anxiety than the uneasiness which that man’s presence usually brought upon him.

“A few minutes ago,” continued Arnold, “I saw the spire of your church. Did you remark it?”

The minister shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked uneasily at his friend.

“I did not look for it,” he said, in a troubled voice; “the distance is so great.”

“My eyes are stronger than yours,” returned Arnold, with an unpleasant laugh. “It is a very pretty church. I have heard you preach many a fine sermon there.”

The clergyman turned abruptly away: his hands twisted themselves round his walking-stick, and he felt a deathly pallor creeping over his face.

“You are a great favorite with your congregation,” pursued his tormentor.

“I—I have tried to do my duty by them, at least,” he answered, with a strong effort.

“I have no doubt of it. And how the pretty girls do gather there! I say, Osborne, what a quantity of lambs there are in your flock. Old Hurlburt has nothing but a lot of ugly sheep in his fold. What is the secret of your success?”

“Mr. Arnold,” replied the minister, with considerable firmness, “you have chosen a sorry subject for a jest! Whatever my own faults have been, I have endeavored to preach God’s word to my hearers! I scarcely dare pray to him for myself. But never towards one of my people have I been guilty of a wrong.”

“Really, you are very eloquent,” said Arnold. “My dear fellow, what a strange person you are! Don’t go off in heroics. I was only laughing at you. There is no reason for being angry.”

“I am not angry, Arnold.”

“That is well. I believe you consider me your friend,—do you not? I hope so, at any rate, for I am about to test you.”

The clergyman stepped hastily back.

“Heaven help me!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know,—I can’t tell!”

“Upon my word,” returned Arnold, apparently more amused than offended by his companion’s words and manner, “that is a charming remark! You are more frank than usual.”

“You have helped me,” said the clergyman. “Yes, you have done me a great kindness; but was it not by you that I was led into the error that made this obligation necessary.”

“Have done, Osborne!” replied Arnold, coldly. “Never blame another person for your own weakness. Have the courage to carry your sins upon your own shoulders, however burdensome the load may be. I, at least, am brave enough for that.”

“I will,—I will! I do not mean to exculpate myself,—I know that I am a weak, sinful wretch——”

“There you go again! My dear friend, you are really too nervous and excitable.”

“I am indeed,—I know it!”

“Listen to me, Osborne.”

“What is it?” he asked, drearily.

“I want you to do me a favor.”

“Any thing that lies in my power you know I will do to serve you,” he replied, in the same dreary, pained tone.

“I think so. That is the reason I have made up my mind to ask it. You know I do not like refusals.”

“You are not likely to get one from me.”

“I think not,” he said, musingly, yet with a sort of threat like an undertone pervading his speech: “I think not.”

Osborne shivered. His hands shook so violently that his stick fell to the ground; but he never moved his eyes from Arnold’s face,—it appeared impossible for him to do so, although it was evident that he suffered from the very effort of forcing his eyes to meet the piercing orbs that seemed to glare at him through the broken light.

“You are cold,” said Arnold. “You are shivering.”

“Only a little,—very little.”

“You students are so tender. You ought to all live in hot-houses.”

“But what did you wish to ask of me, Arnold?” he inquired, with an anxiety that he tried in vain to conceal.

“Nothing of much consequence,—a mere trifle, in fact, according to my way of thinking.”

“Then it will not be difficult?”

“No, no. Don’t be afraid that I am going to make any great demand upon your friendship.”

“You know I did not mean that, Arnold,—you know I did not!”

“I am sure I can’t tell what you do mean.”

“I meant that I would gladly serve you,” said the poor man, shivering more violently; “but don’t,—don’t ask me to do any thing wrong. I can’t do that!”

“Yours is a very tender conscience!” exclaimed Arnold, rising to his feet with a quick flash of passion, which the least breath of opposition always excited in him. “I suppose you think it is enough to have your own shortcomings to reflect upon——”

“Have mercy, Arnold!” pleaded the clergyman. “Don’t talk to me in that tone. I have suffered enough,—surely I have.”

“Then reserve your preaching for your pulpit. I wish none of it. Remember that, Osborne.”

The clergyman made an appealing gesture, as if imploring the tyrannical man to spare him further insult. There was so much weakness in it that another would have had pity; but Arnold did not even know the meaning of the word.

“You are coming to your senses,” he said. “I am glad of it.”

“I don’t know,” replied Osborne, shaking his head sadly. “Sometimes it seems to me that I am losing them. It would be no wonder if I did,—no wonder.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Arnold, with a sharp laugh. “To hear the fellow talk, one would think that he was Cain, the first murderer! Are you certain that you are not the Wandering Jew?”

“Don’t make a jest of me, Benedict. Have a little mercy!”

“There, there!” said Arnold, carelessly, as one might quiet a pet grayhound. “Be quiet now,—be quiet!”

“Yes, yes! And what did you wish, Ben? The name sounds like old times, doesn’t it?”

It seemed as if the clergyman was trying to soften the stern man before him. He wished, perhaps, to call up some memory of their youth to restrain the wicked counsel which he felt to be in his heart. But there was nothing holy to Benedict Arnold,—no memory that he held sacred. To a man like that, what appeal was possible?

“Do you remember that foolish business of mine about a year ago,—more perhaps?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, the time I came to you with that pretty girl,—you know there was some sort of a form——”

“Why, Arnold, I married you to that girl,—solemnly married you before the most high God. She was a sweet creature, and should have had a holy influence over you.”

Arnold sprang toward him, clutched his arm in a fierce grasp, whispering:

“Repeat those words again, and before to-morrow noon you shall be an outcast,—not a roof to shelter,—not a friend to aid you.”

Harvey Osborne sank back upon the log and groaned aloud. The depth of degradation to which he had fallen was terrible indeed.

“What do you mean?” he gasped. “You try me too far, Arnold!”

“No matter! That is what I mean. You did _not_ marry me to that girl!”

“The ceremony was sacred as any I ever performed!” exclaimed Osborne, firmly. “Before God and man, you are husband and wife.”

“Fool! Do you wish to ruin yourself?”

“I do not care! Oh, I am tired of this load of sin,—this weight of concealment! Betray me,—tell the whole world what a wretch I am. I don’t care,—I don’t care!”

“Bah! If it came to the point you would see that it was not so pleasant. But I’ll do it, Osborne,—I will, by——”

“Stop!” said the minister. “You shall not take God’s name sacrilegiously before me, unworthy as I am.”

“Nonsense! But will you come to your senses and let me explain?”

“Yes, yes. Explain,—do!”

“I don’t ask any thing very terrible! I have reasons for not wishing the circumstances known about that little affair——”

“But, Arnold, it was a marriage,—a real marriage! Her name was Amy—yes, Amy Leonard. It is, now, Arnold.—It could not be broken or evaded. I am an ordained minister of the gospel.”

“A pretty one, truly!” cried Arnold, roused to tiger-like fury. “A fine minister of the gospel are you,—a drunkard,—a scoundrel,—a gambler!”

“Spare me, Ben, spare me!”

“Don’t hope it! The whole world shall know your real character. I will denounce you in your own church. A pretty scandal it will make. Why, they’ll drive you out of the town. Ha, my young minister, what do you say now?”

“Oh, my God!” groaned the wretched man, “my God, have mercy on me; for this man will show me none.”

“None!” repeated Arnold. “I shall tell your flock what a pastor they have. You went to a gambling-house in New York, in my company, remember. True, you had taken too much at supper before that,—a double crime.”

“But it was not my fault,” Osborne cried, goaded into self-defence. “I did not know that it was liquor you gave me. It drove me mad for the time, and you did what you chose with me.”

“No doubt, oh, no doubt; but make people believe it, will you? Only try, that’s all. See here, Osborne. I have been a good friend,—I shall make a bitter enemy. You don’t know how I can hate. Avenge myself I will! A little will not satisfy me. I shall follow you. Wherever you hide yourself I shall find you out. I will tell this story, blast your whole life, and make you the wretchedest criminal that ever trod the earth.”

A groan was the only response he received. His agonized listener had no power to speak.

“More than that: I will put you in prison. I hold your note for the money I advanced to settle your gaming debt. You can’t pay it. Nobody will do it for you. I will put you in the debtor’s jail before to-morrow night. Now, then, what do you say?”

“Nothing will soften you? nothing will change your fiendish purposes?”

“Yes, it is easily done. Only forget that marriage, as you call it——”

“I cannot lie——”

“What else is your whole life, you miserable fool?”

“True, true! Oh, surely I have suffered enough. Do not torture me further. Do not push me lower into this pit of infamy and guilt!”

“Why, you talk like a play-actor. Promise what I ask, and I will return you the note. You will be safe then.”

The minister was silent. A great struggle was going on in his soul, and he was weak.

“It does no one any harm,” continued Arnold. “The girl is safe enough. Some time I shall acknowledge her, but I cannot now. Promise, promise!”

“What! tell me what?”

“Never to reveal this marriage. Swear it!”

“But if she comes to me herself?”

“Tell her she is mistaken——”

“And destroy my own soul?”

“Let your soul take care of itself. Once more,—will you help me?”

“I cannot tell a lie,—I will not.”

“But are you willing to assist me?”

“I must,—you know I must.”

“Then go away from here. Your health is poor,—you need change. A ship will soon sail for the West Indies. If you will go in her, I will pay your passage and give you plenty of money besides. Your people will spare you for a little time if you plead to them with that pale face.”

“But what will become of this poor girl?”

“I tell you she is safe enough. Think of yourself. I offer you safety or disgrace. Choose!”

“Oh, this is a temptation of the demon!”

“Think of it. Before to-morrow night you will be hooted at as you walk the streets,—mobbed,—insulted by the very boys you have taught.”

“You will drive me mad, Arnold!”

“Will you go away? Do you promise?”

“I do—I do!”

He fell upon the ground, wringing his hands, and weeping like a child; while Arnold stood over him with a fiendish smile.

“Promise by your hope of salvation that you will go.”

“I do! God have mercy upon me, I promise!”

He fell forward again, and after another terrible groan there was long silence, more fearful than the agony which had gone before.