Chapter XXI: The Mortgaged Farm

There had been a revival in the leading congregations at Norwich. This religious sentiment commenced with the return of old Mr. Arnold to brotherhood with his former associates. The excitement caused by this reformation gave more active spirituality to the church, which, after a time, grew into one of those periods of absorbing devotion that pass through Christian communities from time to time, as thunder-storms break through the atmosphere, leaving it purer from the tumult.

During the winter this intense interest was kept up in the church, and towards spring it began to consolidate into a fixed reformation. Many new members had joined the society, old ones had become earnest, and that year the foundations of new religious communities were laid which exist to this day in the City of Terraces.

All this wholesome excitement had sprung, as I have said, from the sudden appearance of the elder Arnold in his former place of worship. His contrition, his humility, and the sweet thankfulness that glowed on the face of his wife when she came with him to meeting, arm in arm, as in the olden times, woke up the whole congregation. I do not think Mr. Leonard even congratulated himself on the fact or was aware of it. But he was surely the father of this revival,—always, as he would have said, baring his head reverently at the thought, always under God’s providence.

It was the few words in season that Leonard had uttered in the saw-mill that cold winter’s day, and the prayer, so thrilling in its rude eloquence, offered amid the thunders of the falls, that had touched the old man’s heart as with a gleam of living fire, and spreading from soul to soul with the holy magnetism of truth, turned the general thought heavenward.

Leonard claimed no credit for this,—indeed, was quite unaware that any could be awarded to him; but he threw himself heart and mind into the revival, holding it above all things most important. Sometimes the saw-mill would remain silent all day long. If a soul was in trouble, or a sinner became thoughtful, the great log was left, half eaten through, with the motionless steel prisoned in its heart, while the master strode off among the fields, searching for that troubled conscience which the truth that burned within him might cleave as effectually as his saw cut through the forest-trunks when the water rushed most abundantly from the hills.

Mrs. Leonard was a good sort of woman,—a church-member and all that. She took a lively interest in the revival. In a decorous, motherly way, she had gone out to tea more than usual, always dropping a great many words in season over the short-cake, and giving promiscuous little exhortations to the young folks while her Young Hyson was drawing. But the good wife mingled a deal of temporal thrift with her heavenly-mindedness, and it rather annoyed her to see how many logs came to the mill and how few boards went away during the heat of this excitement.

Leonard was a resolute man, in his own way, and had the happy faculty of not hearing his wife’s hints about “beginning with one’s own household,” and other Scriptural ideas, which, being lost in a flood of words, swept by him like the waters that turned his mill. So he went on his way doing good, and taking no heed to the consequences.

Amy Leonard retired from the publicity of these anxious meetings and prayer-circles. From her childhood she had been a church-member. Her interest in sacred things was high and pure; but she shrunk away from this enthusiasm with something like affright. Once or twice she had gone with her parents to the evening prayer-meetings, but the effort seemed too much for her. She took no share in the religious proceedings, while other girls were ardent in their efforts, but sat apart, growing pale and weak, as if the enthusiasm which fired others to devotion were consuming her. Sometimes, when this excitement broke into ecstasy and all the faces around glowed with joy, her great blue eyes would seem to take fright, and search wistfully around for some means of escape from a scene that gave her nothing but pain. Frequently, those eyes would fill with tears, and turn upon her old friends pleadingly, as if some help were needed which she doubted they would withhold.

At last she gathered courage, and besought her parents to leave her at home. She was not strong, and somehow night air and exertion made her worse.

This was her timid plea, and surely that white face and the shadowy circle under her eyes gave sufficient force to the appeal.

In an excitement like that which possessed the society, there was little room for keen observation. Mrs. Leonard knew that Amy was far from well; but as she seldom complained, and went steadily about her duties, her poor unhappy face escaped the scrutiny which less occupied minds might have given it.

Mrs. Leonard, it is true, found plenty of time at the sewing-circles and after prayer-meeting to talk over her daughter’s health, and express a great deal of anxiety regarding it. She never came home without some new recipe for drinks or powders which Amy was to try. Sometimes it would be pounded peach-pits which Mrs. So-and-So had informed her was infallible in almost any disease; then a drink of bruised clover-leaves, or a powder of burnt alder must be tried, all of which Amy took with wan submission which would have made your heart ache.

All at once this great anxiety regarding Amy Leonard died out. The good house-mothers inquired after her, it is true, but with constrained voices, and looking another way. They grew exceedingly kind to the mother, and seemed rather disposed to urge the cooling drinks on her, as if she had become the person who most urgently required strengthening.

Mrs. Leonard laughed at this attempt to discredit the roses on her buxom cheek, and wondered what it was that made the sisters pray for her so often, and so earnestly, as if she were not in full communion and grace. It rather annoyed her to be held up as an object of special solicitude.

Leonard, too, might have seen a change in his brethren’s looks of earnest sympathy,—a studied deference to his opinions and wishes that would have struck him as remarkable at another time; but now he was busy calling sinners to the altar of God, and only thought of these things long enough to be grateful for them without investigating their sources.

In Mr. Arnold’s family a great change had also taken place. From a dilatory, careless man, confused by excess and shrinking from notice, he had taken up his farming duties with energy. The colored men, who had loitered half their time around the kitchen, were now put to hard work, repairing fences, planting fields, and laying stone walls on the farm, and a few months gave the neglected place an aspect of thrift and comfort that it had not known for years.

But, strange enough, with this prosperity came a thirst for money, and habits of penurious saving, that curtailed the comforts of the household beyond any thing known in the family before. Arnold seemed to count every grain of rye, or ear of corn consumed in-doors as an extravagance to be condemned. His cattle were all sold off except those necessary to working the place,—every superfluity disappeared, and yet no money seemed to replace the property that was sold.

When the young Frenchman came up from New Haven,—as he did once or twice during the season,—this strict economy was a little relaxed; but the moment he was gone, every thing beyond bare necessaries was denied again. Mrs. Arnold wondered at this change, but she did not complain. Any thing was better than the thriftless waste of former years. She was too thankful for the blessed return of her husband to care how he managed the property, which, after all, belonged to him.

One day, about this time, Mr. Arnold sought Dr. Blake in his office, which consisted of a little one-story wing attached to a dwelling-house of some considerable pretension in the edge of the town. Dr. Blake was a man of means, and for this reason his old neighbor came.

The doctor had just returned from his circuit, which kept him two-thirds of the time on horseback. His horse, with the marks of a saddle on his sides, was cropping the white clover in front of the house, and his saddle-bags, worn perfectly smooth, stood behind the door, strapped for use. The good man was seated in a capacious splint-bottomed chair, which, with his homespun clothes, gave a rustic look to his appearance. He was busy writing down an account of his visits when Arnold came in.

On the first symptoms of Arnold’s reformation, Dr. Blake had been one of the first to extend the right hand of fellowship to the struggling man; and now his fine face expanded with a glow of welcome as his old neighbor came in. He flung down the pen, and arose, offering the great splint-chair to his guest.

“I’m glad to see you,—rale glad at all times. You know that, neighbor, without telling. Come, sit down, and make yourself at home.”

No. Mr. Arnold would not take the doctor’s chair. Another would answer just as well for him. He had come to talk over a little business.

“Business! Oh, well, of course. But just now I would like to talk of something else. It’s on my mind, Arnold, and I must get it off or it’ll choke me,—your son, Arnold. I want to have a plain talk about that young scam—fellow.”

Arnold became nervous in an instant, and put up both hands, as if to ward off a blow.

“Not about him. At any rate, not yet, doctor. Wait till you hear what I came for. Give me time and I will talk about Benedict. Just now there is no subject on earth that I dread so much.”

“Well, well, I don’t want to bother you. After all, talking often does more good than harm. But your son, Arnold,—your son——”

“Don’t, don’t!” said Arnold, lifting both hands again “I’m doing my best, pinching and saving every way. The women folks complain about it, and I don’t blame ’em; but it must be done. It is that which brought me here.”

“What is it? You talk at random, neighbor. You can’t help the young—well, well, the young man—by pinching and saving at home. It is a case beyond that.”

“I know, saving by little and little might drag through one’s whole life, and then leave the thing undone. You have plenty of money out at interest. Can’t you draw some in? I want to mortgage the farm.”

“Mortgage your farm, Arnold?”

“Yes; just come and ride over it,—see the crops, fences, and barns. We’ve worked hard this spring, and repaired every thing; besides, I’ve sold off a good deal of stock.”

“And you really want to hire money on the farm?”

“I can’t get along without it, doctor.”

“But you have no debts,—nothing to speak of, or I should have heard about it.”

“No, not a debt. I paid all those things off at once. They didn’t amount to much; my wife always took care of that.”

“And now you want money. How much?”

Arnold mentioned the sum. The doctor looked astonished.

“Why, man alive, that’ll almost cover the whole value of your place.”

“I know it. I know it. But every year we’ll make the farm worth more and more.”

The doctor looked at his earnest face. How it had changed! There was force and intellect in it now,—something that commanded respect in the serious purpose that evidently possessed him.

“One question before I say yes or no about this money,” said the doctor, leaning back in his chair. “Are you borrowing it for any speculation of your son’s? If that is the case I won’t let you have a farthing.”

Arnold turned white as this question came bluntly forth, and he answered slowly, thinking over each word with conscientious truthfulness.

“No, it’s not a speculation. I want to pay the money. It’ll never come back again. I must pay off the mortgage by degrees.”

“Ah, neighbor, you’ll find that hard work.”

“I know it; but it might have been done before this if I hadn’t given up like a coward. If God spares my life it shall be paid up, every shilling of it. Don’t be afraid, doctor. The farm is a good one, and my wife and I, with the hands, can live on a little. I’ve cyphered it all out, over and over again.”

“But tell me what you want of this large sum of money, Arnold?”

“I cannot. It is a duty—something that I must pay, or go to the grave bowed down with a burden that no one can take up for me.”

The old man’s voice was sad; the perspiration started to his forehead in drops. He wiped it off with his handkerchief, and tried to smile.

“You’ll let me have the money, doctor? It’ll make a new man of me.”

“Yes, Arnold, I’ll let you have it; but, remember, I don’t want your farm. If it falls into my hands at last, I shall always condemn myself for this day’s work.”

“When—when can I have it?” inquired Arnold, eagerly.

“Why? Is there so much haste?”

“Oh, yes. I shall not be a man till it is done.”

“Well, I will call in the money at once.”

“Within a week?”

“Perhaps.”

“Surely. I trust surely. The time will seem long any way.”

“Well, well, I’ll not be over—a week.”

“Thank you. I don’t know how to thank you in the right way, doctor.”

“Well, never mind. Come, take a glass of cider-brandy.”

“I, doctor?”

“Oh, brother, I forgot. Well, then, a cup of tea; the old woman’ll have one ready about this time. I’ve got something to talk over with you.”

Arnold shrunk within himself.

“Not to-night. I don’t think that I could bear any thing more just at present. Some other time.”

“Well, well, remember me to the women folks. I tell you what, Arnold, that wife of yours is an angel.”

“She’s all the world to me, doctor. No one can guess what she has done for her husband; and the girl is her mother over again.”

As he spoke, Arnold took up his hat and prepared to go out. The doctor seemed ready to speak again, but some kind feeling checked him, and, with a cordial grip of the hand, he saw the heavily-burdened man depart.

When quite alone, he sat some time with his arms folded on the desk before him, pondering over the conversation which had just passed. He was anxious and tired; but his heart went out in compassionate sympathy, not only for the man who had left him, but for one to whom he must carry still more bitter sorrow.