Chapter VIII

A WEARY NIGHT—THE FAMILY BREAKFAST—PARENTAL ANXIETIES.

Meantime Amy Leonard had spent a night that she could never think of after without a pang of self-pity that made her thrill from head to foot. So young, so helpless, with no friend on earth to confide in, what could she do? There was a little loft in her father’s cabin, over which the roof of heavy slabs shelved low and unevenly. Here her bed was made, and here she had slept through many a stormy night, defiant of the wind that whistled through the rudely jointed logs, and laughing in her sleep as the snow floated in light drifts over the healthy roses of her cheek.

Cold and shivering, pale as the snow that still clung to her dress, she awoke from the death of her trance. She heard her father and mother breathing in the deep, sweet sleep which springs from toil, in the next room; but the very tranquillity of their slumber made her heart ache with new pain. She felt like a thief who had crept there to plunder them of all wholesome rest in the hereafter.

It had seemed guilt enough to be Benedict Arnold’s wife in secret, and without the sanction of his parents and hers; but now—now if what he told her was true—if he was indeed the villain he had so flippantly proclaimed himself—if she—that thought! The poor little quivering hands stole up to her face, the very remembrance of what she might be seemed to brazen it with shame. Would she ever dare look any one in the eyes? Was the foul assertion true?

The poor child was maddened as she thought how many months she had waited and waited, not daring to write—too timid for a question—waited in anguish and in silence for the first news of his coming. He had been home. He had voluntarily sought her presence, and for what? There she was left, with all that cold pain gnawing at her heart—with all that hot infamy burning on her forehead. She climb up the step-ladder to her little loft, and, shivering through and through with cold, crept into bed.

When that was done, for one moment she felt safe, and a little hysterical laugh died away under the thick coverlets But the very sound frightened her till she gasped painfully and drew down the clothes, struggling for breath. A dash of fine snow, which came with a gust of wind through a crevice overhead, revived her. But what was she to do? Where could she find a friend? Was it not better to die?

She remembered the look of the water between the logs, as she and Arnold went down into the saw-mill that night,—how cold and quiet it seemed, with gleams of moonlight stealing in here and there. Just before she fainted, a thought had seized her to take a single step and end it. The water was very deep under those timbers, her father had cautioned her about it many a time—so deep, that when the ice was thick on the streams below, a poor frozen body might float under the hard crystal for weeks, and no one guess that any thing but saw-dust or driftwood had harbored there.

Amy rose up in bed. Why should she wait for the shame which was sure to come? If he loved her no longer—if he really wanted to get rid of her, and had said those cruel, cruel things only to break her heart, why struggle for any thing more? She were far better dead than alive—safer, and oh, how much happier.

Ah me! it is one thing to wish for death, and another to find the courage to seek it in those dark, cruel places, where suicide skulks and lures the lost soul on. Cold as she was, terribly as her poor heart ached, Amy was afraid of the very dark, and grew pale as death when the loud rush of the river met her unmuffled ear. She could feel the waters creeping around her like a winding-sheet, curling in and out of her hair, cold and serpent-like. Not there, not thus, where her father won his daily bread with such hard toil, could she die. Her kind, good father, who loved her so—would he not rather keep her with him, shamed and broken-hearted as she was, than find her down yonder, dead and weltering among the saw-logs.

She was beginning to feel a little comforted by this thought, when above the sound of the Fall came the heavy roar of far-off winds in the forest, and the deep sough of the pine-trees nearer, answering each other mournfully; and they seemed to say, “No, no, never again—never again:” and to all this the cataract sent up an eternal chorus, that sounded afar off and inexpressibly solemn. It seemed as if a host of angels were wailing over her sin and pleading with her to be patient.

As Amy listened, her cold hands folded themselves over her bosom; with a gesture of unutterable helplessness she sunk back upon her pillow, quiet as despair. Thus, dumb and still, she was rocked into slumber, and the daylight found her cold and weary as when she crept up to bed.

Amy heard her father walking about the room below, but she had no courage to move. His heavy tread on the floor, the vigorous energy with which he raked out the ashes and flung a heavy back-log into the fire-place, made her shrink and shiver like a frightened child. Then came the sound of her mother’s voice,—soft, drowsy, and kind,—as she had heard it every morning of her life.

For the first time that drowsy softness frightened the young girl. A few hours had made that kind, common-place mother something to be afraid of,—a judge before whose sleepy blue eyes hers must forever sink in shame. Amy began to cry,—very softly, for she was afraid to make the least sound, lest they should hear it through the loose boards and question her. As she lay holding her breath, her father’s voice rose cheerily from the door.

“Now, mother, is there any thing else? I have filled the kettle and built you a rousing fire.”

“Yes, Joshua: cut down a link or two of sassengers from the pole. I ain’t tall enough to reach ’em. That’s right, man. I’ll slice-up the potatoes, and have breakfast on the table in no time. Just go to the ladder and call Amy.”

“Oh, let the gal sleep. She don’t have a beau every night. I couldn’t say as much of her mother, when a young feller of my acquaintance used to be about: she was allers on hand.”

“But she didn’t let her old mother get the breakfast, though, or I reckon Josh Leonard would a-thought twice about it. But go along to the saw-mill. I’ll hang a cloth out when breakfast’s ready.”

Amy heard her father close the door with some cheerful rejoinder; and, turning upon her pillow, began to weep afresh. It seemed as if her heart must break,—up there all alone. How could they talk so cheerfully,—and about her too,—as if nothing had happened?

Mrs. Leonard had spread her snowy bird’s-eye table-cloth on the pine-table, and was busy superintending a half-dozen little mounds of embers raked out in front of the great hickory-wood fire, on which her meal was in a state of progress. On one glowing mound a coffee-pot, with a broad, conical lid, was emitting a rich, aromatic steam that penetrated the whole room; another was crowned by an iron skillet, from which came an appetizing smell of fried cabbage. In front of the fire, an iron spider stood upright, holding a golden cake of Indian corn, which was just beginning to brown deliciously, while Mrs. Leonard was busy with the sausages in her frying-pan, which she shook up and turned over and pressed on all sides with her knife, till their flavor was enough of itself to satisfy a tolerably-hungry man.

After all, Mrs. Leonard was rather a comely woman when seen in her natural element at the fireside. I wish you could have stood by her, that morning, in the blaze of that rousing fire, turning the sausages, stirring up the potatoes, letting a little steam off the cabbage, and lifting the lid of the coffee-pot with the flat blade of her knife, just to see if it was likely to boil over.

With all this she found time to arrange the plate of golden butter, fill a saucer with apple-sauce, and have the blue and white cups in order, as if she had possessed fifty hands instead of that hard-working pair, which never seemed as if they could be overtaxed.

Did I say she was a comely woman? Better than that, I hope. A good housewife and a kind mother cannot well be otherwise than comely, though her features were carved from an oak-knot; but Mrs. Leonard had a soft, racy sort of beauty about her, which was homelike and pleasant to look upon. Perhaps it had compensated with Joshua for the want of more brilliant properties, and reconciled his sharp intellect to the slowness of hers. At any rate, they got along beautifully together, and no one, who saw Mrs. Leonard as she is before us now, ever thought to wonder at it. When she took the lead in conversation, it was another thing altogether. But Joshua seldom knew that she was talking at such times, any more than he remembered the perpetual rush of the falls above his saw-mill; for one said about as much in reality as the other.

You might have wondered how any one could be afraid of that nice housewife, in her tidy cap, her cam-colored short-gown and petticoat, with those calf-skin shoes laced so snugly over her blue-yarn stockings; for a more genial, kindly old body could not well be imagined. She looked up from the cloud of savory steam, and smiled like the sun in a mist, as Amy came down from her loft,—smiled down upon the simmering coffee-pot, and the brown Indian-cake, for she had a matronly sort of reserve toward her daughter, and would not for the world have met her with one broad look that morning. She remembered the days too well when she had to come down to the family breakfast, after the stout man down at the saw-mill had been obliged to go home by starlight from her father’s door.

It was well for Amy that her mother possessed these womanly feelings; for I am sure she must have grown quite dizzy and fainted, or burst into tears if the good mother had looked earnestly, when the pale face appeared, with its wild, shadowy eyes, and that wretched look.

“That’s right, Amy, up bright and early without calling. Just put a towel out of the window for pa, and help me get the breakfast up. Bring a trencher for the corn-cake, and get the armed-chair for _him_. Snapping morning outof-doors, I can tell you. Oh, here he comes, stomping the snow off on the door-stone. Take hold of the table, Amy,—not that end; there now, just a little nearer the fire. Here, take my place by the coffee-pot: it’s warmer, and you look so shivery.”

Amy took the seat which placed her back to the door just as her father came in, with his face as fresh and red as an April morning, from the washing he had just given it in the snow.

“There’s a clean towel on the roller,” cried Mrs. Leonard, pointing behind the door. “What a way you have of taking a wash in the snow, Joshua!” and she stood smiling by, while he buried his face in the voluminous crash, and rubbed his arms down with vigor, as if he had been currying the fore-legs of a pony.

“All right now, anyway,” he said, rolling down the sleeves of his shirt and buttoning the wristbands. “Ha, Amy, up and waiting! That’s right, gal. Now we can eat our breakfast comfortably.”

Amy gave him one frightened look and busied herself with the coffee. Leonard caught the look, and his face changed.

“Darter,” he said, lifting the hot corn-cake from its plate, and breaking it slowly between his hands while a rich fog stole out from the golden clefts,—“darter, what’s the matter with you since the day afore yesterday? Mother been cross, or any thing?”

“Mother been cross! Oh, Joshua,” cried Mrs. Leonard, “Now did you ever! As if I——”

“Well, well; but Amy looks pale. Come, come, gal—oh! ha, I remember now, a lover’s quarrel. Never mind, Amy, them things always come right,—don’t they, old woman? But that young fellow mustn’t carry his head too high in this neighborhood. I’m beginning to think it’s time to be looking after you both. Why, how long is it, mother, since he began coming to the Falls? Nigh on two years, I reckon.”

Mrs. Leonard saw by the disturbed face of her child that the conversation pained her, and, with unusual tact, put the subject aside.

“I declare, father, you’re too bad. I wonder how you’d a-liked it. Just as if we wanted to get rid of our own child. I say now it’s scandalous.”

“But I tell you, mother, the gal is getting sickly. I’ve seen it ever since she came from New Haven,” cried Leonard, earnestly.

“No, father, no. I am quite, quite well; but in the winter time it’s a little lonesome up here.”

“So it is, gal,—so it is. Mother, we should a-thought of that.”

“Sartinly,” said Mrs. Leonard. “The child hasn’t been to an apple-cut, or a sleigh-ride, nor nothing in a hull year, I do believe.”

“And there was Ben Arnold out sleigh-riding with a hull lot of ’em, yesterday. I say, Amy, what does that young feller mean by it?”

“Nothing,—nothing, father,” cried Amy, breathlessly.

“They are visitors, you know, of course. How could he help it?”

“And leave you here to cry them eyes out?”

“Oh, father, it’s you that makes me cry.”

“There, Joshua, you’ve done it, and I hope you’ll be content. It’s allers jest so. I really dew wish the men folks would mind their own business.”

“Well, well, mother, break off short and I won’t say another word; only get some yerbs and roots to make bitters of, and give her something strong every morning. I won’t see that peaked look in her face any longer.”

After the breakfast things were cleared away, Amy sat down to her sewing by the window, while Mrs. Leonard took out her flax-wheel, and soon filled the cabin with its bee-like hum. There was little conversation between the two. The mother was troubled with a vague idea that something was going wrong with her child, but forbore to question her, from an instinct of womanliness far stronger than her reason; and Amy was buried in her own sad, sad thoughts.

The sound of the saw-mill, harsh and grating above the dash of the Falls, seemed a fit melody for her thoughts, where all was discord.

At last her mother spoke.

“Amy, supposing you make some warm ginger cider, and carry it down to pa in the mill. He must be orful cold with the wind whistling down-stream like that.”

Amy started up with a faint cry, for the very sound of her mother’s voice made her nervous. The cider was soon seething and casting up waves of yeasty foam over the brown earthen mug, in which she thrust the red-hot fire-irons.

Then she put on a scarlet cardinal belonging to her mother, drew the hood over her face, and went down to the mill, unconscious of her own picturesque beauty, as she picked her steps through the snow, holding the froth cider in one hand, and lifting up her blue home-made skirt with the other.

Just as she had crossed the road and was gaining the embankment of the mill, the distant jingle of sleigh-bells made her start. She stood a moment, looking wildly along the road; then gave a leap down the bank, and ran into the mill, where she stood, panting and breathless, till Joshua Leonard came and took the mug from her hand.

“Why, gal, you are shaking with the cold,” he said, sitting down on the log through which a long upright saw was gnawing its sure way, and taking a deep draught of the cider. “Run home,—run back to the house, I tell you. It was a kind thought, and I’m mighty glad of the drink; but you are freezing, poor baby.”

“No, father, it is only the fright,—only coming down the bank so fast, I meant to say. Let me just step behind this pile of boards out of the wind, and mother’s cloak will keep me warm enough.”

“Well, well, but take care of the loose floor: if a plank tips you’ll never see your old father again,—only as he’d be after you sartinly, for what would the old chap be without his darter?”

As he spoke, the good man shook the now half-cold drink around in his mug and drained it off, with a deep, hearty breath, leaving a ridge of ginger on his upper lip, as he took the empty vessel away from his mouth.

“That’s something worth while on a cold day,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with his hand. “Lord a mercy, how much comfort there is in this world, arter all! No one that hasn’t had a darter like Amy, now, can tell how much: the gal’s worth her weight in gold.”

At that instant, Amy was standing a little way off, with one hand pressed hard against her heart, and her pale lips slowly dividing, like a statue frozen before its position was attained. Her head was a little bent, and her wild eyes looked away down the highway. There was no motion in the girl’s bosom. The very beating of her heart was hushed as she listened to the swelling discordance of sleigh-bells coming up the road.