“What have you done to him?” asked Ben, astonished at the appearance of Welch.
“Given him quicksilver, and it’s my opinion ’twill either kill or cure. I do hope he’ll rally, for I love the young man, though I felt it my duty to speak quite plain to him. Indeed, I spoke quite plain to him. He feels bad, Benjamin—all mixed up, half crazy. We must let him sweat in his grease. I shouldn’t wonder if he had a strong craving to drown trouble in liquor. I think you had better keep him on the island for a day or two.”
When James Welch got out of the boat, he would have killed Uncle Isaac if he could. O, how he wished he had the strength of Ben! But God generally gives great strength, and a mild temper in connection with it, to those who know how to use it.
He declined coming to the supper-table, saying he was unwell, and shutting himself in his room, paced the floor till midnight, half demented. At length there came over him a craving for liquor, that he might escape from himself in the delirium or stupor of intoxication. He knew the men who were making potash had half a barrel of New England rum in their camp, and went to the shore resolved to go after some; but Ben had hauled the boats so far up on the grass-ground that he was unable to launch any of them.
Foiled in this, he bathed his burning forehead in sea-water, and sat down on the rocks of the eastern point, beneath the light of the stars.
No sound disturbed the night, save the low, peculiar murmur of the tide, as it crept around the foot of the cliff. The first paroxysm of passion had passed away. He recalled the stinging truths to which he had so unwillingly listened. They no longer excited his anger, but appeared to him in a very different light. His ingratitude to his parents assumed a new aspect when presented by another, and touched him to the heart. He could no longer doubt that Uncle Isaac had faithfully portrayed the estimation in which he was held by the community at large.
No part of the conversation had touched him so nearly, or cut so deep, as the parallel instituted between himself and John Rhines. So completely was he absorbed in thought, that the flowing tide wet him to the knees unperceived.
In that still midnight hour, on the ocean cliff, the better nature of James Welch won the victory.
“Uncle Isaac is right,” he said. “I have been a drunkard, swearer, pauper, and thief. But from this hour I am so no more.”
The gray light of morning was breaking, as, utterly exhausted in mind and body, he flung himself upon the bed, and sank into a profound sleep. The next day Ben noted the change, and, surprised by his offering to help him about his work, shoved the boats into the water. In the course of the week, James took the boat, and told Ben he was going over to see Uncle Isaac. Before he had fairly cleared the harbor, Ben entered the house at a rate so unusual—for he was generally quite moderate in his motions—and a face so replete with joyful emotions, that Sally instantly exclaimed,—