University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Childe Harold.

The Sabbath came on, calm and solemn as the
previous day had been lovely and serene. The
birds that had filled with their sweet chattering all
the orchards and meadows, as the evening gathered
the long swathes of crimson into thick purple shades,
flew deep into the forest, where their songs were
hushed in silence, except here and there a clear
and melodious hymn which seemed by the solitary
worshiper intended only for fit audience in
Heaven. The glad and tremulous ripple that ran
along the woods to the touches of the breeze, at
sunset, sounded now like the surge of a far-off
wave, though the tree slanting over the mill-stream
was reflected in the still surface below, where white
ruffling waves scudded so swiftly sometimes.

By the cool and gnarled roots along the bank,
the sheared sheep and the curly-fleeced lambs lay
together. They had nibbled their fill while the
morning dew was on the pastures.

One pearly fragment of cloud, its edges intermingled
and lost in the blue, lay along the north,
and all the sky beside was clear.

Across the partly mown meadows went children
with baskets of flowers—dainty things, drooping
already on their spindling and wilted stems, though
they had been but an hour from the cool and
woody hollows where they grew. Flocks of plump
and happy looking quails walked before them, their
heads falling and rising to their steps. They were
not afraid. Should the ramblers come too close,
with a whirr they would lift themselves up, and
be gone.

Toward noon, the four roads near the crossing
began to be filled with people on their way to
church. What a beautiful picture they presented,
as one after another they walked down the deeply
worn path, and with slow and reverent steps
entered the house, and joined in the already sounding
psalm.

Among the staid matrons, dressed in a sort of
half mourning, which they had worn ever since
they buried some relation, long, long ago, sat the
rural beauties and belles, whom their mothers called

giddy and thoughtless—less for their pink and
blue ribbons, and riches of curls, perhaps, than that
in spite of the restraining influences about them
they now and then glanced toward the opposite
side of the house, where the dark locks of sturdy
young men contrasted with the white hairs of patriarchs
and fathers.

If the young people on going home could remember
the text, which they were always asked to
repeat, it was accepted as an evidence that their
hearts were not wholly occupied with the vanities
of the world, and there was shame on their faces
who failed to answer rightly the never forgotten
question.

What a time of congratulations there was at the
conclusion of the service! All were surprised and
pleased that Joseph Arnold, whom they had known
ever since he was a boy, could preach such a sermon;
and all must shake hands and, at least, smile
their satisfaction. Every one who was bidden the
previous night was there, and many others—every
one, except the lady in black—she came not that
Sabbath, nor the next, nor the next.

“Come and sit here,” said Mrs. Yancey, one
evening, to her brother. She was under a tree, at
the door, and, as he joined her she said, “I only
wanted you to hear Hagar sing.”

As he listened to her sad sweet song he remembered

that it was that which he heard on his solitary
walk the night of his arrival.

“Hagar—who is she?” he asked; adding, “I
never listened to so melodious a voice.”

“I only know her name is Hagar, and that she
lives alone in the cottage you can just see through
the trees. I think she is out of her mind, for when
she came here, don't you think, she brought with
her a little coffin, that is buried among the roses by
the door. Almost every night you may hear her
sing, when she is at home.”

“And where is she when not at home?” asked
the brother.

It was a sultry evening in August; not a
breath stirred the dusty leaves; and, fanning herself
violently with a part of her apron, which she
gathered in her hand, Mrs. Yancey explained that
nobody was ever so kind where there was sickness
or death, or any misfortune, and that every
one loved her for the good she did, but that she
would join in no pleasure, nor ever go from the
cottage in which she lived, except on some errand
of mercy.

Suddenly the twilight deepened into night. The
cattle thrust their nostrils into the air, and hurried
towards their accustomed shelter. The blackness
was untimely and terrible.

“Was that thunder?” asked Arnold, as a low

rumbling came on the wind, which went gloomily
surging through the tree above them.

“We are going to have a storm,” said the sister;
and, holding out one hand, she exclaimed, “there,
I felt a drop: we had best go in.”

And, as they rose, a quick and sharp peal of
thunder broke from the purple blackness above,
and rolled and rattled down the west, and died in
loose, heavy, and distant reverberations; and before
they could reach the door, a blinding flash lit
up the scene with a bluish and awful flame, and
another sharp peal broke almost over their heads—
a peal that made courage itself afraid. Then came
the rain down the hot and close atmosphere, that
smelt of dust as the torrents dashed against the
ground. The intense fury of the storm subsided,
and the shuddering heart grew stronger, as the
blackness was lifted a little, and the thunder was
heard withdrawing into the skies, which were
darker than the most impenetrable night.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Yancey, going toward the
window, “if William was out in this rain.”

“He is coming,” answered the children; “that
was the gate.” And as they opened the door, the
fresh cool air came in, sweet as if from seas of
lilies. The eave-ducts were still overflowing, and
little green cisterns of water stood about the yard,
while along the roadside the gutters ran black and

muddy. Suddenly, from the open door, the children
came huddling in, looking pale and frightened,
catching at their mother's skirts, and, in tones
between terror and wonder, saying, “Oh, mother,
what is it?”

The old dog, that always went with his master
to the fields, came in very wet, crouching low, and
looking at his mistress, ominously whining. And
close behind came he for whom they watched,
not as he had ever come before—but dead, and
borne by two of his neighbors.

The storm had overtaken him on his way from
the fields, and, stopping to shelter himself beneath
a tree, the messenger whose eyes are blinded with
their own fierce light, struck him down. Death is
a fearful thing in any shape—in any form—but
death by sudden violence carries terror always to
the bravest heart.

A night of confusion and sorrow followed. The
dead man was conveyed into the best room, and
dressed for the grave. Poor Mrs. Yancey! in
losing William she had lost all. How should
she be comforted? The little children sat together
very still, for they were afraid when through the
open door they saw, by the window where they had
seen him sit so many times, all that had been their
father—a rigid and frightful corpse,—the white
sheet sunken against the head and the hands and

the feet, leaving that awful outline that no living
shape assumes. No wonder they cried out, hiding
their faces.

Strange men and women filled the house—twice
as many as could do any good. Gathered in little
groups of two or three, they talked of all the good
qualities of the departed—of when and where the
sad event occurred. Some said the whole family
might have been killed, if the lightning had struck
the house; that they ought to be thankful, and not
give way to such despair; and others pitied poor
Mrs. Yancey; “What will become of her now?”
they said; “the farm has long been mortgaged,
and there are many creditors to claim the little that
is left.”

The supper that waited for the coming of the
husband and father, was removed untasted. The
children could not be persuaded to go to bed—all
so strange—so bewildering; and the good women
of the neighborhood wrapped them in shawls, and
seated them by the fire, while their clothes were
brushed and mended for the funeral.

All night the preparation was going forward—
some busy cutting and making up mourning for
the widowed woman, others putting the house in
order for the funeral, and others cooking and
attending to other duties in the kitchen. Whatever
could be found was used for any purpose for which

it chanced to be available. The tablecloth was
divided into towels, and the ham, that should have
served for a week, boiled at once; and all the little
which the widow possessed was thus likely to be
destroyed in a day and without necessity.

In the midst of the disorder, muffled in her
black veil and shawl, came Hagar, quietly, unobtrusively.
The direction of affairs was instinctively
yielded to her, and soon all was order.

How beautiful she looked in her ministry of
mercy! Her very tone was comforting. There
was no officious counsel, no authoritative direction,
but all felt her influence, though it was silent as
the falling of the dew. Her smile drew hearts to
her wherever she went, and her hands were full of
blessings. The weak and weeping mourner grew
calm and strong when she was near, and the orphans
were no longer afraid. One of the few, she
was,

The morning came up clear and beautiful; the
mists curled about the bases of the hills, and
reached upward, and upward, till they were lost
in the sunshine. The birds sung all the more
jocundly, for the heat and the storm which had
kept them still.

The late growth of grass was fresh with the rain,
and in the pastures cattle frolicked as with new

life, and sleek as if fattened in stalls. Here and
there a tree was to be seen rifted by lightning, the
bark partly torn away, perhaps, and the top splintered
and hanging downward.

Under a tall locust, near the house of Mrs.
Yancey, men and boys were gathered all day, talking
of the rent trunk, and examining bits of the
bark pealed aside, and wondering why that tree
should have been struck rather than another. The
gutters had emptied their muddy contents in the
mill-stream, which was greatly enlarged, but no
click of the mill was heard to-day, nor were there
any teams busy. A kind of Sabbath stillness
spread itself all over the neighborhood.

The storm had broken paths among the corn,
and swept the bridge from the creek; but the stalks
were not straightened, nor the bridge rebuilt.

Arnold sat by the window alone—sometimes
abstracted, and sometimes looking toward the hill,
where men were digging beneath the trees. Many
times the woman who was called Hagar passed by,
but without seeming to notice him.

Interest attaches to mystery always, and Arnold
felt strongly inclined to speak to her; for, aside
from any romance connected with the accounts
of her to which he had listened, she seemed a most
winning and lovable person. Her sad and sweet
smile, drew you toward her at once, and in spite

of yourself your arms reached out to protect her.
Some such feeling took possession of his heart,
and even amid these scenes of mourning his eyes
wandered in her steps as if they were every one a
spell.

At length she drew near the window and dropped
the curtain, that his eyes might a little longer be
spared the sight of the heaped earth.

“Thank you, Hagar,” he said, with something
of his old eccentricity, and as if her name were
familiar to him.

A blush mantled on her cheek, and she was
turning hastily away when he detained her, by
saying, “I was not thinking of that new grave: I
was thinking of you.”

His manner was so gentle and respectful, and
his tone so benignant, that offense was impossible,
though she could not help but feel that such an
address was very free for a stranger, and ill suited
for the occasion; and she replied, with serious
coldness, “I fear, sir, I am but an unworthy subject
for your thoughts.”

“You know best, perhaps; but my reflections
may not have been unprofitable to you, if you will
hear them.”

The blood mounted to her cheek again; and,
between anger and curiosity, she remained silent.

“I have surprised you,” he said, “in your fastness

of secresy. I do not condemn, but would
comfort and save you.”

“I am penitent, great God, I am penitent,” she
said, hiding her tearful eyes with her hair.

“Hagar,” called some one without, and, withdrawing,
she did not again return.