University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

Ibid.

Days came and went, and every rising of the
sun showed the world fairer than it had been
before since William's death. He was not indeed
forgotten by any of the family, and even Mrs.
Yancey's philosophy failed of bringing rest under
so profound an affliction; but habit is to half the
world content, and the good woman rapidly learned
to see without a fluttering of the heart his vacant
place at the table, and the night come down without
a signal of his return from the fields. The
light step, the martyr smile, the shows of mourning,
passed away, and all things in the house
moved in the old ways.

The gentle and patient Hagar, like that bird

which never is seen but when the night or storm
approaches, went with Sorrow, and seemed to have
charmed that shadowy enemy from every other
guest, to be her sole companion. After the brief
interview with Arnold which is described in the
last chapter, she avoided any opportunity for
another. Whatever his talents, the nobility of his
aims, or the bravery of the will with which they
were prosecuted, Mr. Joseph Arnold, like nearly
all men whose earlier years have been passed
among the poor and ill educated, was destitute of
those instincts of gentleness and refinement which
are most essential in society. The laws of courtesy
have grown out of the necessities of men's natures,
and are to be as implicitly obeyed as the least questioned
commands in the decalogue. The man who
despises formalities is in most cases himself to be
despised. But with all his abruptness and obtrusiveness,
Arnold had many really admirable qualities,
of the heart as well as of the understanding,
and he now unwillingly felt that the recluse with
whom he had thus been brought into contact was
destined to have a peculiar influence over his life.

When the congregation assembled the next Sabbath,
it might have been observed that his eyes
were lifted anxiously whenever any mourning robe
darkened the aisle. While he was reading the last
hymn before the sermon, the expected form glided

in with silent steps, and though his glances did not
wander from the page before him, and a close veil
hid the face of the woman, the recognition was
mutual.

“Surely my history is known to him,” Hagar
thought, as in the unfolding of his sentences she
saw glimpse after glimpse of her own interior life.
She shrank half afraid from his glances, as they
fell, or she fancied that they did so, on herself,
whenever a thought was uttered that seemed to
have been suggested by her experience.

Sisterly affection did not too much warp Mrs.
Yancey's judgment when she told her brother, in
the simplicity of her heart, he had grown handsome.
Though something beyond forty, he had
never in earlier life looked so well. He had cast
off the diffidence that cramped his action, the affectations
that made him clownish, the shabbiness
that disfigured him: he had grown into manhood.
The religious impulses, which in youth came to
him by fits and starts, were now drawn out to the
habitual tenor of life; and nothing in the world is
so elevating and refining, as the sense of religion,
influencing a man in his domestic and social relations.

In early life, “the elements were so mixed in
him,” that it would have been difficult to either
love or hate him. He made no effort to gain

friends. He enclosed all his better self, as it were,
in a husk, and then, for neglect induced by his own
manner and conduct, became a misanthrope.

One day, ill in health, disheartened for the want
of love, and weary of waiting for some great opportunity,
of which he had been a dreamer, he
turned his face from the wall, with a groan, and
saw on the table before him a cup of cold water
and some flowers—the gift of a feeble, unattractive,
and little regarded child. The words that had
often troubled the fountain of his life came back—
the words of the strangely eloquent Warburton—
“Shall her life of beauty be barren to me?”

From that time, by a strong effort of the will, he
was changed, his life became real and earnest, he
entered upon studies necessary for the service he
proposed to himself, and the little village where he
was born gave him work enough to do. There
rained from his tongue no tempests of eloquence,
with which to win souls; but when he chose, his
words were sharp arrows, from which there was no
escape, and each hearer felt as if his preaching
were especially for him.

It was, perhaps, more than anything else, the
fine intelligence speaking through his face that
made him beautiful. He was changed in heart
and in life, but not altogether lifted out of his nature,
nor above the weaknesses and the needs of

our daily experience. Individually, he seemed not
to love men, or women, but, melancholy and isolated,
he wandered in the woods or fields, or shut
himself in his own study, during all the week. In
ministering to his flock, his heart seemed overflowing
with love to them and to God. He was very
dear to them, active in the discharge of every duty
incidental to his profession, ready with counsel,
and kind in all the ministrations of mercy, yet his
love was not a familiar thing, to be kept about
their daily lives. Without being arrogant, or
haughty, or cold, there was something in his clolected
and unbending manner, and clear and penetrating
glances, that repelled all close approaches.
The grasp of the most cordial greeting was returned
with only the mildest pressure, and the laughing
salutation was presently forgotten in sober civility.
Diligent and sincere worker as he was, a part of
his great field was untilled, and his people, especially
the young, feared him as much as they loved
him: for among them he was as a stranger. They
admired, respected, and almost reverenced him;
but more was scarcely possible without a change in
his very nature.

Yet he did all that he could. His large love
embraced the world. It was expansive, but not
flowing out warm and soft, from the close folding
of one human heart, widening and widening, till it

embraced all. He had sold away many of his darling
idols, and given their price to the poor; but
the great necessity of human nature was the thing
which he yet lacked.

The time came when, but for one dark hindrance,
he might have been swept into the full
light. Already on the day of which I have been
speaking, as he leaned from the desk in the pleading
of general interests, one, more especial, fixed
often his glance and his thought.

When the services were ended, many came
around him, as the rural custom was, but though
he did not avoid, he seemed not to seek their greetings,
and, as soon as might be, he passed hastily
from the house, with a look of solemn austerity.

By the smooth mound, where no spear of grass
had as yet taken root, Mrs. Yancey stood, and
beside her, speaking no word, but tenderly pressing
her hand, was Hagar, who had not paused with
the rest. As the preacher came by, no arm was
outstretched to support the mourner, or draw her
away, and only saying, without any previous recognition,
“I am glad, Hagar, to see you at church,”
he passed on.

After that day, Hagar was sure to be at every
morning and evening service. She came and went
alone, speaking no word to any one. Curiosity
gradually died away, and the villagers came to

regard her as a poor, half-crazed woman, but harmless
and, gentle—to be pitied, watched, and, if
necessary, supported and protected.

But the pastor thought of her differently. One
evening as she sat by the open window, gazing
down on the little grave beneath, a footstep pressed
the sward, and, looking up, she saw Joseph Arnold
stand before her. For a moment he remained
silent; and then directing his eyes to the point
which had engrossed her attention, he said, “What
is the meaning of this, Hagar?”

The woman did not answer, and he continued,
“The softest interpretations were selfishness, or
insanity; but there are those who might find other
motives for the avoidance of consecrated ground.
You have no right to bring reproaches on yourself,
if innocent, nor any longer to seek concealment, if”
—he said no more, but looked the thought he did
not speak.

“Who are you, who thus invade my privacy?”
she said, suddenly recovering from some surprise
and confusion, “and by what authority do you
question my motives or my innocence? I have
not sought you, nor disturbed you in any way.
Leave me alone. So much I ask of justice and of
charity.”

But far from being moved by the offended
dignity of her manner, and her last command, he

calmly, as if in pity, approached, and seated himself
near her.

“Hagar,” he said, in tones of the tenderest interest,
“I must stay till I have answered your questions,
and thus justified myself.”

Tears stood in her eyes, and the angry spot
burned itself out in her cheek; and though she did
not grant with words the implied request, she did
not refuse it, and the intruder went on: “By the
authority of my sacred office I make inquest of all
characters by which I am surrounded, and by
your virtual confession of sin, I question your innocence.
You have not sought me, it is true;
but how know you that you have not disturbed
me?”

“I am but an humble and weak woman,” answered
Hagar, her voice trembling, “and will not
oppose my convictions to your judgment or reasoning.
But am I not for my motives answerable to
the same tribunal as yourself? And if I have
acknowledged guilt, by my general bearing to the
world, why should I make further confession to
you, or to any one?”

“And for the last?” said the preacher.

“If I have disturbed you I can only be sorry.”

“It is so—and what are you now? You disturb
me, I said truly.”

“Then I am sorry now.”

“And nothing more?”

“What can I more?”

“Everything, if you will.”

“You deceive yourself. I am alone, and as you
seem to know, an outcast from the world, seeking,
in continual prayer and penitence, to atone my sin,
or to stay back a little the vengeance of Heaven.
Oh! leave me. I am done with mortality, save as
the servant of such as suffer, and you need no
help.”

“Yes, Hagar, that is what I need—help, and no
one but you can give it me. Till I saw you, I
went through the journey of life alone, and very
desolate and wretched I was, until the baptism of
Christian faith was given me. This new life was
to me—is to me—the greatest good; and not till I
saw you did I know there was a feeling of my nature
unsatisfied—the need of closer sympathy, of
nearer human communion than I had found. You
have no need that I should tell you, nor to be surprised
at the discovery, that I love you.”

“Speak not to me of love,” she replied, solemnly,
mournfully, lifting her hand between her white
cheek and the steadfast eyes that gazed on her.
“You do not know me. There is between us a
wall, black as the pit, and high as Heaven. Seek
not to know any more, but leave me, and forget
this sudden impulse—for it is nothing more. My

arms would lie about your neck like a curse.
Hope nothing, ask nothing of me.”

“Do I speak as if moved by a sudden impulse?
No, I know what I say, and what I seek, and what
I would have, and shall have, in spite of yourself.
I do not know you, you say. Have you not been
aware of my near presence, as, night after night,
you have sung in the moonlight songs which seemed
only meant for me? Did you not feel that I
was praying for you, as you wept by the grave
of—”

“Great God! and have you then been a spy on
my actions and my words?” she exclaimed, passionately.
“And for what are you come now?
to reproach and mock me? Oh! if you ever knew
the need of pity, spare me.”

“I beseech you, do not again interrupt me.
Your love would not be a curse to me. Since
your sad smile first dawned on me, and I heard
your first gentle words, I have been more and more
drawn from isolation, and in human love I have
learned more and more my necessities. I come not
to unravel your history, or pass judgment on your
life. I love you, and whatever be that past on
which you throw yourself as on a consuming fire,
I would unite my life with yours, and make you
sharer of whatever awaits me, in time and in
eternity.”

“I have abjured all human happiness. I would
not love you if I could. My life is an everlasting
penance.”

“For what this penance is resolved, I do not
know, I do not seek to know. You have sinned
and suffered. What matters to me the precise
nature of the offense or the expiation? Is he who
rejects God's good gifts sinless any more than he
who abuses them by excessive indulgence? Will
the flowers bloom for you any brighter in Paradise
that you trample them here? Have you not, after
all, mistaken the Great Work, which does not lift
us through fasting and immolation up to Heaven,
but sweetly draws Heaven down to us, and makes
the mortal the beginning of immortal joys? You
have only to open the windows beneath this humble
roof, and the angels will come in.”

“Your words sound well; but sin abases itself.
The snake's head hides not under the dove's wing,
but grovels in the dust, as is fit. The love of a
pure heart and lofty soul is a thing of exceeding
beauty; but, knowing my deformity, if you could
come down and clothe me with it as with a garment,
in the ashes of lost innocence, you could
plant here no self-respect. It were like a green
vine twining itself about a ruin, trembling at every
breath. Go back into the sunshine, and leave me
to the dark.”

Arnold arose as she concluded, with the same
calm confidence that had characterized all his
movements, and pointing to the little mound below
the window, on which the moonlight was trembling,
he said, “When the grass there shall be dead
and faded, I will come again. In the meantime,
temper your heart as you will, I defy you to crush
out entirely its yearning for human love. When
we meet, it will be to part never, or forever.”
And, without waiting a reply, he withdrew, as
silently and mysteriously as he had come.

“Shall a chance breath trouble the fountain that
it has been the work of a life-time to still?” said
Hagar; and, closing the window, she sought forgetfulness
in sleep—in vain.

It was a melancholy life she surveyed, and
with all its suffering, all its sin, the retrospect
brought a feeling kindred with joy—the sense of
submission, and expiation, under which martyrs
have sung their divinest triumphs.

It may be indeed that the highest happiness of
life is always touched with sadness. Love and
Faith dwell ever in the haunted house of Fear.
The lights of the birth chamber stream across the
narrow bed where the pleasant morning touches
the eyelids of the sleepers no more, where the
white hands of the little children are never unlocked

for the flowers that hang over their dark unrocking
cradles.

Even the incarnate Redeemer was a man of
sorrows and acquainted with grief-discrowned of
immortality—crowned with thorns.