Hagar
BY
JAMES ARTHUR MACKNIGHT
“Let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung.”
BELFORD, CLARKE & CO.
NEW YORK CHICAGO SAN FRANCISCO
PUBLISHERS
*
COPYRIGHT, 1889,
BY J. A. MACKNIGHT.
———
All Rights Reserved.
*
DEDICATED TO
MY FRIEND
MISS LAURA DAINTREY,
WHO ENCOURAGED THE AUTHOR IN A DARK HOUR, AND
AIDED HIM IN EDITING THE MANUSCRIPT.
THE AUTHOR.
*
HAGAR.
*
CHAPTER I.
“The negligence, the apathy, the evils
Of sensual sloth, produce ten thousand tyrants.”
—Byron.
Ohio was among the first and most valiant of the sisterhood of loyal
States in sending her sons as a free sacrifice to the fields of strife
when treason and rebellion threatened the life of the nation. And,
though she was already deeply stricken by her losses at Shiloh,
Donelson, and on the battle-grounds of Virginia, the shadow of
bereavement had not yet settled on her fair face, for the swath that was
marked in the plans of fate had not yet been cut through her serried
ranks.
The fumes, the din, the horror, and the desolation of battle, had
happily been kept far from her. She had experienced the anguish that
evil tidings bring; the alarm born of rumor—but these had only
strengthened her in the stern and prayerful determination that the Union
must prevail.
The customary life of the more northerly cities and towns of the state
had been but little altered by the progress of the war, but the country
was already becoming stripped of its young men to such an extent that in
some places the ripe crops had not been harvested and many homesteads
seemed deserted.
At Cleveland and in the surrounding country the weather was bright and
balmy. In the city there were unwonted life and activity. Mad
speculation, political rancor, war preparation, and social frivolity,
each drew to itself its legion of devotees; but nearly all these in due
time brought their tributes to the altar of Patriotism; and Morality,
which, like other blessings of freedom, is ever assailed by war, was not
dethroned.
Along the country road near Cleveland on a pleasant Sunday afternoon in
the autumn of 1862, the forest and fruit trees in their sombre tints,
swayed in the wind, and their leaves were beginning to fall like tears
they shed for the departing summer. Birds were flitting about noisily in
the apple trees, on which some of the winter varieties still hung; the
merry little songsters fluttered and whirred around in coveys, chirping
loudly as if busy with their preparations for migration to the Southern
lands.
This section of the road was a narrow turnpiked lane, and for the space
of more than a mile there were no houses near it. The fields on each
side were covered with the stubble of cereals, while here and there were
long rows of corn shocks, and golden sheaves of wheat still standing on
the ground awaiting laborers. It was one of the best roads leading to
Cleveland from the Elyria toll road, and like others which crossed it at
regular intervals, was closely fenced, and shaded by rows of well-grown
poplars and cotton woods. There was but little traffic along those roads
on Sundays, and even more than the customary quiet of Sunday in the
country seemed to prevail there to-day.
A young man on foot, shabbily dressed, was the only visible traveller.
In his right hand he carried a staff which seemed suited either for
walking or for defence, and in his left a gaunt looking carpet bag.
Though he seemed weary, he held on his way with head erect and with a
resolute expression. There was something interesting about his
appearance. From his innocence of beard he might have been taken for a
youth of seventeen or eighteen, but his serious features and the
expression of his dark eyes suggested more years.
He paused to drink at a clear brook under the shade of some tall cotton-
woods, and then, after glancing up and down the road to assure himself
that no one was coming, sat down on the grassy bank and began bathing
his tired feet in the stream. Hardly a minute passed before he was
startled by the voice of a woman crying piteously for “help!” It sounded
close by as if in one of the adjoining fields, but it was suddenly
hushed and he had nothing to guide him towards what he thought must be a
fellow-creature in distress. He was disturbed, for, though he made no
pretentions to knight-errantry, that piercing scream had thrilled him as
he had never before been thrilled. Barefooted as he was he grasped his
staff and ran to the first cross-lane. He at first saw nothing
suspicious, and was about to turn back when he caught sight of something
moving between the trees of a hedge-row in the lane, and ran with all
speed in that direction. Of a sudden he came upon a burly-looking man
with full black beard dragging a young woman through the bushes with his
hand clasped over her mouth. His brain reeled at the thought that a
murder was about to be committed before his eyes; but his heart was
strong, and he plunged through the thicket. The ruffian, finding himself
pursued, flushed with rage and nearly dropped his burden, but seeing
that the stripling was so much his inferior in physical power, he
gritted his teeth and exclaimed with an oath,
“Go your way, boy, or I’ll murder you!”
The girl was gasping for breath, and struggling with the energy of
despair by which she disengaged his hand for an instant and shrieked in
terror. At this the young man sprang forward, his bare feet lacerated by
the briars and stubble, and dealt her assailant a blow with his staff.
The stroke must have been weakened by the pain he was suffering, for the
man warded it off as if it had been a rush. He let go his hold on his
captive, and sprang upon the young man like a tiger, crushing him to the
earth. The girl staggered a moment, being almost suffocated with fright;
but seeing her defender in imminent danger she seized the staff he had
let fall, and, unseen by either of the combatants who were clutched in a
death struggle, dealt the man such a well-directed and nervous blow
across the back of the head that he rolled over and quivered as if he
had been shot. The traveller saw what she had done as he sprang to his
feet but little hurt: she dropped the staff and was sinking to the
ground when he ran to support her. He raised her to her feet and as the
tears came to her relief, she gasped:
“Oh! take me home, take me home! I feel that I shall die!”
“No you shan’t, Miss. Come, I’ll take you home and you shan’t die. You
are quite safe now, so don’t be afraid.” As he spoke he stooped over his
prostrate enemy and took from under his coat a sharp dagger in a leather
sheath. The blade was about eight inches long and in the struggle the
ruffian had partly drawn it from the scabbard. There were two letters
roughly cut on the bone handle, and the traveller put it into his pocket
as a trophy of his first battle. He then urged the young girl to summon
up her strength as the man on the ground began to show signs of life.
She was anxious enough to be gone, but for some moments was afflicted
with a kind of paralysis like that experienced in dreams.
The delay seemed long and dangerous to the young man, though in fact it
only amounted to a few seconds, and he was glad to find his way back to
the road with the maiden he had rescued walking by his side. Great was
his satisfaction that the enemy did not reappear.
He knew by the description she gave that he had passed her home perhaps
three-quarters of a mile to the westward, and he hurriedly put on his
shoes to accompany her thither. When she had partly recovered from her
fright she related the circumstances of the attack. She had gone into
town with her father in the morning to attend church, and as he was
detained for a special meeting in the evening she thought she would walk
home alone as she had often done. She first noticed the man who had
assaulted her soon after passing through the suburbs of the city, but
had anticipated no danger, and continued on her way. The man must have
followed her by another road, for she had not seen him again until he
came towards her suddenly from the lane where she was rescued. This was
all, she said, except that it was evident to her that Heaven had sent
the traveller to save her at a moment when she felt that she was lost.
“Perhaps so,” he said, dryly, as he looked back in the direction of his
enemy, and wondered whether the law would ever punish him as he
deserved. “I must try to find that villain and put justice on his
track,” he added presently. The difficulty of realizing his wish fully
presented itself to his mind, and he walked on in silence until they
came in sight of a large and handsomely built house on the left side of
the road, situated in a grove of chestnuts and fruit trees. An avenue of
poplars extended from the gate to the house, and on both sides were wide
closely-mown lawns cut into a garden landscape of flower-beds, shrubbery
and evergreens.
The traveller had already guessed from the manner and the attire of his
protegee, that she belonged to a good family, and now he gazed with
deepened interest at the pleasant home he had passed with indifference a
short time before.
He opened the gate for her and she entered, but he remained outside. She
was visibly embarrassed, and stammered as she said:—
“Will you not come in and rest?”
“No, thank you,” he replied, closing the gate and stepping back—“I must
hurry into the city.”
“My father is the Rev. Dr. Taine—I would urge you to come in now if he
were here to thank you. But when he is away I have no friends here—you
will pardon me?————”
“Don’t apologize, Miss—it’s all right. I should refuse to come in now in
any case—I shall be late. But I may see you and your friends at another
time. As to what I’ve done for you I don’t want any thanks; I’m glad
I’ve had the honor to be of service to you, though sorry enough for your
suffering. And now I must bid you good day.”
Their eyes met, his full of serious candor, hers expressing a wistful
embarrassment, as he raised his hat in salute and resumed his walk
towards Cleveland.
The young girl’s lips moved as though she were trying to speak, but
without uttering a word she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and
went slowly up the avenue.
Before she reached the house Mrs. Taine appeared on the verandah and
called to her. This was an elderly woman with thin features, and a sharp
pair of cat-like eyes staring out of gold-rimmed spectacles. She was
annoyed that Hagar did not answer, and called to her again with spiteful
emphasis.
“Answer me at once, Miss! What’s the meaning of this? Who was that man
at my gate with you?”
“Oh! Mrs. Taine”—said the young girl faintly between her sobs as she
threw herself despondently on the verandah steps.
In a moment Mrs. Taine had imagined a drama of youthful indiscretion and
folly. Here was proof positive, of what she had long suspected, that
Hagar was a forward young woman and a flirt.
“Don’t call me “Mrs.” hussy! how dare you call me “Mrs.” she exclaimed
with energy. This verbal slip on the part of Hagar was another proof as
strong as holy writ that it was Mrs. Taine’s duty to corner her there
and then. She had recently got a notion, nobody knew how or where, that
“Madam” sounded more dignified than “Mrs.” and insisted on that title in
its abbreviated form, from those who were beholden to her.
“Come,” said she, taking hold of Hagar’s arm—“out with it—who was it—for
I declare he looked like a pedlar from my window.”
“He was an entire stranger, Ma’am Taine————”
“Oh! my gracious! another blackguard acquaintance ey! What next, I
wonder!”
“I had a dreadful fright—a man attacked”—she was anxious to hit upon an
explanation of an incident which she felt it would be difficult to
account for to the satisfaction of her present audience; but Mrs. Taine
interrupted her at every word.
“A fright! you don’t say so! And were you so frightened that you didn’t
know better than to take up with a strange man, pray?”
“I would tell you what I mean in a few words if you would permit me,”
said Hagar in a voice which indicated both humility and fear. But Mrs.
Taine wanted a confession in accord with her preconceived theory and
strove to abase her victim by a storm of words, in the midst of which
Hagar retreated to the sitting-room, whither the old lady promptly
followed her.
Mrs. Taine settled herself in an easy chair near the grate and cast an
inquisitorial glance at Hagar, who had taken a book from the table and
was listlessly turning the leaves.
“I’m ready to hear what you’ve got to say Miss Romancer, but mind, I
shall believe only as much of it as I like, for the girls of these days
are given to fabricating yarns of a very different kind from those I
spun at your age. I know your weakness, so do not think to impose on my
credulity.”
Hagar was silent, and kept her eyes bent upon her book, uncertain what
to say. After a moment’s pause she started to quit the room.
“Well, hussy, well? what’s come over you? How dare you turn your back
upon me and not reply. Such brazenness! But I know who to thank for all
this. I knew by your nature and conduct as a child, what you would be
when you thought yourself a woman—I told him so—Why don’t you speak, I
say!” The old lady spoke with such force and emphasis that her voice
cracked ominously at the word “speak,” and made several false notes
before it recovered its wonted pitch.
Hagar turned round, and looking her calmly in the face, said:—
“If I had thought myself a woman, as you say Ma’am Taine, I should not
have endured your tyranny as I have done so long. You must not suppose
that I will make any statement whatever to you, when you declare your
intention of disbelieving me even before I have spoken. I never told you
a falsehood, though you have often accused me of so doing. Perhaps I
have been the lamb too long, and I must tell you I shall cease to be so
if I am treated like a wolf.”
This display of independent spirit was a complete surprise to Mrs.
Taine, as she had always been accustomed to seeing Hagar cower under the
lash of her scorn.
“If you will excuse me,” continued the young woman, “I will go to my
room until Father Taine comes home.” She withdrew quietly, leaving Mrs.
Taine bewildered and very angry.
“Well, I never!” she exclaimed when Hagar had closed the door
noiselessly. “Now she has gone to hatch a fine story for the ears of old
Universality. What a position, to be sure, for a woman of my culture and
antecedents.”
She sat for awhile muttering to herself and rocking to and fro to lull
her temper; then, taking up Calvin’s “Institutes,” which had long been
her only source of religious instruction and mental recreation, she
moved to a chair near the window that commanded a view of the avenue,
and read intently until the daylight failed her. She had laid the good
book on the window sill and was falling into a peaceful doze, when she
heard a noise outside, and could just distinguish in the dusk that two
vehicles were coming up the avenue.
“My goodness! what’s this, I wonder?” She called Maria, and after
throwing a woolen shawl over her head repaired to the verandah to see
who the arrivals were. The foremost carriage was evidently Dr. Taine’s,
and the other as certainly an ambulance.
“Now, I wonder if he’s picked up some crippled beggar to trouble me
with,” she said, addressing the housemaid.
She was soon enlightened, for Dr. Taine, a venerable-looking man with
white hair and beard, alighted from his buggy and directed the city
ambulance to draw up to the steps, and she saw that the injured man who
lay prone on the stretcher within was her husband’s son.
“What’s the matter, Nathan?” she asked.
“A serious accident has happened. The “Globe” office has been burned to
the ground, and James is badly injured.”
“Just what I expected!” exclaimed Mrs. Taine, raising her hands as if to
call Heaven to witness the fulfilment of her prophecy. Though unable to
restrain her desire to carp, she yet had enough consideration to lower
her voice so it was only heard by the doctor. “You will now remember my
words, Nathan, on the day the Misses Mull were here: ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘all
these young fellows would rather be in a crowded city where death and
the devil are staring them in the face, than lead a steady and
industrious life on the farm.’ How often my words are verified, and yet
how little they are heeded! I only wish—”
“Hush! Melissa,” whispered the parson gently, “James may be dying.”
Even so it would have delighted Mrs. Taine to remind him of her
predictions, but the young men who had accompanied the patient were now
bearing him towards the house. He was suffering acute pain and looked
very pale.
James had not lived at his father’s house for some time, and for a year
or more had not passed a night there. There was, therefore, no chamber
in readiness to receive him, and he was carried into the sitting-room to
await necessary preparations. He was surprised to find himself at
Chestnut Grove, having supposed they were taking him to a hospital; but
Dr. Taine preferred to have him brought home, and was advised to do so
by the physician who examined his son’s injuries.