THE STRANGER.
“Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow—
Who knows the man can never cease to know.”
CRABBE.
“A fearful sign stands in thy house of life—
An enemy;—a fiend lurks close behind
The radiance of thy planet—oh! be warned!”
COLERIDGE.
The Rev. John Huss Withers. He had been recommended to the parish as his
successor in case of his own demise by Mr. May. He had been a student
some twenty years back with the old gentleman—within the last eight or
ten years he had had charge of a congregation in one of the Northern
cities. Very lately his charge had been resigned—and, in reply to a
letter written by Mr. May, inquiring his reason for his resignation, he
alleged the cause to be—domestic affliction—the _loss_ of his wife. The
old pastor wrote back a letter full of sympathy, and attempted
consolation, and then the correspondence was suffered to drop. There was
no telling how much the mere circumstance of his given name, “John
Huss,” affected the partiality of the old man in his favor.
Certainly when he appeared at the grove, there was nothing very winning
in his looks. During the funeral ceremonies, Mrs. May and Miss Churchill
had scarcely observed him, absorbed as they were in thoughts of the
dead. After the return from the burial ground—after Emily and Sophie had
laid off their bonnets in Miss Churchill’s room, Emily said—
“You must stay with us at least a week or two, Sophie—and we must share
together this room that I proposed for you—I will have the crib brought
down from the loft and put by the side of our bed for little Hagar. One
room _must_ be given up to the use of our boarder, Mr. Withers, and I
prefer to let him have mine, for its distressing associations affect my
nerves dreadfully.”
“Then the new preacher is to board with you, Emily?”
“Yes, my love, for many good, _very good_ reasons—first, he was my
husband’s friend, and then I am afraid to live here by myself, or I mean
without a man about the place; and then the old ladies all tell me that
I must receive him because it is so convenient to the church.”
For her life, Sophie Churchill could not have explained the cause of the
oppression that settled upon her heart, or the deep sigh that revealed
the burden on her spirits without throwing it off. They went into the
parlor, that was unoccupied, but glittering with its sober, polished
steel lustre, and took seats; Emily, in the slate-colored damask easy
chair, and Sophie upon the lounge of the same grave hue. By nothing
could you have guessed the late presence of so gloomy a visitor as death
in that sober but cheerful room.
Emily, by the expressed wish of her late husband, wore no mourning—her
dress was that she always wore in-doors—a soft and full white muslin
wrapper, descending from her full bust, and gathered around her slender
waist by a cord and tassel. Her soft, silky black hair was parted over
her forehead, and hung in thick ringlets that scarcely reached her
bosom—she leaned back serenely with her hands resting on the arms of the
slate-colored chair. Sophie Churchill’s clear olive complexion looked
almost fair, contrasted with her smoothly braided brown hair, her large,
melancholy brown eyes, and her brown silk dress. Sophie leaned over the
elbow of the lounge towards her friend, whose chair was near that end.
Kitty came in to lay the cloth for tea, and soon a round table stood on
the floor covered by a snow-white damask cloth, white china tea service,
and the nice light bread and hard golden-hued butter, and clear honey,
with the seed cakes of Emily’s preparation. The tea was placed upon the
table and their boarder summoned from the piazza, where he had been
promenading. He came in.
He came in, lifting his hat from his head, and placing it upon a side
stand, slowly and gravely assumed the seat at the foot of the table
where Emily and Sophie were already seated. They raised their eyes
simultaneously to look at him, and at once the whole aspect of the room
seemed changed—a funeral solemnity gathered over it. Sophie, attracted
by one of those strange spells exercised by objects of terror over us,
could not keep her large startled eyes off him—at last he raised his
head and looked her full in the face—her eyes fell, and a visible
shudder shook her frame—a just perceptible smile writhed the corner of
his mouth as he withdrew his gaze from her. Sophie did not open her
mouth to speak during the meal; Emily dispensed her hospitalities with
her usual graceful ease. At the end of tea they arose, Kitty entered and
cleared the table, and Mrs. May, making an apology, left the room to
attend to some domestic matters. Sophie was now alone with the new
preacher. She resumed her seat at the end of the lounge, he took the
easy chair just vacated by Emily, and drawing it closer to the side of
Miss Churchill, he stooped forward and inquired in his singularly sweet
tones—
“You live in this neighborhood, Miss Churchill?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and her eyes dropped, and the blood mounted to her
brow, and receding, left it pale—again that singular smile curled the
corner of his lip.
“Far from this, Miss Churchill?”
“I live at Heath Hall.”
“Ah! and nearly quite alone, Miss Churchill, with only one aged female
domestic and an infant—”
“And _God_!” said Sophie, raising her eyes confidently to meet his; but
the brilliant, basilisk, greenish grey eyes seemed to freeze her
eyeballs, and she dropped their sheltering lids again—yet she felt the
glance of those glittering, cold, keen eyes entering her heart, and a
chill, an icy chill, ran through all her veins. She started up and
sought Emily.
Emily was in the next room, the dining-room, where, seated in two little
chairs at a little child’s table, covered with a white cloth, appeared
the children, Gusty and Hagar, eating their supper of milk and
sweetmeats. The children were at each end of the table, and Emily was
kneeling at the side with an arm lightly clasped around each—she had
just thus embraced the orphans, and a tear was glistening in her eye.
She arose as Sophie entered, and said—
“Why have you left the room, my love; it was so rude to Mr. Withers?”
“Because I don’t like to stay with him—do _you_? How do _you_ like him,
Emily?”
“Well, dear, I don’t know. I have scarcely had an opportunity of seeing
yet—he is grave, grave to austerity, yet that, though it may awe young
maidens, can scarcely be deemed a fault in the Pastor of the Crucifixion
Parish.”
“Oh! it was not that—it was not that!”
“What was it then, my frightened dove?”
“I could not tell you! You wouldn’t understand! _He has never looked at
you—never spoken to you._”
“How you do talk at random, child—we conversed at tea.”
“He has never looked at you and never spoken to you!”
“My dear, you are hysterical—I must give you some morphine.” She went to
a cupboard. But the wild fluttering of Sophie’s startled heart
subsided—she refused the morphine, and at last they returned to the
parlor.
The next day was Good Friday, and of course there was service at the
church, and the Rev. John Huss Withers was to preach his first sermon.
Reader, do you happen to know what a great event the arrival of a new
preacher is in a country neighborhood? Not only does the parish over
which he is installed as minister, but every surrounding parish, forsake
their own especial minister to flock to hear him.
At an early hour two horses stood saddled at the gate of Grove Cottage,
and the minister, Sophie, Emily, and her son, sallied out to mount them.
When Sophie saw but two horses saddled, and knew that there were four
persons to go to church, she looked with embarrassment at Emily.
“You are to ride on a pillion behind Mr. Withers, Miss Churchill—and
Gusty is to ride behind me.”
The parson was already mounted, and before Sophie had time to reply, he
rode up to where she was standing on the horse-block, stooped his giant
arm, and lifting her lightly to the pillion, drew her arms around his
waist and cantered off. Earth and sky swam together in Sophie’s vision
as they went. Emily was in her saddle, and Kitty lifted up and set her
boy behind her, and then taking the infant Hagar in her arms went into
the house. Emily paced soberly along—Master Gusty was quarrelling all
the way, asserting that it was _his_ right to ride and his mother ought
to sit behind _him_, like the parson and Miss Sophie. Mr. Withers was
waiting for them in the shadow of the forest just at its entrance. At
another time Emily could scarcely have suppressed a smile at seeing the
cold, dead white face and dilated eyes of Sophie Churchill, with her
fingers, which spellbound she scarcely durst withdraw, stiff and pale as
tallow candles thrown into strong relief upon the black broadcloth of
the parson’s coat.
“Where are your gloves, Miss Churchill?” said Emily.
“I had not drawn them on, and I lost them on our ride. _I want to get
down and go back and get them_,” said Sophie, in an imploring voice.
“Mrs. May—ride forward, madam, and I will canter back with Miss
Churchill in search of her gloves!”
“No, no, no! no, I thank you!—it will be too late,” gasped Sophie—but
even while she spoke he had wheeled his horse and was going back.
“You should not have named your wish _to get down_ and return then,”
said he, in his sweet, dear tones. They had ridden back about an eighth
of a mile when Sophie, anxious to rejoin her other companions, said—
“I think I lost my gloves about here.”
Mr. Withers alighted, and placing the reins and his riding-whip in the
hands of Miss Churchill, favored the poor girl with a look full in the
face that froze the blood in her veins. She thought of the long ride
they would now have to take through the forest alone, and her heart died
within her. She watched him, nervously saw him pick up the gloves and
turn to approach, she looked at him with the eyes of a startled fawn
ready for flight—she met the same basilisk gaze—it maddened her—suddenly
jerking the bit and putting whip to her horse, she sped from the spot
like an arrow from a bow, and fled across the common with a vague idea
of reaching her own home—he shouted:
“The horse is running away with you! rein up your horse,” and flew after
her. She reached the banks of the river—gave one frightened look behind,
and madly urged her steed down the bank and into the rushing water
swollen by the recent thaw. The water was deep, and her steed floundered
and struggled with the waves just as Withers appeared at the top of the
bank—sped down—dashed into the water and seizing the rein swayed the
horse around—drew him to the beach, and led him dripping and struggling
up the bank. When they were once more on firm, high ground, he paused to
breathe the horse; the water was dripping from the dress of Sophie, and
her wet clothes were clinging tightly about her limbs. He leaned upon
his elbow upon the pommel of her saddle and said, gravely,
“You are an interesting young lady, Miss Churchill; your feats of
horsemanship are surprising.”
Sophie’s sudden plunge-bath, and the real danger she had passed, had
somewhat restored the tone of her nervous system by putting to flight
her imaginary terrors. The horse had now recovered his wind and they set
forward, the preacher leading the horse—they reached the cottage gate—he
assisted Sophie to alight—as she reached the ground she said—
“You had better push forward to church, Mr. Withers; you will be too
late.”
He took his watch calmly from his pocket and holding it near her face,
said—
“See, it wants a quarter to nine o’clock; if you hurry and change your
dress we can get there in time.”
“I am not going, sir.”
“Then I shall stay home to take care of you—you need care after this
morning’s adventure,” and so saying, he quietly began to unsaddle the
horse.
“Stop, I will go,” said Sophie, choosing the lighter evil, and she
hurried in to change her dress.
“What has happened, sir?” said Kitty, coming out.
“The horse ran away with Miss Churchill,” replied he.
Sophie now returned arrayed in a black silk, and was lifted tremblingly
into her seat. They then set off at a brisk canter and soon entered the
forest. Reader, do you like a dark forest road? If so, you would have
been delighted with the forest road leading to this church, winding now
through a deep dell where the branches met over head, and now up a steep
hill over which the trees were thinly scattered. They had just entered a
dark walk from which the thick overhanging branches excluded nearly
every ray of light when Sophie, turning her head aside, her eyes fell
upon some object couched in the underwood, her gaze was riveted, her
eyes dilated, her lips fell apart, her face became ashy pale, and then a
half-suppressed cry burst from her lips. The parson halted—turned around
in his saddle—
“What is the matter, Miss Churchill?”
“Something frightened me in the bushes.”
He looked scrutinizingly in every direction.
“I see nothing—was it a wolf?”
“No—let’s go on.”
“Your heart is beating as though it would break its prison—you are
shaking like an ague. Was it a bear?”
“No, no—_do_ go on.”
“_What_ was it then?”
“Nothing, nothing—please go on.”
“And yet you can scarcely keep your seat. Are you nervous, Miss
Churchill?”
“Yes, very.”
“I should think so; you should have medical advice,” and touching his
horse, they galloped forward.
They soon entered an open forest glade in which stood the church, a red
brick building, having the form of a cross. Many broken tombstones were
all around it, and scattering trees to which were tied numerous horses,
and nearly filling up the glade were hundreds of vehicles of every
description, from the ox-cart to the splendid coach and pair. Alighting
near a horse-block, he fastened his horse, and lifting her from the
pillion, led her into the church, which was already crowded, and up the
long middle aisle to the pew of Emily, which was the top pew on the
right hand facing the pulpit; he opened the door, saw her seated, and
passed on to his reading-desk. Emily observed the pale face and
trembling frame of her friend, but had no opportunity of inquiring the
cause, which she naturally associated with her delay in overtaking her.
Nor was this opportunity afforded after church, when the congregation
all crowded around to speak to their new minister. Mr. Gardiner Green, a
wealthy planter, the nearest neighbor of Emily, performed the part of
master of ceremonies. It is true that all had seen Mr. Withers at Mr.
May’s funeral, but upon such an occasion as that, of course there could
be but few introductions. It was an hour before the congregation were
all in their saddles or their vehicles, and ready to disperse.
When our little party were mounted and had entered the forest, the
pastor said,
“Your young friend, Miss Churchill, is a celebrated horsewoman, is she
not, Mrs. May?”
“_Very._ Sophie is the best rider of all the ladies of this county,”
said Emily, unsuspiciously, “but what detained you so long?”
“While I was hunting for Miss Churchill’s gloves, her horse suddenly
started and ran off with her; dashed down the bank and into the river.
She kept her seat like a heroine, and so was saved.”
Emily evinced less surprise than might have been expected, merely
remarking,
“I have known Sophie Churchill to ford that river on horseback when a
mere child.”
“Yet Miss Churchill seems very timid too.”
“She is. Her good horsemanship is merely habit—she has been accustomed
to ride from infancy; but to-day Sophie certainly is nervous—what is the
matter with you, Sophie, my love?”
Sophie spoke of her fright in the forest, yet persisted in refusing to
explain it. They reached home. Dinner was ready, the ladies laid off
their bonnets, and all sat down to the table. Immediately after dinner
the minister arose and retired to his chamber, and Sophie drew a long
free breath, as though a stricture were removed from her chest.
“Come into our bedroom, and let’s put on our loose wrappers and lie
down, Sophie; it is really fatiguing these long rides to church and
back.”
And she arose, and Sophie followed her. Emily assisted her off with her
dress, and taking a bottle of cologne, washed her face and head until
she looked better; and then, as they rested on the bed, she said,—
“Now, Sophie, tell me about this forest fright, for there is more in it
than you would confess to any one but me.”
“Perhaps you will think it imagination, or nothing, yet, as we entered
the deep dell, just a quarter of a mile behind the church, I happened to
turn my head, and low, crouched down to the ground, I saw—”
“What?”
“The wannest, most spectral face that could be conceived, with wild eyes
and streaming hair.”
“A runaway mulatto!”
“I tell you _no_! The face was whiter than snow—the eyes blue, and
blazing in their steady gaze upon me; the hair golden, streaked with
silver. The skeleton hand was like a bird’s claw with emaciation, and
the finger pointed to the minister.”
Emily listened with an incredulous smile, then she said—
“A figure conjured up by imagination, Sophie—a mere creature of your
disordered nerves. You should read Sir Walter Scott’s letters on
Demonology, and then you would understand. But, dear, how do you and the
minister get on? Do you know I think you are a favorite with him.”
“Oh! God forbid!” said Sophie, clasping her hands.
“Why, my dear, what is the matter?”
“_Oh!_ I have such an antipathy to him—such a sickening, deadly
antipathy to him; when his eyes meet mine, or his hand falls upon mine,
a cold chill runs all through me, and I grow blind and faint.”
“Well, my love, fortunately you are not obliged to like him. Yet he will
be very popular, Sophie. Did you observe the even unusual respect paid
him by his congregation to-day? His sermon made a marked impression. All
the widows and girls will be setting their caps for him, but you, I
think, will win the prize.”
“Emily, I am going home to-morrow.”
“_No_, my love, no; why, what put that into your head?”
“I do not like to stay here; I do not like Mr. Withers, and I do not
like the tone of your conversation so soon after your husband’s death.”
The tears overflowed Emily’s eyes.
“I am wrong—I am wrong, to forget for a moment the loss of so kind a
friend; and yet, Sophie, death never did make me gloomy. Sickness does,
suffering does, but I quite as often envy as regret the departed. Think,
Sophie, he has rejoined in heaven the wife of his youth and middle life,
‘the Michal of his bloom,’ whom he loved as he never could love _me_,
‘the Abishag of his age.’ She was his companion for time and for
eternity; I, only a fellow-passenger for a short stage—the _end_ of his
journey, the _beginning_ of mine.”
Here a summons to tea broke up their conference. They dressed and went
out; the minister was there before them. They sat down to tea.
The next morning Sophie Churchill made an effort to return home, but she
was overruled. It was Saturday, Emily said, and she must stay to attend
church the next day, Easter Sunday. She complied, and attended church
with the family, without meeting with another adventure of any sort. On
Easter Monday Sophie mounted on Emily’s horse, and carrying little Hagar
on her lap, set out for her home at Heath Hall, attended by Master Gusty
Wilde May as escort, who fancied his manhood greatly accelerated by the
honor of his office.
I told you that the house at the Heath was large and square. It faced
the bay, and a wide hall ran from the central front entrance through to
the back—from the middle of this hall, and facing the entrance, arose
the wide staircase, whose balustrades turned off in a scroll on each
side of the bottom steps. Under these stairs was a large closet where
household utensils were kept. On each side of this wide hall were
opposite doors—the left hand door letting into the parlor, the right
hand door into the ruinous drawing-room. The dim old parlor, with the
sleeping-room above it, and the kitchen near it, was the only habitable
part of the house, and even these rooms leaked in rainy weather. One
evening, about a week from the day of her arrival at home, Sophie
Churchill sat alone before the smouldering fire in the wide arched
fire-place; a lamp burned on the little old spiderlegged workstand; the
moonlight streamed through the branches of the old poplar trees that
swayed against the four gothic-arched and curtainless front windows. The
room was nearly bare of furniture; no carpet was on the floor; and the
once bright-colored landscape paper on the walls illustrating Fox’s
Christian Martyrs was torn and faded. It was a weird scene enough. The
figures of the Martyrs were large as life. Upon the wall opposite the
fire-place, and beside the door leading into the hall, was the
representation of a Christian suffering the baptism of fire; and as the
ray of the lamp flickered upon it, the form of the martyr seemed to
writhe and quiver—seemed to dip and rise from the flames, and the
features of his tormentors to grin and leer. Sophie was there knitting,
and her large brown eyes were somewhat larger, with a vague terror that
had fallen upon her spirits as soon as she was left alone. And well
might she feel this; except the infant and the beldam, there was not a
soul within half a mile of her, and the forest behind was known to be
the refuge of a runaway negro—a gigantic fellow, whose depredations in
the neighborhood were violent and frequent.
At the time I write of, the most heinous crimes were sometimes
perpetrated by fugitive slaves in their desperation; their
motives—revenge, impending starvation, or a passionate desire for
liberty. They are the banditti of the Southern States. The forests of
Maryland and Virginia contain caves, once the resort of runaway negroes,
from whence at night they issued and fell upon the unwary traveller or
the unprotected house to levy their contributions.
“Jim Hice,” the man whose depredations now spread terror through the
neighborhood, was a fugitive not only from slavery, but from justice.
Impelled by starvation, he had once, after watching a long time outside
of the window to know that the coast was clear, entered the kitchen of
an old friend and begged “a mouthful to save me from starving.” This
friend gave him a can of whiskey, which he swallowed at a draught, and
which, from the emptiness of his stomach, immediately intoxicated him;
and then offered him a hunk of corn pone and a herring, which he began
to devour like a wild beast. But before he could finish it, the door
opened and the overseer of the estate appeared. The negro recognised
him—his eyes flew wildly around. He sprang to the window, but was seized
by the hands of the overseer before he could pass through it. They
struggled for life and death—but the struggle was unequal. Soon the
gigantic negro had hugged his captor to his bosom with one strong arm,
while with the other hand he drew from his pocket a butcher knife and
plunged it to the handle into his chest—then dropping him, sprang over
his body, cleared the door, and fled to the woods.
The officers of justice were soon in pursuit—a price was set upon his
head—volunteering parties set out in search of him, and he was traced to
the forest behind Heath Hall. There, in spite of the most vigorous hunt
with horses and hounds in the deep dells and dense thickets of the
forest, he remained concealed.
It was a week since they had lost trace of him there—and old Cumbo had
just brought the news to Sophie that day—hence Sophie’s dilating eyes
and starting nerves at every sound. At last, though but eight o’clock,
she could bear it no longer—so wrought up had her nerves become that as
the lamp flickered against the walls, the old figures in the landscape
paper, Fox’s Martyrs, seemed to dance and jibber in their flames. The
rattling branches against the windows seemed the breaking, crushing
crossbar of the burglar, while the glancing of the moonbeams between
them seemed like the gliding about of spirits from another world. Sophie
arose with a cautious tread, as though stealing from enemies, and opened
the door of the great hall from the centre of which the staircase
ascended. She held her lamp in one hand, her knitting in the other, and
her heart was beating and her eyes half starting as she opened the door
and prepared to bound up the stairs to her own, and little Hagar’s room.
Somehow all her vague imaginary terrors gave way, while she held little
Hagar in her arms, as though there was safety in the presence of infant
innocence. She opened the door, and there before her, joining her, stood
the gigantic negro, with wild, haggard face, and bloodshot eyes! With a
piercing scream, Sophie dropped her candle, which was extinguished in
the fall, and fled back into the parlor.
He followed her.
She had sunk, paralysed with extreme terror, into a chair.
The negro stood before her again, and extending one talon-like hand,
exclaimed—
“I am not going to hurt you, Miss Sophie—give me some victuals—I am
starving!”
But Sophie only gazed at him with a startled and stony eye—her senses
petrified.
“Give me some food, Miss Churchill, I die—”
_Sophie_ was dying, or seemed to be—her head had fallen back against the
chair—her chin had dropped, and her stony eyes, started from her chalky
face, were riveted upon her fearful visitor.
_His_ eyes were hollow and fiery, and his giant frame was trembling in
every limb. He dropped on the floor before her, and said—
“Miss Sophie, Miss Sophie, look at me. I won’t hurt you—how could I hurt
you when I can scarcely stand! Give me some victuals—I have not tasted
food for four days. Give me some, Miss Sophie!—Oh don’t be scared at
_me_—not at _me_—who used to ride you on my shoulder when you were a
baby—how could _I_ hurt you?”
Just then the door opened, and Sophie, with a scream of joy, bounded
from her chair, sprang over the prostrate negro, and flew into the arms
of old Cumbo and fainted.
The pastor was behind the old woman. The negro seeing her, started up,
ran and shook the window sash—it resisted his efforts to raise or break;
sprang to the opposite side, tried another window in vain—then attempted
to dart past the minister who stood in the door. Mr. Withers extended
his arm, intercepted and captured the fugitive. He struggled—Mr. Withers
was cool, strong, and determined—held him fast by the wrists—trying to
get them together that he might bind them. He stood firm, while the
negro—his eyes glaring like flame in a dark night, his teeth set, his
thick neck swollen, his starting muscles, like knotted cords in his
sinewy arms, fell violently from side to side in his desperate efforts
to escape.
He had been starving, and the factitious strength lent by despair soon
failed—his struggles became fainter and fainter—and ceased as Mr.
Withers bore him down to the floor, placed his knee upon his breast,
crossed his wrists, and hallooed to the old woman to bring a cord to
bind him.
Old Cumbo, in a distant part of the room, was bathing her young
mistress’s face with water—Sophia Churchill was recovering from her
faint. The old woman hobbled up, shaking her hand in the face of the
captive as she passed him, exclaiming, “You gallows face vilyun you!”
went into the hall, opened a dark closet under the stairs, and drew out
a clothes line, which she brought to Mr. Withers. He bound his prisoner
securely, and then stood up from his labors to breathe; his eyes fell on
the drooping form of Sophia Churchill, he walked up to her and stooping
over her spake softly,
“You have been in some danger and very great alarm, Miss Churchill; I
thank God who inspired my visit to you this evening. I just chanced to
knock at your hall door, as your old servant, aroused by your screams,
had come down to your assistance; she opened the door and admitted me.”
Sophia was still trembling in every limb, and the tears were trickling
down her cheeks.
“And now, Miss Churchill, I must leave you immediately to proceed to the
village and procure an officer; the miscreant must be lodged in jail
to-night. Don’t feel any more alarm; he is perfectly secure, or if it
would relieve you, we can lock him up; have you a room?”
“No,” said Sophia, “don’t lock him up.”
“It would be altogether a work of supererogation, I think. Well, Miss
Churchill, I will leave you now, and return within two hours.”
So saying the minister took his hat and withdrew. Sophia remained
leaning her cheek upon her hand. The old woman stood stooping over the
negro with her hands resting on her knees, peering down in his face.
“Kik—kik—kik!” (laughing), “you ready trussed for hanging up now, ain’t
you? kik—kik—kik—kik! how you feel when git rope roun’ neck, hey? Mind,
I gwine see you hang, hear?”
“Cumbo, come away,” commanded Miss Churchill, as sternly as she knew how
to speak.
The old woman did not move nor take off her eyes from her fallen foe,
but answered, “Oh, he one gran’ rascal, Missy, one gallows face vilyun
as ever lib—use to drive me ’bout ’mong corn hills, when he great man,
when he Massa Churchill oberseer—black oberseer—_black_ gemmun—_black_
Massa! kik—kik—kik!” And the old woman snapped her fingers under the
nose of the prisoner.
The harshness of black overseers, who are often selected for their
greater vigilance and severity, and the hatred the negroes feel towards
them, is notorious in the Southern States.
The old woman continued her abuse, the negro suffered it without reply.
Sophia Churchill watched him
“Until the pity of her heart grew strong.”
At last the old woman said,
“Now I gwine out, see ef dey comin’ wid cons’ble,” and left the room.
Sophia looked at the poor wretch tied like a beast for slaughter, and
thought of the dreadful death hanging over him, until pity overcame
terror and conquered reason. She arose, and drawing near him stealthily
as one would approach a bound tiger, she said gently:
“Jim, I’m sorry for you.”
“Oh! Miss Sophia,” said he weeping.
“_Very_ sorry for you. Oh! Jim, _why_ did you run away, and _why_ did
you break into houses and rob, and _why, why_ did you stab the
overseer?”
“_Is_ he dead? tell me _that, is_ he dead, Miss Sophia?”
“No, Jim, he is not dead, he has recovered, so you are free from
blood-guiltiness.”
“Thank God, then, I’m no murderer.”
“But, poor wretch, your fate in this world will be the same as though
you were. You made an assault upon the life of an overseer in his
attempt to re-capture you; not just to _see_ what you have brought
yourself to.”
The negro wept outright.
“But I did not come over here to reprove you, Jim. Jim, if I were to cut
your bands and let you go, what would you do?” He half started up, gazed
intently on her and said,
“I would go down on my knees and bless you; I’d learn to pray, so I
could pray for you.”
“I don’t mean that; would you try to reform?”
“Miss Sophia, would you believe me if I were to promise?”
Sophia was silent.
“There, I knew you wouldn’t, Miss Sophia, you couldn’t if you were to
try,” and he sighed heavily.
“Jim, I will let you go. I don’t know whether I am doing right or wrong,
but I cannot bear the thought of your wretched condition, and the awful
fate that too surely awaits you, if you are imprisoned to-night. Listen,
Jim. I have a strong fishing-boat, moored at the beach, at the foot of
the promontory; two oars and some fishing tackle are in it—in the little
fishing-shed under the brow of the rock there is a sail. When I cut
these cords, fly, take the boat, the oars, and the sail, put out into
the bay, keep near the coast, and _up_ the bay, until you reach the
Susquehanna; go a few miles up that, and then land. You will be in
Pennsylvania, and you will be safe. And oh, listen! Go to work—steal no
more, for every future crime you commit will rest upon my head for
permitting you to escape.” Sophie was now trembling at the
responsibility she was assuming. “Look you, Jim, resolve upon amendment,
pray God to help, and _I_,” said she sternly, “_I_ shall pray too. I
shall pray God to help you to reform, and I shall pray God to grant you
a safe termination to your highly dangerous voyage, if you are _going_
to reform; if not, if he sees your heart is hardened, I shall pray him
in that case to let you drown or fall into the hands of your pursuers,
that my mercy to you may not turn out cruelty to others.”
She went into the kitchen, got a pone of cornbread and a knife, returned
and cut his cords. He sprang upon his feet, and scarcely waiting to
receive the pone she gave him, fled from the house.
Sophie sat down trembling in her seat. She had been afraid of him even
while talking to him and setting him at liberty; now she drew a long
breath, with an inexpressible feeling of relief. But soon came other
thoughts; her doubtful act of mercy had been a matter of feeling
entirely, and by no means of judgment, and she did not now feel
altogether assured of its prosperity; besides she feared that she had
made herself in some way amenable to the laws, by assisting a felon to
escape. Sophie was really growing sick at heart; she resolved to avoid
an explanation and seek her rest. She went to her chamber, undressed and
retired to bed, where, with little Hagar clasped in her arms, she tried
to forget in the presence of innocence the scene of horror she had
lately witnessed. Presently she heard the officers enter the room below;
exclamations of surprise and regret (oaths were spared in the pastor’s
presence), and then she heard old Cumbo hobbling up the stairs. She
entered her room, exclaiming in tones of extreme indignation—
“Ha! hi! _What_ do you think, Miss Soph, do you think that gallows-faced
vilyun ain’t broke loose and _gone_!”
Sophie raised herself on her elbow and looked at the old woman without
speaking.
“Yes, indeed! broke loose and _gone_! There’s no tellin’ what _he
wouldn’t_ do, the ungrateful wretch, to break loose and go! after Massa
Widders con’cendin’ tu him too! Oh! he’d ’ny his Saviour—_he’d_ do
anything.”
“Cumbo, will you be kind enough to go down to Mr. Withers, and tell him
that I am sick—_very_ sick—and ask him to excuse my absence!”
“An’ nuff to make you! an’ nuff to make you! I’m sick myself; I did hope
to see that gran’ rascal hang. I did _that_, and now jes see what a
’spointment.”
And the old woman hobbled away, and soon she heard her visitors leave
the house, speaking their regret and sympathy as they went. Old Cumbo
came up, and spreading a pallet near her young mistress’s bed, lay down
to sleep, or rather to talk.