NEWS AT LAST.
Mrs. Leonard and her daughter went into the house again, where the
minister met them with his grave and pleasant welcome. Mrs. Leonard was
not gifted with that keen sensibility which would have discovered
something unusual in his manner; and Amy was too much occupied with the
wild thoughts crowding upon her to heed any thing that required close
observation.
While her mother was talking with the minister, and giving side thrusts
at the committee after her prompt fashion, Amy stole away and searched
the thronging company till she found herself in the kitchen, to which
Hagar had betaken herself.
Several of the committee were busy in this wing of the house; and Hagar,
after depositing her donation, was engaged in explaining why no other
member of the Arnold family was present.
“Yer see, our folks has been ’specting company ebber so long, and dere’s
been no end ter de baking, and scrubbin’ and sich like as has been
undertook on dat account. De little offerin’ as I has de pleasure to
descent is jest what we could pick up in a hurry from de ’bundance ob de
’casion. As for de piller-cases and sich like, my young missus jest sent
’em to satisfy de sisters dat dey wasn’t forgot, and never would be in
any grand fortune dat might fall ter her; but circumstances ob a
delicate natur, which nobody was to speak ob on no ’count, had kep’ her
away from de spinnin’-wheel and loom, so she only sent what was handy in
order to ’spress her good will.”
Those who listened to Hagar had no idea that her grandiloquence was
assumed in order to cover what she keenly felt to be the poverty of her
donation. And they were a good deal impressed by the hints of present
abundance and coming greatness, which she threw out on the strength of
her own vague conjectures alone. But all this gave Amy a gleam of
comfort, as it went to prove the truth of her mother’s belief regarding
the young Frenchman and Hannah Arnold. She stole timidly behind Hagar,
and, whispering that she wished to speak with her in the orchard, went
away and waited by the path till her humble friend should come out. She
had no inclination to join any of the young people who were roaming
under the trees, but walked along the outskirts of the orchard, peering
anxiously through the branches for fear that Hagar might pass without
seeing her.
After a little she saw the slave with her empty basket coming through
the back-door of the house and descending the footpath. With a quickened
breath the young creature glided along by the fence, and stood in the
path just where it crossed into a neighboring lot.
“Hagar!”
“Wal, what am it, young missus? Jest speak out, for I’se in a hurry to
get hum.”
“Hagar!”
“Wal, agin; what am it?”
This time Hagar spoke a little impatiently, and cast eager glances at
the fence, as if she longed to be over.
“Nothing, Hagar. Don’t be impatient. Only I,—I should like to hear from
the people in New Haven.”
“What, yer cousin?”
“No; she is well enough. But this French gentleman,—is he really going
to marry Hannah? You can trust me, Hagar; I won’t breathe it to a mortal
soul.”
“Why, how arnest you seem ’bout it. Yes; ’member I don’t speak from a
dead sartinty, but it’s my bleef dat it’ll be a match, and dat ’fore
long, too. Why dis is four time he’s been here since Christmas.”
“The fourth time! Ah, me, and I never knew it,—never dreamed that there
was any chance of hearing from him!” murmured Amy, with suppressed
tears.
“Hearin’ from _him_! What does yer mean by _him_?”
“Benedict, you know, Hagar. I haven’t heard a syllable about him for
months; and,—and we used to go to school together. Don’t you remember
it, Hagar,—Benedict, and Hannah, and I?”
“Yes,” said Hagar, looking hard at the fence, and pressing her thick
lips together, “yes; I ’member ’bout it sure ’nuff.”
“Ah, I knew you would, good Hagar! And how we all went blackberrying
together, ever so long ago; you went to take care of us.”
“Yes; I ’member ’bout dat, too. And how when Ben had eat up his
berries,—he was an orful greedy critter, our Ben,—you’d go and pour de
blackberries out of yer own basket and fill his’n up to de brim. Many a
scoldin’ you’ve got for comin’ hum short, when dat big boy got credit
for yer work. Yes, yes; I ’member more’n people tink, p’r’aps.”
“Then you remember that I always loved you, Hagar?”
“Yes, yes; I don’t deny nuthin’ ob dat,” answered the slave, casting
tender glances at the agitated girl.
“And how I flung a big stone at the snake that wanted to bite you?”
pleaded Amy.
“Wal, it allers kinder seemed ter me as if dat snake would a-made for
our Ben if he’d been let ’lone; but de way yer went at him was clear
grit, anyhow. Yes, yes; one don’t forget a ting like dat in a hurry.”
“Well, then, Hagar, you know one never forgets an old schoolfellow. And
I’ve a great favor to ask, Hagar; you won’t refuse it, promise that?”
persisted the poor young girl, all in a shiver of excitement.
“Wal, now, I don’t know ’bout dat; jest gib an idee ob what it is,” said
Hagar, pursing up her mouth and turning her head on one side.
Amy grew desperate. She clasped her hands hard together under her short
cloak, and spoke out rapidly, as one talks in a fever,
“I want to hear from him, my old schoolfellow, Benedict Arnold, and
nobody tells me a word. This young Frenchman has seen him, I am sure.
Perhaps he brings a letter, or something. He would think it strange if I
asked; but you can find out what I want to know,—all about him,
Hagar,—if he is well,—what he is doing,—if he ever talks of his old
friends in Norwich. And ask, dear, dear Hagar, if he—that is, if this
young French gentle man’s sister is in New Haven yet? Perhaps she’s
gone, and married to some nobleman by this time. I hope so. Don’t you,
Hagar? Nothing but a grand, rich man would be a match for her, you know.
Will you ask these questions now, just as if you wanted to know about
him for your own self? I wouldn’t ask it, but I haven’t another friend
in the wide, wide world that can help me. Only you, Hagar,—only you.”
There was something so pathetic in the girl’s voice, and in the pleading
of her look, that Hagar began to sniff the air and wink her eyelids
violently,—a sure sign that she would have liked to cry, but had
resolved to maintain herself against every attack of weakness.
“You’ll do this for me, Hagar?”
“Why, ob course I will. What’s de use of making sich a touze all ’bout
nothin’! I tort you was a-going ter ask me to take some trouble. Wal,
now, don’t go to cryin’. Next time I come across you, see if I don’t
tell all ’bout dem New Haven folks.”
“Oh, not till then? Ask the moment you get home. Come back here and tell
me,—I cannot wait.”
“What, here? Me come back? What on arth has got inter de gal?”
“Oh, Hagar! I am so anxious,—my heart aches so. Dear soul, go,—go quick!
Who knows what good news you will bring? Don’t look at me in that
way,—but have a little pity!”
“But I can’t do it,—thar! The tea’s to be got.”
“Ah, now you are cross, Hagar. You are like all the rest, and want to
put me away.”
“No, I don’t!”
“But you see how anxious I am, and won’t come back to help me. Look
here, old friend, I’ve got four silver shillings in this purse. Only
find out what I want and come right back; you shall take them now. I can
trust you.”
“No, I won’t! Put the puss back into yer busom, Amy. I ain’t so white as
some folks, but—wal, neber mind,—good-by! ’Fore sunset you’ll find me
here in de crook of dis fence as large as life.”
Amy smiled one of her old, sunny smiles, that gave back the lost beauty
to her face. As Hagar was mounting the fence, she seized her by the
dress.
“Oh, Hagar, you are so kind! Perhaps it will be good news that you
bring. If Hannah is married soon, _he_ may come to the wedding. If he
does,—if they tell you that, Hagar, I’ll give you the gold ear-rings
grandmother left me,—all pure gold, and as large and round as a crown
piece. Don’t shake your head. Oh, I shall be so glad to give them to
you. But do hurry back.”
“Well, well, let me go then. I’ll be back soon enough. Not for the
ear-rings, but—but——”
Amy did not hear the rest, for the negress walked off with long strides
till the trees hid her from sight. Twice she looked back, but only to
see those wild, mournful eyes following her,—oh, so anxiously.
After she got out of sight, Hagar began to walk more heavily. Then she
stood still, as if struck by some overpowering thought, staggered with
the pain of it for a moment, and sat down on a stump by the wayside,
where she burst into a hearty cry. At last she got up, wiped her face
with a corner of her cotton shawl, and went towards home.
“Yes,” she muttered. “I’ll stand by her troo tick and tin, and so shall
ebbry cullered pusson as wants de honor ob my ’quaintance. Let de white
folks peck her to death if dey’ve a mind to; but as for me,—wall, it’s
wicked to cuss anybody; but de blood riles right up from de bottom ob my
berry heart when I tink dat young feller was broughten up under de same
roof wid a ’spectable pusson like me, nussed at his mudder’s bussum like
any udder baby.”
Thus muttering to herself, Hagar went on her way home. Amy watched by
the fence so long as a glimpse could be caught of her gorgeous calico
dress. Then she went back to the house with something of animation in
her face. For two hours she could not expect Hagar back again. Meantime
she must hide herself in the orchard, or join with the crowd. The voice
of her mother calling her decided the question. She went into the house
with a faint glow on her cheek; for, at her age, hope is quick to
revive, trample its bright blossoms down as you will.
“Yes, yes. He has been waiting for this to happen. At his sister’s
wedding all will be well.” Thus she half-murmured, half-thought, on her
way up the orchard.
Under one of the vast tent-like trees nearest the house, a rustic table
was being spread for the young folks. Here a bevy of fair girls was
busy, darting in and out under the branches and through the back-door,
eagerly spreading the feast. One of the girls called to Amy as she went
up the footpath.
“Amy! Amy Leonard! You lazy thing! Come and help set the table. What on
earth are you about?”
A quick thrill ran through that young heart. She was not avoided. That
was all a fancy. The girls loved her as well as ever. Amy turned, with
the glow of these thoughts on her face, and joined the innocent
revelers.
“I am sorry. True enough: why should one play and the rest work? Thank
you, Nancy Clark. Now, what shall I set about first?”
“Go and coax your mother to send out some of her nice things for us. It
isn’t fair for them to take every thing for the minister’s table.”
“Yes, yes; I’ll do it,” cried Amy, grateful for this cheering notice.
“Hunt up a pitcher, Amy, and hook some of their roses, if you get a
chance. We’ll have a flower-pot that’ll take theirs down, mind that.”
“I left some hemlock-tops and lots of flowers in the wagon,” said Amy,
running off.
Directly she came back with her arms full of evergreens and branches of
forest flowers, with garlands of ground pine trailing on the grass as
she walked. The young girls set up a shout as she appeared half buried
in masses of green foliage.
“Oh, come on!” cried Nancy Clark, flinging the branches Amy had cast at
her feet right and left. “Here’s oceans of flowers. We’ll have a border
all around the table-cloth, and flower-pots at both ends. Work away!
work away!”
There was instant and joyous obedience to this behest. Every hand was at
work twining flowers among the green spray, and weaving garlands that,
united together, soon formed a sumptuous wreath around the white drapery
of the table.
“Now,” cried Nancy Clark, crowding masses of flowers into a great stone
pitcher half sunk in the grass, “some one come help me lift this to its
place, and then we shall pull an even yoke with the best of ’em.”
A dozen hands were ready to aid her, and directly a glowing bower of
wild blossoms marked one end of the festal board.
“Now, who is to ask a blessing? The minister says we may choose any one
we like. Which shall it be,—Dr. Blake or Amy Leonard’s father?”
“Oh, Mr. Leonard! Mr. Leonard! Amy’s father. Didn’t she bring the
flowers?”
The tears sprang to Amy’s eyes. It was sweet to be called out of her
terrible depression by this warm-hearted clamor.
“Why, look at Amy! Only think, she’s crying!” said one of the girls.
“No, I’m not. It was because this kindness came so suddenly. Then
there’s Dr. Blake.”
“Well, well,” cried Nancy Clark, who was a charming leader in every
thing, “Mr. Leonard shall ask the blessing, and Dr. Blake can return
thanks.”
“Yes, yes. Nancy’s hit the mark this time. Now hurry up, hurry up, or
the old folks’ll get ahead of us!” was the general cry.
It was one of the prettiest sights in the world,—that crowd of blooming
girls, hurrying to and fro in eager haste to keep up with their elders.
Now and then a grave matron would step to the door-stone and take a
survey of the scene, affecting a little jealousy, and venturing on a
demure rebuke of so much mirth; but this only checked the laughter for a
moment, and the noise went on again.
“There now, the young fellers are beginning to come!” cried Nancy, all
in a flutter, and speaking below her breath. “I saw a hull wagon-load
get out as I stopped in the entry-way. How they are all fixed up! Tim
Johnson’s got a red ribbon to his cue, and such bright buckles in his
shoes. Oh, goodness!”
“Hush, hush! they’re coming!” whispered half a dozen voices at once, and
there was a general flutter of expectation, by which the birds overhead
were entirely distanced.
It was some minutes before the young men ventured to mingle freely with
the girls; but their shyness soon wore off, and it was rather difficult
to suppress them into decorous silence, when Mr. Leonard and Dr. Blake
come forward to preside at their portion of the festival. While Leonard,
with his fine, frank face beaming with tranquil happiness, was uttering
his rather lengthy blessing in the orchard, the minister was equally
sententious over the great pie in the best room within. Directly there
was such a hum and clatter all around the minister’s dwelling, such
passing of dainties and interchange of smiles, that the birds gave up
and stopped singing for the day, feeling themselves quite lost and
overpowered in the general hilarity.
In the midst of this charming riot, Amy, who was thrown back into her
anxiety the moment she had nothing to work at, began to cast furtive
glances down the footpath. It was scarcely time for Hagar to come, but
the sickness of suspense grew strong upon her, and at last she stole
from the table and made her way down the orchard.
When she reached the fence, Hagar was in sight, walking at a great pace.
The kind slave checked her pace at the sight of Amy, and came heavily
towards her.
“Oh, Hagar!”
It was all her white lips could utter. Hagar saw the anguish of
expectation in her face, and looked away.
“Have you nothing to tell me, Hagar?”
Oh, the heart-broken tone! It cut Hagar to the soul.
“No, miss. Yer see I hadn’t much chance to ax ’bout any ting. Miss
Hannah and her beau started right off, and I kinder walked ’long.”
“Hannah and her beau? Are they here?”
“Yes. Dey came on ahead.”
“And you have nothing to tell me?”
“No, I—I—in course Miss Hannah will hab de news, so it wasn’t worth
while for me to wait.”
“And I must ask for it there, among all those people! Oh, what can I do?
How can I speak?”
She was looking in terror toward the house, afraid to go there, but
unable to wait. A moment of keen struggle, and she started away,
clenching her hands and pressing her lips harder at each step.
“Amy! Miss Amy! come back! I’m a sneakin’ coward to let you go and hear
it ‘mongst ’em all. Amy Leonard, come back, I say!”
But Amy was too far off. Hagar’s voice mingled with the noises that
filled the orchard, and the poor child entered the house, wild and
panting.
The supper-room was crowded. Mrs. Leonard sat near the minister, who had
twice warmed her heart by praises of the chicken-pie. Hannah Arnold
stood near, looking flushed and anxious, like one who had just tasted
something of bitterness dashed into a cup of joy while at her lips. She
had looked around for Amy, on her first entrance to the room, and, with
a sense of relief at finding her absent, was now talking in a low voice
to the minister’s wife. Amy struggled up to where they were standing;
but they had drawn close to the table, and she only found a place
between them and the wall. Thus they remained unconscious of her
presence.
“Is not this unexpected news about your brother?” the minister’s wife
was half whispering. “We had no idea that he was paying serious
attentions to the young lady. Indeed, we thought——”
Hannah broke in upon the words before they were uttered. She could not
endure to hear what was the general expectation. It was a wound to her
delicate friendship for Amy to have her name mentioned in the
conversation.
“Yes, it was sudden; but perhaps we ought not to be surprised at it. She
is a very lovely person.”
“When will the wedding come off?”
The minister’s wife spoke in a low voice, and Hannah answered still more
subduedly.
“Next week. We are all going to New Haven, and you must not be surprised
if I,—that is, if it is a double wedding. _He_ insists upon it.”
“What! her brother? Oh! I understand.”
That instant Hannah felt a hand grasp her arm,—a hand so cold that it
chilled her; and a whisper that made her breath come quick, seemed to
pass into her heart.
“Hannah, is it Benedict who is going to marry some one?”
For a moment Hannah’s lips refused to move. Then she bent her head to
the pale face looking over her shoulder, and answered.
“Yes, dear Amy.”
A moment, and the cold hand clutched her arm like a vice; then a heavy
weight fell against her, and, turning quickly, she caught Amy in her
arms.
“Help me to get her out,” she said, in a hoarse whisper, addressing the
minister’s wife. “Oh, what can I do?”
The good woman passed her arm around the sinking girl, and the two,
without noise or outcry, bore Amy into the passage; but the movement
could not be altogether concealed. Some one who saw the white face
drooping on Hannah’s shoulder called out.
“Doctor! Ho! Dr. Blake.”
The sound ran through those chill veins like fire. Amy lifted her head,
gave one wild look around, and sprang away.
A dusky sunset filled the orchard; but the young people enjoying
themselves under the trees, saw a pale creature flitting through them so
swiftly that no one, at first, recognized her; then a careless voice
observed.
“It is Amy Leonard. How strangely she acts to-day!” and she was
forgotten again.
As Hagar stood by the fence, this white face came towards her, veered on
one side, and, with a desperate scramble, crossed the fence.
“Amy! Amy Leonard, it is only me, yer friend, yer best friend till
death. Come to Hagar! Come to Hagar.”
But the figure darted on, faster and faster, and the darkness fell
around it.