WANDERING IN THE NIGHT.
Amy had left the house from fright alone. The sound of her father’s
voice in stern denunciation fell like iron on her heart. She was
out-doors, and fleeing along the shadowy side of the road before a
thought of where she was going entered her mind. She was tired now,—a
little rest made her feel how tired,—and she longed to lie down on the
turf in some corner of the fence and die. But she dared not pause or
sleep. Some one might pass by and, seeing her there, guess that she had
been driven forth by her father,—her dear, good father, whom she loved
so fondly, and yet had offended beyond hope of pardon.
The delicate reticence of her nature shrunk from this exposure; so she
wandered on till the very tree on which her parents afterward watched so
many hours tempted her to sit down. Here a feeling of utter dreariness
fell upon her. Homeless, friendless, disgraced, ill, what could she do?
where could she go? Back to her parents? Alas, she had no courage for
that! Who on the wide earth would give her shelter now? She thought over
all her meagre list of friends. Was there one who would not pull in the
latch-string when she was seen to approach in the desolation of her
disgrace? She could not hope that there was.
Then Amy thought of her lover with a sort of dreamy pain. He had left
her to all this,—betrayed her into something worse than death. She
wondered if he guessed at her present distress, and if the knowledge
would give him a moment’s uneasiness. Then she fell into a sort of
apathy, and would believe nothing, not even what Hannah Arnold had said,
nor the stern words of her own father. Her feet were wet; her limbs were
chilled; but there was strange heat in her forehead. Altogether, it was
insanity that possessed her, else why was she there so cold, and at
night? Why did she think such wicked things of him? Why did she so long
to creep away and hide herself forever and ever?
I think Amy fell asleep a moment, but a wagon coming down a distant hill
aroused her: she must not stay there.
But, alas, her limbs were so heavy, her poor frame so terribly chilled,
that she could hardly move, and fell back from the stone wall that she
attempted to climb, trembling with weakness.
Then what could she find on the other side but long, wet grass, and
stones harder than the hearts that had condemned her? A friend,—had she
one on earth?
It might have been some pitying angel that reminded her that moment of
Hagar and her last words in the orchard. She forgot that the negro woman
belonged to _his_ father; or, if she remembered, the idea brought vague
comfort with it. Yes, she would go to Hagar, whose words had been so
full of pity.
The wagon was close by now, or she might have dropped off into lethargy
again. As it was, she started up and walked steadily forward till she
came in sight of the Arnold mansion. A light burned in the front room
after the fashion of those times. Hannah was sitting up with her
betrothed husband, and their happy, low voices, as they conversed by the
open window, floated out on the air, mocking the poor wanderer, who
stood leaning upon the gate looking at them through her blinding tears.
It was now late at night: so Hannah arose, with a happy blush on her
cheek, and bade Paul good-night, placing her hand in his with the sweet
confidence which follows a full avowal of mutual affection.
Hannah had left the minister’s directly after Amy’s departure, and thus
escaped the whispers and half-spoken scandal that followed the poor
girl’s flight, else there would have been tears instead of roses on that
young cheek: for she loved Amy Leonard with her whole heart, and grieved
silently at the change which promised her another sister-in-law.
Amy saw Hannah stand up, drooping toward Paul like a flower on its
stalk, till her lips met his in the first kiss of their betrothal. How
tenderly he laid his hand upon her head! with what gentle respect he
conducted her to the door, and whispered “good-night!”
Amy saw it all, and the bitterness of her own fate pressed upon her with
cruel force. She could bear the scene no longer, but opened the gate and
stole round the house, hushing her breath as she went.
Hagar slept in a little bedroom off the kitchen,—a room which Amy had
played in scores of times when she and Hannah were children together.
The kind soul was wakeful that night, for she knew something of the
sorrow Arnold’s engagement to the French girl would bring to Amy
Leonard. A sense of wrong oppressed her honest heart; she could not get
the pale face of that young creature out of her mind; it haunted her
like a ghost, as she said afterward.
While she was lying in this half-wakeful state, she heard footsteps
coming round the house, and the rustle of garments brushing through the
plantain leaves with a heavy sound. Then two hands, beating with their
open palms against the window, aroused her completely, and she sat up in
bed, her wool half-uncurling with fear and her great eyes riveted on the
window.
“Who’s dar?—who’s dar, I say?” she cried out. “If it’s a live pusson,
speak out; if it’s a ghost de Lord a massy on us, for I’m ’lone in dis
part ob de dwellin’!”
“Hagar! Oh, Hagar, let me in! You told me to come if I wanted a friend.
Let me in, Hagar. I am shivering with cold,—I am ready to drop.”
Hagar knew the voice and sprang up.
“Hush, Miss! I knows yer voice, and opens to it to once. Jes’ go roun’
to de kitchen-door, an’ I’ll be dar in no time.”
The face went away from the window; and Hagar, huddling on a skirt and
short-gown, opened the kitchen-door.
“Come in,—come in, poor little honey bird!” she said, drawing the
shivering girl in with both hands. “Don’t be afeared. Yer welcom’ as
greens in spring time! Dar, dar sit down on de hearth,—it’s kinder warm
yet,—whilst I rake open de ashes and blow up de embers.”
Amy fell into a great armed-chair that stood near the hearth, and,
leaning her head back, sighed heavily. Hagar was busy attempting to
kindle up the fire, which ignited slowly; but a few splinters of
pine-knots soon shot up in a flame, and then Hagar rose from her knees
prepared to say some comforting words to her guest; but she was startled
to see the white face falling forward on her bosom with the stillness of
death. Amy had fainted.
Quick as thought the negress ran to a cupboard, and, seeing a camphor
bottle, poured some of its contents into the palm of her hand, with
which she bathed Amy’s forehead and temples.
“Come to,—come right to, I tell ye! It’s a friend as you’re wid,—one
as’ll stan’ by ye so long as she’s got two feet to stomp wid. Come to, I
sez! Open yer blue eyes an’ see who it is, my chippen-bird! Lor, dat
camphor’s strong; but ‘taint no more good dan water! Hi, hi! she
shivers,—she’s comin’ to, poor honey!”
Amy breathed again and feebly lifted her head. Hagar ran for a pillow.
“Dar, dar; jes’ res’ yer sweet head ’gin dat, an’ take a few drops more
ob dis ’ere camphor. It’ll take de chill right off from yer heart. Dear,
dear; how wet yer feet are, and yer go-to-meetin’ frock!”
Down upon her knees Hagar fell, and, taking off the wet shoes, began to
rub the white feet they had chilled with great tenderness, buzzing and
purring over them like a cat comforting her kittens.
“Yes, yes; yer got one friend yet, anyhow; and, while Hagar libs, to say
nuffin’ of tudder pusson as is revoted to her, nobody shall hurt yer.
Dar, dar, don’t yer feel ’em gettin’ warm and rosy as a little baby’s
feet when its mudder kisses ’em? Now, try to open yer eyes wide; and if
yer could jest smile a little, it’d seem ter encourage me while I go
up-stairs and call missus.”
“No—no, don’t call any one!” pleaded Amy, struggling to sit up. “I can’t
think how I came here; but your kind words ran in my head all the way;
and I forgot that it was at his home you lived. I will drink a few drops
of the camphor, Hagar; then give me my shoes and stockings, and I will
go away!”
“Go away! No you won’t. Dar!”
“Yes, Hagar, I must; this is no place for me. I was not quite myself, or
you would not have seen me here.”
“But whar will yer go to?”
“I don’t know!”
“What will yer do?”
“I don’t know!”
“What sent yer away from hum so late o’ night?”
Amy turned her head with a moan of pain, but answered nothing.
“Der yer want ter go back?”
Two great tears rolled down those pale cheeks, and Amy whispered sadly,
“I cannot go there, Hagar. It is not my home any more!”
“Den dar’s only one ting ter be said ’bout it,—here yer is, and here
yer’ll stay till mornin’, sure. I’ll jist hang ober de tea-kittle and
make a hot cup o’ tea, which you shall drink in comfort, while I rub yer
feet till dey burn agin. Arter dat, per’aps yer’ll tell me someting else
dat’ll do yer good. Hark! I hear somebody a-comin’ down-stairs. Wasn’t
dat a creak?”
Amy started up, and, regardless of her naked feet, prepared to escape;
but Hagar forced her kindly into the chair again, striving to pacify her
fright.
“Dar—dar now, honey bird! don’t be skeered,—yer haven’t nothin’ but
friends under dis roof, anyhow. Nobody kin come as isn’t glad ter see
yer. So jest sit still and stop shakin’! It’ll do no good,—and what
don’t do no good, is wastin’ de Lord’s precious time.”
The poor, weak girl suffered herself to be controlled, though her eyes,
now wide open and burning with affright, were turned upon one of the
doors like those of a chained gazelle.
The door opened a little, and a sweet voice called out, “Hagar.”
“Well, missus,” answered the handmaiden, “what am wantin’?”
“Nothing, Hagar. Only I heard a noise in the kitchen, and, as everybody
was in bed, fancied that something might have happened.”
“Somethin’ has happened! Look here,—look at dis poor lamb. Stand by her,
missus, or her death’ll be on our heads as sure de Lord knows what’s
what. Come here, missus; kneel down by de side ob Hagar, and pray
Almighty God to forgib dem as has brought her to dis. It’ll be prayin’
for yer own son!”