FOLLOWING AFTER.
The cabin on the Yantic was a sad, sad home after Amy left it. Since the
minister’s festival it had been a house of sorrow, but now, that she was
gone,—utterly gone,—a sense of desolation settled there which seemed
almost worse than death. It must be a terrible calamity which prevents a
New England woman from doing her household work in season. Mrs. Leonard
was faithful as ever in this respect; but the method,—that was all
changed. Her steps grew heavy, as if old age had suddenly fallen upon
her. She went about her duties in a dull mechanical way, never smiling,
and never stopping to scold. The cat might have curled itself to sleep
on the layers of white cloth that covered the yeasting bread, and she
would scarcely have boxed its ears. The poor woman was so still and
mournfully quiet that her cabin seemed like a tomb.
It was scarcely better with the strong man, Leonard. He had no heart for
work, and yet labored diligently. The saw never stopped in its course
without arousing him from a deep revery. He would stand, with folded
arms, and watch its glittering teeth eat through the heart of an oak
log, as unconscious of its progress as the boards that lay around him.
He had fallen away greatly in his person and the clothes that had been a
close fit in the winter now hung loosely around his reduced figure. With
the farmers, who brought logs to the mill, he was reserved, and they
thought sullen. If any of them began to talk of his daughter, which was
often the case, even with his kindest-hearted neighbors, he would listen
gravely, and make such brief reply, that they ventured no farther.
Sometimes, Leonard would leave the mill for hours, and stray away along
the margin of the falls to the ledge of rocks, on which he and the elder
Arnold had met in prayer on that cold winter day. The ledge was
pleasanter now: cushions of velvet moss covered it with a rich greenness
that was kept bright as emeralds by the spray. Great hemlock and pine
branches bent their darker tints over it. The waters were all unchained,
and rioted gloriously under the warm sunshine. But all this gave Leonard
no comfort. He would have preferred bleak winds, and cold, drifting
snow. There the good man would kneel down, sorrowful, humbly, and
covering his face with both hands, wait for God to have compassion on
him. He did not pray aloud; there was no power of eloquence on his lips
then. God had smitten him in his love and in his pride, so he fell upon
his face, in meek faith, and hushed his aching heart into patience.
One day,—it was the third, I think, after Amy left him,—he had been
sitting alone upon the ledge, thinking of her, when a flood of yearning
tenderness came to his heart, so suddenly, that he burst into tears and
sobbed aloud. His child seemed close to him, drawing him with an
impalpable touch of her hands to follow after her. There was something
so real in the impression, that he stood up, and wiping the tears from
his face, almost smiled.
“Yes, darling, I _will_ come,” he said aloud. “How did I ever find the
heart to let you go without me?” A bird, perched upon the hemlock behind
him, burst into song, as he spoke, and its ecstasy of music confirmed
the pathetic pleading of his heart. He looked up at the bird,
thankfully. His soul was fall of poetic faith. Had not God once
vouchsafed to make an innocent bird his messenger?
With a lighter step than he had used for weeks, Leonard left the rocks
and went home. His wife had been spinning near the door. He saw her
through the opening; but there was no whirr of the flyers, no flutter of
her active fingers around the flax. He moved nearer and saw that her
hands were clasped on the edge of the motionless wheel. Her face had
fallen upon them, and by the motion of her shoulders he saw that she was
crying. He drew nearer and spoke.
“Wife.”
She lifted her head, and tried to put back a lock of wet, gray hair that
had strayed from under her cap. But her hands trembled piteously, and
she let them fall upon the wheel again. Leonard put the hair back
tenderly, and kissed her forehead; for he saw that the last few weeks
had left but little of the original brown for her cap to conceal.
“Oh, Joshua! if I could only follow her! My heart is breaking to see
Amy.”
Leonard kept his hard hand on her head,—his face lighted up as he bent
over her.
“How could we find the heart to let her go without us!” cried the poor
mother, lifting both her hands, and clasping them over his. “She was our
only child, Joshua.”
“Get up, wife. Put away your wheel, and make ready. We will follow our
child.”
“Joshua! oh, Joshua! are you in earnest?”
“Yes; we will go.”
“How? how?—on foot? Oh, I can walk! You are a strong man, and I haven’t
been so well lately, but you shall not outwalk me. How many days will it
take? No matter. I feel young again. Can we start right off?
Perhaps,—perhaps we might take the wagon.”
“We could not walk, wife. Providence has provided a better way for us
than the wagon.”
“Oh, husband, how thankful I am to Providence!”
“We have need. Another sloop will sail down the river to-night. Get
every thing ready, and we will go in it.”
Mrs. Leonard started up, and seizing her fly-wheel carried it off to the
garret, where she forgot to unload it. Then she came down-stairs again
with a pillow-case in her hand, which she carried to a corner cupboard
and began to fill promiscuously with biscuit, dried beef, doughnuts, and
a quarter section of cheese.
“Where are you going, Joshua?” she called out, as her husband took his
hat. “Where are you going?” She had no time to look after him, but tied
one end of the pillow-case in a huge knot, and set it down to the floor
as she spoke.
“I must go over to town and get some money. There isn’t enough in the
house, I’m afraid,” he answered.
“Come back, Joshua, come back. I can’t bear to trust you out of my
sight; it wouldn’t seem like a reality if I did. As for the money,—look
here!” She went to the clock, opened the narrow door in its case, and
thrusting her arm into the opening, drew forth a shot-bag half full of
coin, her accumulated savings for twenty years.
“I don’t know what it will cost,” she said, seating herself, and pouring
the money into her lap; “but here must be enough and to spare. I saved
every sixpence of it for her ‘setting-out,’ but you shall have it all. I
ought to have been ashamed to hoard it up away from you, though it was
for her. Here,—just put it back into the bag; my hands shake so, I
can’t. But it’s with joy,—don’t think it’s with any thing but joy,
husband.”
I am afraid that Leonard’s hands were not quite steady as he gathered
the money from his wife’s lap and put it in the shot-bag again. He was
thinking how much in his superior intellect he had underrated that
genuine womanly nature. Now that affection had refined and elevated her
he could see how good she was.
In a house like that there was little need of elaborate preparation. A
second pillow-case was soon filled with the last articles of Mrs.
Leonard’s wardrobe, and a pair of saddle-bags proved sufficient for
Leonard’s Sunday clothes and a change or two of linen. When these were
placed in the one-horse wagon, Leonard went down to the mill and posted
a written notice of his absence in a conspicuous place, while his wife
drew in the leathern latch-string and crept out of the window, with full
assurance that their property would be safe till their return.
The reader must understand that a journey, or rather voyage, from
Norwich to New Haven was a momentous undertaking in those times, and on
ordinary occasions produced no little excitement. But though the bustle
of preparation lifted this good couple out of their sorrow for a time,
it had no power to make them forget how painful was the errand which
took them from home. Sudden as her departure had been, Mrs. Leonard
bethought herself of Hagar, who might have some message to send to her
mistress, and asked her husband to drive round by the homestead on his
way to the sloop.
They found Hagar in a state of benign happiness. Her reconciliation with
Dan had been followed by so many loving protestations, and their future
store of bliss had been so completely discussed, that Hagar took upon
herself the dignity of a married woman at once, though she held poor Dan
at a tremendous distance in fact, and kept him in a state of probation
that tested his constancy to the utmost. Never in his whole life had
Dan, in a given time, rolled so many back-logs, split so much oven-wood,
or shelled so many baskets of corn, or had proved his desire to please
Hagar, since the family went away.
When the Leonards drove up, Hagar was standing at the front-door,
shading her eyes with one hand, at a loss to make out who her visitors
were. But the moment she recognized them, the hand fell, and she hurried
out to the gate, rejoiced to see the good couple abroad again.
“Why, Miss Arnold, am dat you? Well, if yer don’t both look jest as
nat’ral as can be, only a leetle more so. If I wasn’t a-tellin’ our
Daniel dis ’ere mornin’,—sez I, Dan, I’d give all my old shoes, and
yourn to boot, jest ter see neighbor Leonard and his wife a-comin’ ober
here ter take tea wid our folks, jest as dey were usen ter; and sez he,
‘Hagar,’ sez he, ‘it ed make my ferlicity too extra arter what you and I
knows on.’ But come in. Gracious me, yer don’t say as yer won’t get out!
What, goin’ ’way from hum! Goin’ in de sloop ter New Haven! See our
folks! Why, yer eenamost skare the breath out ob dis body. Well, anyhow,
yer must come in, if it’s only ter tell ’em how yer found things a-goin’
on. I never should git ober it if yer didn’t.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Leonard, always ready to make others happy in her
homely way,—“very well, Hagar. We’ll just step into the kitchen and take
a drink of milk. We come away in such a hurry that both of us forgot
about dinner.”
“Yer welcome ter ebery ting in de house, and I reckon yer won’t find any
ting a-going wrong ter tell our folks about.”
Hagar marched into the house, and led the way from room to room,
insisting that Mrs. Leonard should satisfy herself of the good
condition, and report accordingly, till they at length landed in the
kitchen.
“Now,” said Hagar, “you jest set down and kinder rest a minute, while
Mr. Leonard gibs a peek inter de barn. I reckon he’ll find Mr. Daniel
hard at work. Now, I tell yer, Mr. Leonard, that inderwidual is awful
smart, awful.”
With her black face all in a quiver of delight, Hagar flung the
barn-door wide open, and revealed Dan sitting astride a shovel, which
was placed with the handle on a log of wood, and the iron part resting
on the edge of a huge corn-basket, which he should have been filling
with kernels. His arms were folded loosely, and his black face fell on
his bosom. He was fast asleep. Hagar started forward, leaving Leonard in
the background.
“Dan, yer lazy nigger,” she cried, stung with mortification, “am dis der
way yer shells corn?”
Dan started up, blinked his eyes like an owl, and making a dive at the
pile of ears heaped near him, dashed one against the edge of the shovel,
and sent the corn flying like golden rain into the basket.
Hagar, a little mollified, went close to him.
“Oh, Dan! Dan! how could yer?—afore folks, too!”
Dan held his ear of corn motionless against the edge of the shovel, and
lifted his eyes to Hagar.
“Yer didn’t think as dis chile was ’sleep, now, did yer, Hagar? Not a
bit on it. I was only a remuneratin’ ober der sea ob ferlicity dat dis
cullud pusson is a-sailin’ in. I’se so happy, Hagar, dat now and den I
must stop work ter take a dive.”
Hagar folded her arms, and looking severely down on her lover shook her
head.
“Oh, Dan, Dan, ’tain’t ob no use ter play possum wid me. I knows ye.”
“In course yer dus. Who has got a right ter know me if yer hasn’t?”
answered Dan, benignly. “I’d like ter see any udder woman dar;”
whereupon Dan fell diligently to his work, and Hagar followed Mr.
Leonard, who had returned to the house and was helping his wife into the
wagon.
Hagar came up, out of breath.
“Now Mrs. Leonard, you jes’ gib our bes’ love to de folks, and tell ’em
ebbery ting is going on splendid at der farm. Yer kin say as Mr. Daniel
works so hard, night an’ day, dat he gets clar tuckered out, and
eenamost falls ’sleep ober der corn-basket. Yer might a-seen him
yerself.”
“I will tell them that every thing is going on right,” said Leonard,
kindly.
“And ’bout Miss Amy,” said Hagar, leaning over the wagon-wheel, and
speaking in a low voice,—“tell her as I tinks ’bout her a sight, and if
she’s got a frien’ on earth, it’s Hagar. Don’t fergit ter say dat.”
Mrs. Leonard reached forth her hand, and shook that which Hagar held
forth.
“Good-by, Hagar, good-by. I shall never forget your kindness to my poor
girl,—be sure of that, Hagar. Good-by.”
The wagon was on its way, and Mrs. Leonard sent back the last words like
a benediction. That night the good woman sat in the little close cabin
of the sloop, a good deal saddened after the excitement of getting off.
With every sound on deck she would start, look eagerly at her husband,
and say,—
“Joshua, are we sailing? Has she left the shore?”
At last there was a great tumult over head; the loud tramp of feet, the
rushing of cable, and a loud voice giving orders; then a continued
vibration, a long, swinging motion, and the sloop was on her course.