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.

CHAPTER II.

“She cannot love Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endeared.”—Shakespeare.

The Rev. Nathan Taine was one of the leading apostles of Universalism in the West and had a large and influential following at Cleveland. His early life had been characterized by struggle and hardship, and later by sorrows and cares; but withal, he was what the world calls a successful man and had attained to a position of considerable eminence from very small beginnings.

His voice was always heard when the Union was the theme, and he indulged in many bitter sarcasms against “Copperheads” and other species of disunionist and pro-slavery sympathizers at the North, whom he regarded as a fouler brood than the declared rebels who were in arms against the nation they had wronged and which, he always declared, had not wronged them.

For two years after he lost his wife Nathan Taine remained a widower; but, thinking that it would be better for his son and adopted daughter if he had a good woman who, as his wife, would take a mother’s interest in them, he married again.

He was strangely disappointed. In those days he was only the young pastor of a small country church of the Methodist persuasion, and the only lady he knew who seemed suited to his case was Miss Melissa Duncan, a spinster of about his own age, a leader in his church who was reputed to have both money and brains, and the only child and heir of the richest man in the county, who had recently died. This wife never had a child, and instead of being a mother and friend to those who were left to her care, she was from the first cold and harsh towards them and was regarded by them as an ogress, rather than a mother. While still a lad James had gone out and worked for his living to escape the tyrant who ruled at home, and Hagar had to take his share of Mrs. Taine’s unkindness.