Chapter XXXIV: Hagar’s Love-Letter

The Arnolds had sailed, taking Amy with them. Hagar was left entire mistress of the farm-house, an honor which she undoubtedly made the most of. There is no describing the comfortable meals that she took _tete-a-tete_ with her sable lover before the kitchen fire. Whether it was that the absence and consent of her mistress had made Hagar unusually confiding, or that Dan became more courageous with the house all to themselves, it is difficult to say: but certain it was, that in less than three days after the family left home, Hagar and Dan were an engaged couple, and fell into those pleasant confidences that make the month before marriage a pleasant forerunner of the veritable honeymoon.

Still, there was some little mystery about Hagar’s movements that Dan could not help observing. A sly way of putting things out of sight when he came in suddenly, and of turning her back towards him when at work, which was rather depressing to a newly-engaged man, who thirsted for mutual confidence, thorough appreciation, and all that sort of thing.

This state of affairs lasted only one day in the kitchen; but the effect remained behind, for Dan was of a susceptible temperament and tormented with these exquisite sensibilities that vulgar persons denominate jealousy. Just now, of course, all these feelings were ready to start into full-grown life with the first provocation. The very day after Dan had been blessed with a promise of Hagar’s fair hand, as he denominated the hard-working member which washed Mrs. Arnold’s dishes three times a day, he went to Norwich, and was hailed, while passing the post-office, with news that a letter had just arrived, directed to Miss Hagar Dun, to the care of Mr. B. Arnold.

Dan took the letter with studied indifference, but his heart had given one leap at first, and then fell in his bosom like a lump of granite. Who but the black gemman, Peter, could write to Hagar,—his Hagar? Perhaps the dandy negro had proposed in that very letter. What if Hagar should repent and look back with longing after a person who could offer her freedom, with all the glory of a city life added to that blessing.

Dan ruminated in this fashion all the way home. Every ten steps he took out the letter, bent it into a tube, and examined the writing, not one word of which could the poor fellow have read, even with the help of a broken seal. Of course this process inflamed his imagination till every crudely formed letter, as he afterward poetically expressed it, was like a copperhead sent by that unprincipled negro to sting him in his happiness.

What should he do? Give the letter to Hagar, and thus immolate himself on the altar of a noble integrity? “Well,” as Dan said, putting on his crownless hat with a dash, “he wasn’t quite up to that, nohow. Hagar was his’n, and his’n she should be in spite of a tarnal heap of crooked marks done up in that way just to tanterlize him.”

So, with this indecorous, and, I grieve to say, immoral conclusion, Dan crushed the letter in his hand, and the hand deep in his trousers pocket, where he held on, as if determined to strangle every word it contained before the paper saw daylight again.

When Dan appeared before his betrothed, he was still crushing her letter deep down into his pocket, and there he stood, gazing upon her with a sort of mournful ferocity which set his eyes in a glare, and made his face blacker than ever.

Hagar observed this, and came towards him, rubbing a teacup hard with her crash towel, in a way that Dan took for defiance.

“Oh, Hagar! Hagar!” he cried, with a burst of indignant tenderness that made his thick lips quiver and his white teeth gleam.

“Why, Dan, what am it as ’stresses yer? Hearn anything ’bout our folks? Oh, my, der sloop is sunk? Dey have all gone plump to de bottom, ebery one on ’em. Gor Amighty hab mercy on us all, for we’re poor niggers widout no master, no missus, nor nobody else ter tell us what ter do!”

This outbreak in the wrong direction astonished Dan so completely that he stood more rigid than ever, with his usually sleepy eyes wide open, and his lips falling heavily apart.

“Where was it? When was it? Oh, Dan! Dan! Lub me now a’most ter death, for I hain’t got nobody else ter ’spress ’fection for me.”

Hagar dashed the towel down from her eyes, and, making a plunge at her lover, threw both arms around his neck, so full of genuine grief that she really was quite unconscious of her own tender demonstration.

The granite of Dan’s heart melted within him; but as he attempted to withdraw his hand to return her embrace, that fatal letter rattled in his pocket and he was rock again.

“Miss Dun, will yer jest please ter rise from dis bussom? Yer fergets der blushing ’priety as is so facernatin’ in de fair sect.”

“Dan,” cried Hagar, aghast, and blushing till she grew black as midnight in the face, “scuse me, I wasn’t concentious of what I was a-doing; dem deaths come so sudden I——”

“Dare ain’t no deaths as I knows on, Miss Dun, on’y dare may be,” said Dan, settling himself in his clothes, which had been slightly deranged by Hagar’s embrace.

“No death! Den the sloop ain’t sunk?”

“Not as I knows on.”

“No, no; den what has happened?”

“Nothin’!”

“Nothin’! And yer did this jest ter cheat me out ob a tender embrace. Oh, Dan!”

Hagar’s eyes began to sparkle, and, taking the dish-towel which had just been doing duty at her eyes between both hands, she commenced to wring and twist it ominously.

“No, I didn’t needer,” said Dan, eyeing the towel askance. “It was you as offered; not I as asked.”

“Dan!”

Hagar gave the towel an extra twist, and gathered both ends in her hand.

“Don’t,” said Dan, lifting his disengaged hand. “Hagar Dun, don’t yer ‘tempt ter obliterate de majesty ob de man yer goin’ to marry.”

This was magnificently said, and Hagar’s hand fell, dropping one end of the crash, which began slowly to untwist and resolve itself into a towel again.

“Dan,” she said, rendered almost breathless by his imposing look, “Dan, what does all dis ’mount to?”

“Nothin’,” said Dan, towering with the grandeur of his conquest.

“Nothin’! Den what made yer look so?”

“I didn’t look, nohow.”

“Dan, yer did.”

“Yer mistook.”

“No, I ain’t. It’s on yer face yet.”

“Den its ’cause I’se ’stonished at dese unproper ’ceedings ’bout nothin’.”

Hagar drew back quite crestfallen, and went to the kitchen table, where her dish-towel was put to its legitimate use again.

Dan saw her dejected air, and relented.

“Hagar,” he said, drawing towards her.

“What am it, Dan?” was her meek reply.

“Dew yer lub me, Hagar?”

“Yer knows I duz.”

“And nobody ’sides me?”

“Oh, Dan, how could I?”

“True ’nuff,” said Dan, drawing himself up; “but does yer?”

“Oh, Dan, if yer could but read dis bussum you’d see nothin’ but yer own image and ’scription dar.”

“But Peter?”

“Peter! I don’t care dat for him,” cried Hagar, lifting her wet hand from the dish-pan, and snapping her fingers till a little shower of drops flashed over her lover.

“You doesn’t, Hagar? Say dat ’ere again, jest once.”

“Not dat!” cried the excited damsel, making her fingers crack again. “He’s mean as pusley, dat ar nigger, Pete, and meaner too. Mind I say it.”

“And if he was here now, don’t say yer wouldn’t speak to him,” said Dan, artfully.

“Yes, I does say it.”

“Fair and square?”

“Fair and square. Try me if I don’t toe de mark, dat’s all.”

“And if he was ter write yer a letter all crinkle-crankled over like a bush-fence, would yer read it?” inquired the arch rogue.

“Read it! What, I? No, I radder tink you’d find out,” she said, with emphasis, as if reading had been one of her lightest accomplishments.

“But yer’d kinder want to know what was in it, now wouldn’t yer?”

“Not a word! If dat ’ere imperent nigger should dare ter sen’ a letter ter me, I’d chuck it right inter de fire, see if I wouldn’t.”

“Now, would yer?” said the sly scamp, hitching up his shoulders and striking a position, as if he were going to break into a double-shuffle, while the hand crept about eagerly in his pocket.

“Yes, I would! Dar.”

“Den chuck dis ’ere varmint goes! Dar!”

The hand was jerked out of his pocket, Pete’s letter flew into the midst of a bright blaze and flashed up the chimney, a black scroll fringed with scintillations of fire.

“Why, Dan, what am you ’bout?” cried Hagar, with her mouth and eyes wide open.

“Jest ter save yer de trouble of doin’ it yerself, I’ve sent Pete’s letter sky-high—he! he! he!—oh, golly, I’se so happy! Jest come to dis bussom, lubliest ob de fair sext. Yer Dan ain’t gwine to derject yer from dat seat ob happiness agin nohow. Lubly Hagar, don’t look so skeered. I knows yer lub me,—dat ar letter am de proof,—and I’se happy as a rabbit in snow-time wid a chunk of sweet apple under his nose. Oh, Hagar!”

While Dan was uttering this speech, and approaching Hagar with the most insinuating tenderness, that remarkable female had been making up her mind and twisting the towel at the same moment. When he stooped gallantly to gather the sable roses from her hot cheek, her arm flew back, and crash came the twisted towel on his head, with a force and precision that made Dan dash into a breakdown at once. Hagar, half crying, and yet shrieking with delight, prepared herself for another onset, but Dan, seeing her design, bolted through the out-door and fled for the barn.

That night, I am grieved to say, Dan went supperless to bed, on the highest haymow that he could reach by desperate climbing, and Hagar, in her lonely room, had time to reflect that “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” and that, after all, she could not have read Peter’s letter if it had reached her ever so safely. Then there was something that touched Hagar in the boldness of the burning, and the skill by which she had been led to almost authorize it. For the first time, our sable damsel began to feel a dawning of pride about her lover. Then thrills of fear set in, lest she had gone too far, and driven him quite away with her hempen flail.

All night long she listened for some sound of his return, but a dead stillness settled around her, and the heart in her honest bosom grew heavy and heavier, till she fell asleep with tears swelling under her black eyelids. In the morning Hagar arose penitent and subdued. No fire in the kitchen—no Dan to fill her tea-kettle and grind the rye-coffee, while she prepared the substantial dishes and spread the table. This was very lonely after the devotion and tender courtship of the days that had gone before. Still Hagar hoped and watched; at every sound her heart gave a leap and fell back again, like a trout in its brook, but no Dan presented himself. However, like a sensible woman, Hagar went on with her work; she cut the rosiest slices of ham for his eating, made the coffee as strong again as usual, and brought out a lump of the richest maple sugar to sweeten it with. Still no Dan.

Every thing was ready,—the hot Johnny-cake, the ham, with its delicious flavor sending up its steam through a brace of fried eggs, that lay crisp and golden on each ruddy slice.

Hagar had no heart to eat her breakfast alone; so she covered the dishes, placed them in a warm corner of the hearth, and went forth in search of the lost one. A forlorn hope led her to the barn. If he had not found shelter there what could she do? Perhaps her cruelty had driven him to desperation, and he had taken to drink, and fallen into total depravity. It seemed an age since she had driven the poor fellow forth,—quite long enough for a desperate man to work out his ruin, and break her heart with the knowledge of it.

With these penitent feelings Hagar entered the barn and looked sorrowfully around. Every thing was still. A group of chickens picking up oats from the floor was all the sign of life she could discover. But in a desperate hope she lifted up her voice, and called out hoarsely,—

“Dan! ho, Dan!”

No answer,—nothing but a faint rustle of the hay far overhead. It might be a chicken building its nest, but the sound was not exactly like that.

“Dan, oh, speak! Am yer thar?”

A more decided rustle, and out from the hay a dusky head, looking down upon her from a loft far up in the top of the barn.

“Oh, Dan! come down,—come down,—I’se so sorry. ’Pend on’t I’ll neber do it agin.”

“Oh, Hagar! how could yer?”

“Come,” said Hagar, rebuked by the tender reproach, and lifting her eyes imploringly upwards. “Come and see what I’se got for yer.”

“Dat crash towel,” muttered Dan, rubbing his wool dolorously.

“Oh, Dan! I’se ’pented ob dat in dust and ashes,—I has. So don’t fling it in my face no more. I’se cut one ob de new hams, and cooked dem eggs yer brought in last ting afore yer went ter town,—and sich a Johnny-cake! Do come afore it’s cold.”

Dan waited for no more, but came scrambling down from the upper loft, his wool bristling with hay, and his face shining with smiles. At the second mow he made a halt, overtaken by a sober second thought.

“Hagar,” he said, looking down upon her with benign fascination, “if I comes when yer calls me, and yer should trow dem fair arms round dis neck, I should ’preciate it dis time, and no mistake.”

Hagar waved her hand with great dignity.

“Don’t yer mention it, Dan. I blushes all ober at de ’membrance ob my indiscreetness. Smudder dat tought in yer bussom, and come down ter breakfast. It’s getting cold.”

Dan slid down the hay and lighted on the floor with a rebound. Then the two breakfasted lovingly together.