CHAPTER XIII.

THE ATTIC.

“An old joy of childhood and youth, a cat-like love of garrets.” EMERSON.

One more circumstance, patient reader, and I have done tiring you with the squabbles of children. It was one that more particularly introduced Hagar to the notice of Mrs. May, and saved her from degenerating quite into a savage. It occurred some time after the events recorded in the last chapter. But just let me briefly sum up the history of the intervening time. The disease of Mr. Withers had changed in these respects—he was no longer subject to violent outbreaks; but his malady, wanting that vent, had only deepened into gloom and moroseness. He had lost his eloquence and power in the pulpit to that degree, that a curate had to be appointed to assist him, and his pay deducted from the minister’s small salary. This curate boarded with Emily. The farm, only partly reclaimed, had been suffered to relapse into desolation. The income arising from Sophie’s school had been, of course, cut off at its discontinuance; and the family at Heath Hall found themselves in straitened circumstances. This was felt more heavily, as the continued exactions of Mr. Withers upon the time and attention of his gentle and complying wife, left her little opportunity for those economies and contrivances by which a thrifty housekeeper makes the most of a narrow income. Raymond had not once visited the Hall, though he frequently wrote. Emily May, repulsed by what she supposed the coldness of Sophie, altogether absented herself.

Gusty was absent on a voyage with his uncle, Lieutenant Wilde, who had made one visit to Grove Cottage, but without calling upon or even inquiring after Sophie.

It was just before the expected return of Gusty, near the close of the winter, when Hagar was driven in from her rambles by the arising of a furious storm. She betook herself to the garret, her place of refuge in times of trouble. Poor little Rose, repulsed by the gloom and ill-temper of “uncle,” had already hidden herself there; and the children sat before the fireless hearth—the desolate children in the desolate scene. It was a large, low, square room, with two deep dormer windows facing the east, and looking far out upon the bay—with a dark cuddie under the eaves of the western wall—with a rude fire-place on the south, and opposite on the north, the door leading from the room into the narrow passage and down the stairs. The walls were very dark, and the plastering broken here and there. Between the two dormer windows, and close to the floor, was a large crevice in the wall, through which you might look into the long dark space between the wall and the edge of the roof, a space corresponding to the cuddie on the opposite side. Strange sounds were sometimes heard in this place, and through the crevice. Hagar, that child of shadows, would look with mysterious awe—for with its boundaries lost in obscurity, to her it seemed a dark profound sinking through the house down to the centre of the earth, while her imagination loved to people it with ghosts, gnomes, and all the subterranean demons she had read of in her favorite book, the Arabian Nights. “Listen! listen to the spirits,” she would sometimes whisper in wantonness to her little cousin.

“I hear nothing but the rats in the cuddie,” would the matter of fact Rose reply. The floor of the attic was bare, the planks rude and rough, and worn apart in some places, leaving dark apertures, down which Hagar would look as into an interminable abyss, the haunt of her favorite gnomes. There was no furniture in this room except an old trunk without a top, that sometimes served Rosalia for a baby-house, and sometimes reversed, for a seat. Upon this trunk the children were now seated. The storm still raged around the old house-top—the shingles were reft off, whirled aloft, and sent clattering like hail-stones to the ground; the wind howled and shrieked about the walls, and the old windows and rafters writhed and groaned in the blast, like the wail of lost souls, and the laugh of exultant fiends. The rain was dashed in floods against the crazy windows, and the children sprinkled through their crevices. The water began to stream from the leakages in the ceiling, and to collect in puddles in the corners of the room. These puddles enlarging and approaching each other, threatened to overflow the floor. The children drew their trunk upon the fireless hearth. Rose’s little chubby arms and legs were red with cold.

“Oh! how the wind’s a-blowing. I am almost frozen,” wept Rose. And they were. “Let’s go into the parlor,” suggested Rose.

Hagar looked at her with astonishment, that she should propose to “beard the lion” in his present mood.

“Yes, into the parlor,” persisted the child. “I’ll bet you anything that uncle will let us stay in the parlor this evening, and warm ourselves at the fire; it is so very cold, you know.”

“Well! it is _my_ house, anyhow, and so for your sake, Rose, we _will_ go down.”

And hand in hand the shivering children left the attic, passed down four flights of back stairs, and went to the parlor door, and Rosalia peeped timidly in. It was the same old parlor, papered with the Christian martyrs that I have before described; and there sat the tall thin figure of Mr. Withers, dark, solemn, and lowering; and opposite sat Sophie, with her soft brown eyes bent over her knitting. And, oh! sight of luxury to the half-frozen child,—there was a glorious, glowing hickory fire, crackling, blazing, and roaring in the chimney. The children opened the door and passed in, carefully closing it after them; they approached the fire, Hagar with an air of defiance, Rose with a look of deprecation. Sophie looked at the children with remorseful tenderness, and made room for them, unluckily, between herself and Withers, thereby attracting his attention. He turned, and knitting his brows until they met across his nose, and fixing his eyes sternly on the children, he asked, in a rough tone—

“What are you doing here?”

“Warming ourselves!” exclaimed Hagar, raising her eyes, flashing, to his face.

He frowned darkly on her, and half started from his seat, while Rose cowered at her side, and Sophie grew pale.

“Be off with yourselves,” he said, in a stern under tone.

Hagar planted her feet firmly on the ground, while Rosalia slunk away. Sophie arose, and saying, in a low tone, “Take Rose to the kitchen fire, dear Hagar,” prepared to follow them.

“Come back, Sophie!” exclaimed Withers, in an excited tone. And she sat down with a patient, despairing look, merely motioning to Hagar by an imploring gesture, to leave the room.

“Well! let’s go into the kitchen and warm ourselves at Aunt Cumbo’s fire,” suggested the ever hopeful Rosalia.

They left the parlor by a back door that led through a sort of closet into the kitchen. The storm was still raging, but a good fire was burning on the kitchen hearth, and the tea-kettle was singing over the blaze, and old Cumbo was standing at a table kneading dough.

“Are you going to have biscuits for supper, Aunt Cumbo?” asked Rosalia, in a coaxing tone, as she approached the table.

“Now, what you comin’ out here botherin’ arter me for, when I am gettin’ supper—go ’long in de house wid you.”

The old woman happened to be in a bad humor.

“But, Aunt Cumbo, we are cold—we want to warm ourselves,” coaxed Rose. “Mayn’t we warm ourselves by your fire?”

“No, no, no! kitchen ain’t no place for white children, no how you can fix it, so go ’long in wid you.” And the rough old woman came bustling up to the fire-place, drove the little girls away, and began to set her spider and spider lid to heat.

“No; this _is_ no place for us,” said Hagar, who disdained a controversy with a menial; and the children left the passage.

Rosalia’s teeth were chattering, and she felt as though the cold had reached her heart.

“I wish that we were both dead, Hagar,” said she, in a whimpering tone.

“I don’t,” said Hagar, looking half in pity, half in scorn, at the wailing child. “Nor must you. You must live. You are to marry the President of the United States, you know.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the vain child, suddenly brightening up, “so I am! Cumbo, when she ain’t cross, says I’m pretty enough to marry him or his betters! And then, Hagar! oh, Hagar! then I am going to have a good fire all the time, in every room in the house; and I will wear _whole_ shoes and stockings _every_ day, and _always_ have biscuits for supper. And—never mind, Hagar, you shall live with me, too; and when I think of that, oh, Hagar! When I think of that, I have such a—such a—what do you call it, that keeps people up, and keeps ’em alive?”

“Hope.”

“Yes! ‘never give up.’ You know Gusty Wilde says ‘never give up,’ and I am agoing to ‘never give up.’ I am going down into the cellar, now, to pick up chips. Tarquins has been down there sawing wood, and I know there must be chips there; and we can pick up enough to make us a fire, and we can make a nice fire and tell stories.”

And with the elasticity of childhood she led the way down to the cellar. It was a large, dark, musty old place, with an area partitioned off, in which milk, butter, fresh meat, &c., were kept in summer; in winter it was usually two feet deep in water; now, however, it was nearly dry. It was originally intended for a kitchen, and was built in the old-fashioned English style, with a large grate in the fire-place, with ovens each side, having heavy iron doors. These deep ovens, the bounds of which were out of sight in the darkness, seemed to Hagar like the entrances to subterranean caverns, the abode of ghosts. To Rose they were merely brick closets, that smelt very musty and unpleasant. The brick pavement of the cellar was decayed away, and green with mould. It was, however, a favorite resort with the children, for there they were free from persecution. They entered, and Rosalia began to fill her apron with chips, when Hagar spied an old worn-out flag basket, and drew it towards them. They both went to work, and soon filled the little basket, and Rosalia, taking it up in her chubby arms, began to toil up stairs with it. Hagar would have taken it from—but “No, Hagar,” said she, “I am afraid to go into the kitchen again. I’ll carry this, and _you_ go and steal a coal of fire, and bring the broom, so that we can sweep up the slop.”

Hagar went into the kitchen, which she found vacant. Cumbo had gone to the spring. Taking a coal of fire in the tongs, and seizing the broom, she fled up stairs into the attic, where little Rose was already busied in clearing the damp rubbish from the fire-place. She received the coal from Hagar, and kneeling down, placed it on the hearth, collected around it the smallest chips, and blew it. A little blaze soon flickered on the hearth. She continued to add more chips as the weak flame would bear it. In the meantime Hagar had swept up the room. The storm had subsided. The little fire was burning cheeringly. The children drew the old trunk before it, and sat down, their arms around each other’s waist; their little toes stretched out to the fire; their countenances wearing that satisfied consciousness of having toiled for and won the comforts they were enjoying. And after all, it was but a little fire in a dreary old attic. They were not permitted to enjoy this long. Steps were heard approaching their retreat. The door opened, and Tar, or as he called himself, Tarquinius Superbus—the colored boy of all work—entered. Rose ran to her basket of chips, and placed herself before it.

“What you dem do wid dat broom you stole from de kitchen, you little thieves, you? Nex’ time you gim me trouble for come up here arter you dem’s nonsense, I tell Mrs. Widders, an’ ef dat don’t do I tell _Mr._ Widders—_you_ see!”

With that he espied the broom, and in going around to take it, his eyes fell upon the little fire, and the small basket of chips. Poor Rose looked guilty and dismayed, but held desperately on to her property. Hagar watched him with a steady eye.

“My good gracious ‘live—did any _soul_ ever see de like? What _will_ Mr. Widders say? A-wastin’ all de wood! Here’s chips enough to kindle all de fires in de mornin’.”

And with a perspective glance at his morning’s work, when the basket of chips would be very convenient, the rude boy stooped down to take possession of the prize. Rosalia held tight her treasure. He jerked it from her, and in doing so, tore her little tender arms with the rough flags of the old basket. Having lost his temper in the struggle, the boy then went to the chimney, and taking the tongs, scattered the blazing chips, and raking the damp rubbish from the corners, extinguished the fire. Then with his prize he marched out of the room. Rose was sobbing and wiping the blood from her wounded arm. Hagar was still and silent, but the fire was kindling in her dark eyes; her gipsy blood was rising; at last she started after him, overtook him half way down the stairs, and seized the basket; he pulled it from her hold and fled, she pursuing him into the kitchen. To end the matter, he went up to the chimney, turned up the basket, and shook down the chips into the fire. Her gipsy blood was up! She ran to him as he was stooping over his work of wanton cruelty, and giving him a sudden push, sent him into the fire. The basket was crushed under his hands, and saved them from being badly burnt. He struggled, recovered himself, and arose. Just at this moment Cumbo re-entered the kitchen, and Rosalia, who had followed her cousin, came in.

“What’s de matter now?” inquired the old woman.

Hagar was too proud and Rosalia too frightened to speak.

Tar gave an exaggerated account of the whole affair, as he brushed the smut and ashes from his sleeves. He dwelt particularly on the _waste_ with which “de childer had burned up all de light wood for kindlin’.”

Cumbo turned up the whites of her eyes in horror at the depredation.

“It was only a few little chips that we picked up, and they were damp; and see how he scratched my arms!” said Rosalia, holding them up to view.

Cumbo having sent in supper, felt herself in a better humor; and thought herself prepared to render judgment with marvellous impartiality and wisdom, which, seating herself, and resting her hands on her knees, she did to the following effect:

“Tarquinus Perbus, you go right in house an’ wait on table. Massa Widders, he callin’ for you. An’ Rose, you putty little angel, you come here an’ sit on old mammy’s lap, and toast your poor little footy toes before dis nice fire; mammy’s got a warm biscuit for you in her bosom, too. An’ Hagar, you ugly, bad ting, go long right trait out dis here kitchen wid yourself. You’re so bad I can’t a-bear you—but ugly people always _is_ bad.”

Now, if she had said bad people always are ugly, she might have come nearer the truth, or at least taught a better lesson.

“I did not make myself, God made me,” said Hagar.

“He didn’t! he never made anything half so ugly and bad! De debil made you. _He_ made my beautiful, lovely, good little Rose. Some ob dese days she shall be de Presiden’s wife, and _you_—you shall be her waitin’ maid, cause nobody’s ever gwine to marry _you_—you’re too ugly and hateful. Go long straight out dis here kitchen now, I don’t want nuffin ’tall to do wid you.”

Hagar left the kitchen, casting back a look of inquiry at Rosalia; but the little girl was petted, coaxed, flattered, and tempted by the warm fire, and the prospect of the nice biscuit, and preferred to keep her seat.

Hagar took her lonely way up the four flights of stairs that led to the attic. Arrived there she sat down moodily upon the trunk, resting her elbows upon her knees, and holding her thin face between the palms of her hands; her black elf locks were hanging wildly about her shoulders, and her eyes were wide open, and fixed upon the floor in a stare. She was bitterly reflecting that with a really kind-hearted aunt she was suffering all the evils of orphanage, abused by menials, pinched with hunger, and half frozen with cold. She was wondering, too, how it was that the good God had made her so ugly that she could not be loved, and therefore could not be good. Poor child, she never dreamed of general admiration, she only wished to be loved; and she had no one to tell her that the beauty which wins permanent affection is the beauty of goodness; that goodness will soften the hardest, and intellect light up the dullest features; that though physical beauty may excite passion, and intellect attract admiration, only goodness can win everlasting love. Within the last few months, such scenes as I have described were constantly occurring, and their evil influence fell on all the children’s after life. Some of the most serious defects in their characters, some of the most deplorable errors in their conduct, and the most dreadful misfortune of their lives, might be traced back to the injudicious, careless remarks of visitors, and the capricious blame or praise of servants, to whose care or neglect they were so much left. When I recollect the strong and decided bias given in childhood to my own character by people and circumstances over which I had no sort of control, and against whose evil influence I could make no sort of resistance; when I suffer by the effect of impressions received in infancy, which neither time, reason, nor religion have been able to efface—which only sorrow could impair by bruising the tablet; knowing as I know the tender impressibility of infancy, feeling as I feel the indelibility of such impressions, I tremble for the unseen influences that may surround my own young children—aye, even for the chance word dropped by stranger lips, and heard by infant ears; for that word may be a fruitful seed that shall spring up into a healthful vine, or a upas tree, twenty years after it is sown. Infancy is a fair page upon which you may write—goodness, happiness, heaven, or—sin, misery, hell. And the words once written, no chemical art can erase them. The substance of the paper itself must be rubbed through by the file of suffering before the writing can be effaced. Infancy is the soft metal in the moulder’s hands; he may shape it in the image of a fiend, or the form of an angel—and when finished, the statue hardens into rock, which nothing but the hammer of God’s providence can break; nothing but the fire of God’s providence can melt for re-moulding.