Lucy (Chapter_04)

The next day was dark and gloomy--The hollow winds as they moaned through the forest, or whirled the dry leaves which already strewed the grounds in eddies thro' the air, announced the coming of the equinoctial storm. Gathering clouds, rolling in heavy masses, darkened the air, and shed a sombre cololouring over the brightness of autumnal scenery. But far darker and far gloomier was the heart of William as he sat leaning against the casement of the little room, on which lay the body of poor Mrs Donald.--Sometimes his eyes would dwell on her now placid features, and he would {envy?} her the quiet of the grave, to which she was soon to be consigned. " There," thought he, "the wicked shall cease from troubling and the weary shall be at rest. There every tear shall be wiped from every eye. There the blast of the storm shall not be heard, nor this sharp cold wind be felt." He shivered, as it whistled through the cracks and crevices of the cabbin, and he saw it move the winding sheet that covered the corpse. He stooped to keep the cold forehead as he replaced the cloth, which had been blown aside, and pressing his hand on the bosom, "She feels not," said he, "the warmth of this hand, or the chill of this blast.--that heart, is still.--that heart is cold. She lost her Lucy and she lost her life! Oh that I too, could die and sleep, as she now sleeps". And his head sunk on that insensible form and his warm tears streamed over those cold hands, which he pressed in his. "This was the bosom, on which the head of my Lucy so often rested--these are the arms which so often hugged her to that fond and doting heart! But on what bosom does that head now rest!,--what arms now support that weak and trembling body?" A loud blast shook the little tenement to its foundation--He started from his knees, and stretching out his arms, while his eyes darted wildly round, as if in search of his beloved one, he exclaimed

He rushed from the house--and plunging into the very depths of the forest, sought in its loneliest paths, in its darkest glens and deepest ravines, the lost object of his first and only love. The roaring of the tempest--the crash of falling trees, the whirling of dry leaves; in vain impeded his progress. He struggled through the underwood; he pushed aside the intermingling branches, he tore his clothes from the briars which sought them, unheeding the blood which followed the effort; and pressing onwards, sought, as if he hoped to find his Lucy, amidst these rocks and wilds. He had sat the live-long night by the lifeless body of the good old woman, and it was yet early morning, when he had rushed forth in search of her he loved. Long and lonely were his wanderings. Deeper the groans from his broken heart than those of the storm which shatter'd the forest around him, as he repeated in all the bitterness of grief, "Lucy --dear Lucy where art thou!" Reckless and lost in thought, he wandered on,till wearied nature gave way. He burst into an agony of tears and sank down at foot of a tree, beside one of those grass-grown and solitary roads, which crossed the woods in every direction. He raised his head, and listened to the sound of coming wheels; it was that of a one horse-cart driven by a black boy, who smacked his whip and whistled as the parent, heedless of the load he carried. William, looked up, and saw in the cart a coffin. He started, and before he could enquire of the boy, from whence he came, and whither he was going. The lad, called out, in a tone of glad surprise. "Law's Master Billy, is that you, laws how you scared me, I thought as how you were a neger-buyer--for they be'd always lurking about these lonesome woods, to ketch a poor negor's--Why likes be, you'll go home wid a body--for I'm going a towards your house--this here coffin's for old

"Go" on," said William, "I'll soon be after you"--["but Master first tell a body where to turn off to the farm, for I be'ent much acquainted just here abouts--["Go on half a mile farther, and you will come to an old turn'd-out field"--, over which there's a kind of blind path (paths but little worn, are so call'd) you must follow that, for there's ne'er a of road, and then you'll come to a corn field--in one corner of the fence, you'll see a pair of barns--you will see the tracks of cart wheels through the field, all the way up to the house"-The old field is t'other side of Montgomery-road, between the church, and the black-smith's shop"--["Vera will berra well, Master, you haven't come across nare a neger-beyer, I reckon? ["Think about your business boy, and get back to the city before dark, and no negerbeyers will catch you this time."--[The lad, smacked his whip and drove on: While William, restored to the thought of his present circumstances, recollected it was his day's duty to go to the church-yard and dig a grave, for the mother of his Lucy. He wiped the blood, which was trickling from his face and hands, scratched and wounded by the briars and turned into another wood path which lead into the public road to the city, --the point where this road divides, one part running strait forwards to the city, the other turning towards George-town, Embosomed in the wood, stood the large and venerable church of Rock-Creek; one of the oldest in Maryland, and once richly endowed--But now deserted for the newer and gayer churches of the city, by the rich and fashionable, and left almost in ruins for the service of the poor and scattered peasantry of the neighbourhood--The glade belonging to the church, spread its wild --------------------------------------------------------It is the custom in Virginia and Maryland--after ground is worn out of {long?} cultivation--to remove all the fencing to some new cleared

wood-lands, and its uncultivated fields, for round the log parsonage house, much out of repair, stood in an adjoining field on a rising ground, and was now tenanted by an old man who paid is rent, by his service as sexton. When required, and well paid, he would dig the graves, but ordinarily the country people, saved this expence, and dug the graves of their kindred and neighbours with their own hands. Kindred, indeed, were seldom left to this sad office, one neighbour, kindly helping another on such occasions. But William asked no such assistance, feeling a kind of gloomy pleasure, in performing this last-sad duty, for the adopted mother of his heart. He borrowed a spade and pick axe of the good -natured sexton, and looking about for the little grave, in which he had assisted to bury a brother of his Lucy, determined to dig that of the poor Mother, along side. It was in a remote corner of this wild, solitary burial place, and so over grown with bushes and briars, that he could scarcely find it. The great-oak, which had for ages, shaded that solitary corner, had been blown down, by some wintry storm, and with its shatter'd and decaying branches cover'd the little heap of earth, he had roused over little Harry. He had again to go to the sexton, to borrow an axe, to lop away the huge limbs of this gigantic tree, which cover'd the ground for a considerable space. [The country-school house, stood in one corner of the church year, by the road-side--It was the noon -day hour, when the boys were let lose from school to eat their dinners and play a while, until summoned to the afternoon's lessions--Some were gathering chestnuts, from the large trees which grew near, some playing hide and seek among the old tombs whose marble slabs covered the ashes of the wealthy planters who once lived in the vicinity, divided from the humbler graves of the poor, by palings, now falling in broken heaps around the mould-cover'd tomb-stones. While others, seated on some newer and whiter monument, over a { ?} {?}

on what they called those nice-clean tables-when they saw William, begin his solitary task, they all eagerly ran, with youthful curiosity to enquire whose grave he was digging, and to lend their assistance in removing the branches of the fallen tree, which they carried off in triumph, to make a rousing fire as they said in the school house.--[The shrill voice of their Master, recalled them to their tasks, and left William to his own sad thoughts. ["Poor Allan," thought he, "will soon lie like this old tree, storm-stricken, and broken hearted in this cold ground! And you sweet Lucy, will wither, like this michaelmas daisey, that I have turned up with my spade, and die perhaps in some lonely spot, as unknown and unnoticed! Dear Lucy--who will dig thy grave? But who knows if you are not already buried? But oh, as your Mother feared you may be lying among the rocks, and the cold water running over you! But no, no--you would not be so cruel, you would not drown your own dear self, and our unborn babe.--Oh Lucy, my wife--my own dear wife would to God, we lay here, together in this long and narrow bed!" [The spade fell from his hands, and he threw himself on the half dug grave. [He was roused from this stupefaction of grief, by the sounds of the boys, whose tasks were done, and who wonder'd to find that his, was not yet finished.--He started up, at their approach, and putting back the hair which had fallen over his face, wiped his eyes with his shirt-sleeve, snatch'd up his spade and resumed his work. [The tender hearted children, forgot their sports, and hushed their noisy mirth, when they saw the red eyes, from which the big tears were still rolling over the cheeks of the wretched William. One little fellow, who had stood watching him, perceiving the feeble and ill directed strokes of his spade, ran to the school-house to tell the master--"that a poor young man was digging a grave, that looks so sick, he could hardly stand"--[The kind master, followed where the boy led, and ------------------------------[words too faint to read}