HAGAR.
“The wild sparkle of her eye seemed caught
From high—and lightened with electric thought—
And pleased not her the sports that please her age.”
BYRON.
Let me pass briefly over the events of the next few years. Four or five
weeks of solemn merry-making, dull dinners, and duller evening parties,
completed the wedding festivities of the minister. An agreeable change
had passed over the appearance of the minister—his countenance had lost
somewhat of its gloom—his manners of their austerity, and his tones
their hard curtness. Sophie’s demeanor revealed the sober cheerfulness
befitting a clergyman’s bride. Raymond accompanied them everywhere, and
everywhere was the delicate beauty, and gentle grace, and pensive air of
the boy admired. Little Hagar also accompanied them. Sophie and Hagar
had been so united—her care and attention had been so exclusively
devoted to Hagar, that now that another claimed a larger share of her
time and thoughts, and now that she felt the keen eyes of the
sprite-like child jealously following her every motion closely, she
loved Hagar with a remorseful tenderness—strange but natural. Mothers
sometimes feel the same for the children to whom they have given even a
good and beloved step-father. This is an illusion, and grows out of the
false idea that our love is like any material and mortal thing, limited
in quantity, and that what is given to one is necessarily withdrawn from
another. Sophie took Hagar with her wherever they went, even to evening
parties, where the child, with the obstinacy of spoiled children in
general and her own nature in particular, refused to go to bed as long
as Sophie sat up.
There she would sit—the only child in a room crowded with grown
people—alone, in a corner, quite neglected, her glittering eyes glancing
around the room, and springing off in aversion when they fell upon the
figure of Mr. Withers. She was beginning to hate him intensely, merely
because he occupied so much of the time and attention of Sophie, whom
she passionately loved. Her first interview with Raymond Withers is
worthy of relation as characteristic of both. It was the night after the
wedding, and a large party were crowded in the sober-hued parlor of
Emily May. Hagar had been staying at the cottage for the last few
days—and this night she first rejoined Sophie after her marriage. Here
she was sitting, as I have described, neglected and apparently forgotten
in a corner. Sophie could not well approach her, and Emily, ever
thoughtful as she was, this evening had overlooked her, in her attention
to her guests. The child’s wild eyes were gleaming brightly, fiercely,
under her sharply projecting brows; her preternaturally developed
perceptive faculties were at work. Refreshments had been carried around
twice or thrice by the servants, and they had overlooked her. At last
she saw, it was the first time she had seen him, a delicate,
golden-haired youth, in deep mourning, enter the room. He went directly
up to Sophie and remained by her side. The keen eyes of the child were
immediately riveted upon him. There was a pensiveness, a thoughtfulness
upon his fair young brow that seemed to isolate him even among the
crowd. He stood by the side and a little behind Sophie’s chair, and
except when he stooped to catch an occasional word from her, he stood
unmoved and almost unobservant in the room. Once his eyes were raised,
and their sad gaze chanced to meet the wild eyes of the little girl
fixed with interest on his face. He bent down, and pointing to Hagar
spoke to Sophie. Sophie’s glance followed the indication of his finger,
then raising her countenance to his she answered him. He immediately
separated himself from the party, passed into the supper room, and
returning, walked up to the child, spread her handkerchief over her lap,
poured into it a plateful of cakes and sweetmeats, and took a seat by
her side.
“Did Sophie send me these?” inquired the child.
“No.”
“Why did you bring them, then?”
“You looked lonesome, and dull, and I thought it would amuse you.”
“Ah! I thought Sophie did not send them—she never thinks of me now.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it is true; she used to keep me always by her side, or on her
lap; now for two or three days she has left me here with Mrs. May, and
now that she has come, she scarcely speaks to me!” exclaimed the child,
and her black eyes flashed under her sharp brows, and her white teeth
gleamed under her upturned lip as she spoke.
A soft smile hovered an instant around the beautiful lips and under the
golden eye-lashes of the youth, as he said—
“You look so like a little playful, spiteful, black kitten, that I am
almost afraid of your teeth and claws—however—” and stooping down he
daintily lifted the child and set her on his lap. Then he said, “I think
you are a jealous little girl.”
“I don’t know what ‘jealous’ is, but I don’t like to be robbed of what
is mine.”
“You are selfish, I am afraid, little one—who has robbed you?”
“Mr. Withers has got Sophie, and now he may have her, for I don’t care.”
“You are a proud little lady.”
He caressed her straight black hair, adjusted her somewhat disordered
dress, and began to crack nuts for her, but her eyes were fixed upon the
group at the opposite end of the room, and suddenly she said—
“I wish Mr. Withers was dead—I do so!”
“Oh! horror!” said the young man, now really shocked. “Revengeful, too,
Hagar! Mr. Withers is my father.”
“Is he? I did not know that—I am so sorry—but, oh! he has taken Sophie
away from me, and now I am _so_ lonesome,” and the child burst out
crying.
“And where have you been, my pretty lad,
Where have you been all day?”
sang little Miss Rogers, dancing up to them—“Come, Raymond! or I beg
your pardon—_Mr._ Raymond Withers—for you hobble-de-hoys are awful
punctilious about your dignity—are you going to stay here nursing that
spoiled brat all night? We are forming a round game at forfeits in the
other room, and we want you.”
“Don’t go,” whispered the child.
Raymond set her off his lap, arose, and apologizing to Miss Rogers,
gracefully declined her invitation. The maiden pouted, smiled, threw up
her head, and tripped away.
“Ain’t you good, to stay with me, instead of going with her? take me up
again,” and she held out both her arms to him.
He smiled gently, and raised her, and how beautifully broke the glad
smile over her dark, wild countenance, as she looked up in his face.
From that hour the youth and infant were companions, confidants, and
friends.
At this time it was that the germ of a passion, fraught with much evil
to the whole of Hagar’s life, took root in her heart—a passion destined
by mal-cultivation to be fostered into monstrous growth—JEALOUSY; and
this grew out of Sophie’s thoughtless concentration of mind upon her new
duty, just at this juncture; it is true that this mood of mind lasted
but a few days, but in these days the seed of evil was sown.
* * * * *
They were settled at Heath Hall. The time occupied by them in the
wedding festivities while they were inmates of the Glade—the guests of
Mrs. Gardiner Green—was also improved at the Heath. Workmen had been
sent thither, and the house put in some repair. The negroes had been
called home from hire, and set to work in clearing up the grounds—piling
the weeds, briers, and rubbish up—drying and burning them for manure—in
repairing old and putting up new fences, &c. The brick wall inclosing
the garden, and running round the very edge of the promontory, had been
mended, the garden put in order, and the wild and desolate aspect of the
whole place somewhat ameliorated. On the day of their return to Heath
Hall, a dinner and an evening party of course, had been given, and that
was the last. The next day they were left quietly in possession of their
own home.
There, reader! Northern reader, and city reader, you have now some idea
of country weddings in middle life in Maryland and Virginia,—very
different, you will admit, from city weddings. Raymond remained with
them until the first of September, when his college term commencing, he
returned to the North. Hagar grieved wildly after him, and threw herself
upon her face when the packet in which he sailed disappeared up the
river. His return to college had been doubtful, but was decided by an
event that had occurred about two weeks after their return to the Heath.
Up to the day of their return, the health and spirits of Mr. Withers had
continued to improve. In a few days after their arrival, however—after
the new moon, and as it increased to its full, the sleep of Withers
became disturbed, his nights were uneasy, and his days gloomy—a deadly
pallor settled on his face—his features became haggard, his cheeks
hollow, and his eyes sunken and glowing in their deep sockets. Now
Sophie’s heart trembled with uneasiness, now palpitated with alarm.
Raymond was now ever at her side with words of gentle affection and
cheerful encouragement—the boy seemed old and wise beyond his years, by
the preternatural development by suffering;—he requested Sophie not to
permit his father to perceive her knowledge that the terrible crisis of
his malady was at hand, and they both redoubled their attentions to him.
Daily his manner became more eccentric and alarming; he would sit at the
table gloomy and glowering without uttering a word during the meal—then
rising up he would walk off to the forest, or the beach—Raymond
following him at a safe distance. Sometimes he would look back before
leaving the house, remorsefully at Sophie, would return, take her hand,
and then with a sudden change of mood—his green eyes scintillating
sparks of fire—fling it from him with violence, and hurry off. Raymond
grew hourly more wretchedly anxious on Sophie’s account. Day and night
she was exposed, alone, to the danger of his violence. One morning when
Sophie had come down to prepare breakfast, she found Raymond already in
the breakfast-room—he advanced to meet her.
“Where is my father, Sophie?”
“In his chamber—he has not slept the whole night.”
“Sophie! I wish to say this to you—there is a malignity in his madness
now that I have never seen before—it is a new feature, and it excites my
fears for you. Sophie, leave him here in my care, and go and visit your
friend, Mrs. May, for a few days—_do_, Sophie.”
“How, Raymond! was my pledge given, my mission undertaken only for easy
and safe duty—was there any proviso made that as soon as it became
onerous, or dangerous, it should be abandoned? No, Raymond, I will be
firm through these dark days—they will soon be past, and I shall feel
repaid.”
“But your life—your _life_ may be endangered.”
“‘Life’—why, Raymond, of what great value is _my_ life, that it should
not be risked in a good cause?”
“I do believe, Sophie, that it was your being brought up in that room
papered with the martyrs, that has given this singular bias to your
character—why, Sophie, the world knowing your history in connexion with
my father, would consider _you_ the most insane of the two.”
They were standing side by side at the window, looking out upon the
bay—its rippling waves glittering in the morning sun, its dark green
bosom relieved by the white sails of a packet moving up the river. They
had not heard the entrance of Withers, who approached and stood behind
them—his face pale, his livid lips compressed, his eyes drawn in and
glowing in their deep sockets.
“But, dear Sophie,” continued the youth, “we must think of some place
for securing your safety.”
In an instant the hands of Withers fell heavily upon his neck.
“Perfidious son of a perfidious mother!” he exclaimed, shaking him
violently, “her image in heart and mind, as well as in person—traitor
and reprobate! would you wile the love of my bride away from me? would
you teach her your vile mother’s sin?”
The delicate youth was but as a reed in his grasp. Sophie sank pale and
helpless into a chair. Now another figure appeared upon the scene—little
Hagar stamping and screaming, upon the floor.
“Let Raymond! let my brother alone! Let him go, I say! you old Satan,
you. I—I’ll _kill_ you—I’ll scratch your eyes out,” and clambering upon
a chair, and then upon a table, she sprang cat-like upon the back of his
neck. Now he was obliged to drop his hold of Raymond a moment to shake
off the little wild-cat—he seized her, and pulling her off, hurled her
flying through the open window! With a cry of anguish, Raymond sprang
from the spot—from the room, and hurried around into the yard. The fall
was not deep—the turf was soft—and the lithe, agile child had lighted on
her feet and hands. She sprang up as Raymond came, and running to meet
him asked anxiously,
“Are you hurt? did he hurt you, Raymond?”
He lifted her in his arms, and hurrying around the back way, ran up
stairs with her.
“Oh, your poor neck—only see the marks of his wicked claws on your
pretty white neck!” exclaimed the child, and she kissed and closely
clasped him, and wept as if her heart were broken up and gushing through
her tears. Then raising her head with eyes flashing through her tears,
as the lightning gleams through the rain, she said,
“Oh! the bad—bad—_bad_ man! I wonder what God lets him stay here for?”
“Hush—you must not ask such sinful questions.”
“But I _do_ wonder—I’m sure I wouldn’t let him stay here if I could help
it.”
“You must not think such wicked thoughts,” said the youth; but he
himself was excited and anxious, and setting Hagar down on the foot of
her little bed said,
“Now, Hagar, you must stay here—you must not come near him again
to-day—”
“I’m not afraid of him,” interrupted the child.
“No, you have the fire and courage of a young tigress; but you would not
make him angry, and so endanger Sophie’s peace, would you?”
“No—he shan’t hurt Sophie; if he tries, the next time I’ll get my claws
in his eyes and scratch them out—_right_ out! and _then_ see who he can
hurt!”
“But you are talking of my father, Hagar,” said the young man,
reproachfully.
“Oh! so I am; _that_ is the worst of it.”
“Now, Hagar, promise me to stay here till I come and fetch you, will
you?”
“Yes—I will do anything in the world _you_ want me to do, Raymond, just
see if I don’t!”
“Well, then, I am going to look after Sophie, and I will be back as soon
as I can.”
He found Sophie extended in a swoon upon the floor. Withers was gone. He
raised her and bathed her face—she revived—he set her in the deep
arm-chair.
“Hagar?” inquired she, as soon as she could speak.
“Is not hurt—has neither scratch nor bruise; she is in my chamber; I
thought it best that she should keep out of sight of my father for the
present.”
“What is to be done—where is Mr. Withers?”
“I do not know where he is gone, but _you_ must seek a place of safety.”
“No—no—no—I will stay here; I think I understand now why his lunacy
takes this malignant character towards you; you remind him of—but no
matter—but _you_, poor bereft boy, you must return immediately to your
college—I can deal with him better alone, I am sure.”
“But, Sophie, you are nervous, _unfit_ for this; the spirit indeed is
willing, but the flesh, the _flesh_ is weak; you swooned just now—you
have not even the firmness and courage of little Hagar.”
“No, not the firmness, or the _fierceness_; but I have the courage. It
must be as I say; you must leave here; you are too much like—poor boy, I
did not mean to wound you, indeed I did not—you must return to your
college, and by the time you have finished your course there, the
absence of exciting causes, tranquillity, and sympathy will have
restored your unfortunate father to health; then you will return and we
shall all be happy together—courage, Raymond! God is at the helm! we
must not forget that. He will yet guide us safely through this rough sea
and starless night; now, Raymond, go and seek him, watch him, but keep
out of his sight.” He left her to do her bidding.
By a natural reaction the madness of Withers now assumed another aspect.
Late in the afternoon he returned and entered not _his own_, but
Raymond’s chamber. Sophie was in their room, and heard him come slowly
up the stairs, enter the adjoining chamber, and throw himself upon
Raymond’s bed. She determined to go to him, though her every nerve from
heart to extremities was trembling and quivering. She arose and entered
the room; the white wrapper that she wore was not whiter than her cheek,
as she sat down by the bedside, where his long thin figure, in its black
suit, lay extended upon the white counterpane. But what a change had
come over him! never even in his most rational moments had she seen him
in such a mood; his manner was subdued, the expression of his
countenance pensive, his tones gentle. No one that had seen him in his
ordinary manner, hard, stern, harsh, and bitter, would have recognised
him now—alas! this mood was as unnatural to him and as much a feature in
his lunacy as was the other of the morning; it was but the reaction of
his phrensy. He held his hand out to her, she took it and pressed it
between her own.
“I would not go into your room, Sophie, for fear of disturbing you, and
you come to me. Alas! and you are so pale, you tremble so much, poor
girl, I have nearly killed you, you will give me up now!” and an
expression of anguish convulsed his countenance.
“No, no, I will not; my paleness, trembling, swooning, is a matter of
nerves, not of will; I cannot help it, but I will not upon that account
leave you; my flesh shrinks, but my reason does not convince me of any
personal risk.”
“And there is none to _you_, none to _you_, Sophie, believe it: in my
maddest moments I could not hurt _you_.”
At this moment, Raymond, not knowing who was in the room, entered,
started slightly on seeing his father on the bed with Sophie sitting by
him, but quickly recovering himself, walked up to the bed, and inquired,
as though nothing had happened,
“How are you now, sir?”
“Better, calmer, my boy—but oh! Raymond, my son, why had you not kept
out of my way? You know, you _know_ the risk you run; think if in my
phrensy I were to do you a fatal injury, what would my after life be?
Sophie, you see how fair and wan he is: he was more robust once, but in
my first fit of phrensy while he was trying to save me from rushing into
the street and exposing my madness, I dealt him a heavy blow upon the
chest, injured his lungs, and he has never been well since.”
“But he will be well,” said Sophie, as, with her eyes full of tears, she
turned and laid her hand caressingly on Raymond’s shoulder, “he will get
well when he has finished his studies and returns home and finds his
father restored to health.”
“But will that ever be, Sophie?” sadly inquired the unhappy man.
“Oh, yes, I am sure of it,” she said. “Why, though I do not know much
about such things, yet it appears to me so reasonable that a malady
concealed as yours was, should increase and strengthen, instead of
subside, and that it should darken your mind, I am not at all surprised;
and I believe that now, relieved by communication and sympathy, it will
gradually leave you.”
* * * * *
This mood also changed in a few hours. As the moon waned he relapsed
into the gloom and reserve of his habitual manner. By the vigilance of
Sophie and Raymond, little Hagar had been kept carefully out of his
sight for some days, and now when she came into his presence, in his
abstraction he scarcely observed her. Sophie felt uneasy as the Sabbath
approached. From the relaxed nerves of the lately overstrained brain,
Sophie knew that he could not prepare a sermon, and knew not what excuse
could be made, and wondered what had been his course in former
emergencies of this kind. She knew _not_, that during the very fervor
and exaltation of insanity he had prepared a sermon, which when
delivered on the next Sabbath would electrify the whole congregation
with its soul-thrilling eloquence. That sermon was the talk of the whole
county for weeks. This, the reader knows, is not an uncommon feature in
the exalted stages of mania. The “Song of David,” written during a fit
of insanity by Christopher Smart, a poet of the last century, with a
rusty nail on the walls of his cell in the madhouse, is one of the most
elevated and sublime strains of sacred poetry I ever read.
The first of September arrived. Raymond was gone, and the disbanded
school of Sophie Churchill, or as we must now call her Mrs. Withers,
re-assembled. It was continued for a few months until the end of the
year, when Sophie found that she would have to give it up. In one
respect a healthful change had passed over Mr. Withers. The violence of
his periodical attacks of lunacy gradually subsided, but with this
change grew another feature—an exclusive, absorbing, and constantly
increasing affection for his gentle young wife. This, from his
idiosyncrasy, became daily more jealous and exacting; he could not
endure to have her out of his sight; he grew jealous, not only of the
child who occupied a portion of her time, but of the very _business_ by
which at least half their income was provided.
At the commencement of the Christmas holidays, Sophie broke up her
school. Soon after this she received a severe shock in the news of the
sudden death of her sister Rosalia and her husband, both of whom were
carried off by a prevailing epidemic. This news was communicated by a
letter from a lawyer of Baltimore, which letter also informed her that
Mr. Withers and herself had been appointed guardians of the person and
property of Rosalia Aguilar. This letter happened to come when the mind
of Mr. Withers was in its least disturbed state, and therefore in a few
days from its reception, Sophie left the Hall for Baltimore, with the
purpose of bringing home the little Rosalia Aguilar, the second orphan
niece committed to her charge.