THE MOOR.
“—October, heaven’s delicious breath,
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek sun grows brief,
And the year smiles as drawing near its death.”
BRYANT.
It was near the close of a day late in the month of October. The level
rays of the setting sun glanced across the green waters of the bay,
tinting their rippling waves with emerald and jet—across the brown waste
of the heath, mottling its rugged surface with gold and bronze upon the
decayed edifice of the old Hall, painting its rusty walls in strongly
contrasted colors of red and black, while its tall windows flashed back
in lines of shining light the dazzling beams—and upon the distant forest
whose variegated foliage reflected in topaz and in ruby light the day’s
declining glory. It was a still, refulgent scene, the good night smile
of nature. Presently the still life of the landscape was enlivened by
two equestrian figures, descending the slope of the heath from the Hall,
while their shadows stretched lengthening behind them over the dry and
burnished turf. The figure on the right hand side was that of a youth of
some eighteen years, clad in the undress uniform of a midshipman—whom on
near view we recognise as our old acquaintance, Gusty Wilde May. By his
side rode a beautiful girl of about fourteen years of age, in a graceful
riding habit of blue cloth. She was rather full formed, very fair, with
deep blue eyes, and wavy hair of pale gold floating about a forehead of
transparent whiteness, with a soft, gentle manner, and a pleading air in
the curve of her rosy lips and the downward sweep of her snowy eyelids.
The youth and the maiden each rode a bay horse. They—the youth and
maiden—not the bay horses—were conversing in a low tone as they ambled
over the heath—
“And this is all that has occurred during my long absence of three
years.”
“All, Augustus.”
“Rosalia, what do you suppose were my emotions as I sailed down the bay
this morning towards Churchill Point?”
“Oh, I suppose your heart was full of happiness!”
“No—every mile added more anxiety to the weight oppressing my heart as I
drew near home, reflecting on the many and dreadful changes that might
have passed over those I loved in these long three years, and _now_ I am
happy, for, thank God,” said he, raising his cap reverently, “nothing
but agreeable changes have passed over Grove Cottage and its inmates. I
find you the sweetest little turtle-dove that ever folded its wings in a
nest, domesticated with my mother, and forming a large portion of her
happiness. I find my dear mother at thirty-five looking young and fresh
as Hebe—and about—I am very much inclined to think—_tell_ me, Rosalia,
_is_ my mother going to be married to Mr. Buncombe?”
“I think so, Augustus—does that disturb you?”
“Yes, Rosalia, it disturbs me—with _joy_! Dear mother—how devoted she
has been to us, Rosalia! And now that we are all grown up, and do not
need her constant care, and now that it may naturally be expected that
before long we will all be getting mar——be getting separate
establishments of _our own_—I am glad that there is no prospect of
mother’s spending her life _alone_. And then to see how long the curate
has waited for her! Ever since the first winter of his boarding with her
while we were his pupils—now that is what I call genuine affection—very
few men would have done that!”
“Well, but, Gusty, he _boarded_ with her all the time—he had her society
all the time—so what odds?”
“True—I do suppose that was the secret of his patience. And now, Hagar,
this singular girl, where are we to find her?”
“She is out on the moor somewhere, with horse and hounds—she has been
out all day.”
Just as they spoke the sunset rays were intercepted by another
equestrian figure. The slight, elegant figure of a dark complexioned
young girl clad in a dark green riding habit, cap and plume, mounted on
a jet black courser, came pricking over the heath, followed by a couple
of beautiful pointers. In her hand she held a light fowling-piece, and
at her saddle’s pommel hung a game bag filled with birds. As her falcon
eye descried the youth and maiden, she bounded forward to meet them—she
was at their side—and “Hagar!” “Gusty!” were the joyful words of
recognition that simultaneously broke from their lips, as their horses
nearly met in a shock, and he bent from his saddle, caught her to his
bosom, and gave her a hearty kiss. It was a brother’s greeting to the
sister of his babyhood. And—“How you have grown, Hagar!” “How tall you
are, Gusty!” were the next words of surprise and pleasure that broke
from their lips as they backed their horses and gazed at each other
delightedly—“What a sportsman you are, Hagar!” “When did you come,
Gusty?” were the next cross-question and remark spoken in the same
breath by both.
“I came scarcely an hour ago,” answered Augustus.
“And you have been to the Hall?”
“Yes, Rosalia and myself rode over to the Hall to see you—hearing that
you were out, and we being impatient, could not await you there, so we
rode out in search of you—but what a sportsman you are, Hagar! have you
bagged anything? or only scared the birds and shot yourself?”
“Enough for your supper, Master Gusty—and I guess that it will not be
unwelcome—I rather think, it is some time since you have enjoyed the
luxury of a canvas-back duck!” said the girl, with a dash of pique in
her tone. Then raising her eagle eye to the sky, she quickly touched
Gusty, and pointing immediately over head, exclaimed, “Quick, Gusty!
look! do you see that speck—like a speck of ink in the dark blue
zenith?”
“Why, no! Who could see a speck in the zenith of such a dark sky as
this—none but you, Hagar, whose gaze would make the sun bat his eyes!”
She raised her fowling-piece, took aim, fired, and in another instant a
rush and whirr of wings swooped down through the air, and a white
pigeon, the hapless laggard, or perhaps the pioneer of some flock,
dropped bleeding at their feet.
“Admirable!” exclaimed Augustus.
The wild girl’s dark eyes flashed under their long lashes, and her white
teeth gleamed between her smiling lips as she noticed his surprise. But
Rosalia gazed in tearful sorrow at the wounded and fluttering bird—and—
“Poor, poor thing!” she said, “it was going home, thinking of no harm or
danger!” and her tears fell mingling with and diluting the blood that
crimsoned the white feathers of its bosom.
“Ah! it was cruel in Hagar to kill the pigeon, wasn’t it?” inquired
Gusty, derisively, relapsing into boyish rudeness.
“No! I do not say it was cruel _in_ Hagar because she didn’t stop to
think; but it was cruel _to_ the bird, poor, dear thing! Can’t you do
anything for it, Gusty?”
Now this was asked so naively through her tears, that Gusty, rude
hobble-de-hoy, burst into a loud laugh, and at its end assumed gravity
and answered,—
“Yes, we can send for a surgeon!”
Rosalia alighted cautiously from her horse, and kneeling down on the
turf gazed mournfully at the glazing eyes of the bird—it fluttered
violently once or twice, and then grew still. She burst into tears and
sobbed convulsively.
“Why, Rose!” “Why, what a baby!” exclaimed Hagar and Augustus in the
same breath.
“Oh! but, poor thing, what harm had it done? It was sailing so blithely
through the sky, and now it is quite dead—not even gone to Heaven, where
I wish it could go. I am sorry for you, too, Hagar, for I know you feel
so bad about shooting the poor bird, now that it is done.” And suffering
herself to be lifted into her saddle by Gusty, who had alighted for the
purpose, she ambled up to the side of Hagar and held out her hand—“I
know you are sorry, Hagar! are you not?”
The face of the dark girl was sparkling with mirth.
“No, my little white dove,” she answered, “not at all; and as for your
bird, though its spirit is not probably yet in Heaven, it may be on its
way there!”
“What is that you say, Hagar?” queried Gusty.
Hagar reined up her horse, and stooping, lifted the dead bird; she
asked—
“Where is the spirit, the life that animated this bird, Gusty?”
“Why, _dead_, of course.”
“Pooh! _this_ that I hold in my hand is dead, but the life—the
life—where is that?”
“Gone, of course, gone; where else should it be?”
“‘Gone’—_where_?”
“Where?—why, where?—why, gone—_away_.”
“Thank you! perfectly satisfactory,” said Hagar, and her wild eyes
flashed, and her white teeth gleamed with suppressed mirth.
“Tell me—tell me, Hagar!” said little Rosalia, “do you think, _sure
enough_, that birds _do_ go to Heaven? Sometimes _I_ think so, too; they
are so beautiful and good, you know! But then the Holy Bible says,—‘The
beasts that perish,’ therefore, of course, they must perish.”
“Your first expressed thought may be not unscriptural, little angel—the
_beasts_ perish; their _forms_ perish; but their _life_, through other
transmigrations, may reach Heaven in the _human_ form!”
“Why, that is the old doctrine of transmigration of souls,” said Gusty.
“Not exactly, or rather, it is _more_ than that; for instance, I think
that life continually _ascends_, never _descends_. It looks to me very
stupid to suppose that a soul can _relapse_ into the form of a beast.
No, life is never _lost_, but it continually _changes its locality_,
always _ascending_; the various forms of life being the steps by which
it reaches humanity—then Heaven. I have lived so much in the wildest
solitudes of nature; I have seen so much _more_, so much _stronger_
life-spirit _below_, than on a _level_ with humanity; I have felt it
struggling up, through water, stones, and clay; through lichen, herb,
and tree; through insects, birds, and beasts; up to its highest visible
form, humanity; and I have grown to _dream_ that life-spirit is
elaborated from matter; or if not so, that in the union of spirit with
matter, spirit may be first incarnated in the lowest form of matter, and
passing through its various stages rise to human, to angelic nature. I
believe there is one life-God, and many lives; the souls created in His
image—that these souls might not each have been created at a _word_, in
a _moment_—but created, or elaborated through _long ages_. I believe
that each soul retains its separate existence, its separate features,
its individual self, unmixed as undivided through all its incarnations;
for instance the spirit of a rose in ascending the scale of being will
never enter the form of an eagle, or a lion. To illustrate nearer
home—here is my gentle Rosalia, whose pure spirit, ages ago, might have
slept in the pale light of a seed pearl; then, in the lapse of
centuries, lived in the fragrance of the wood violet; then, through many
transmigrations, reached the form of the dove, then a lamb, and lastly,
is incarnated in the beautiful child before us.”
“Then, if that were so, why can I not remember when I was a violet, and
when I was a dove?” pertinently inquired Rosalia.
“You cannot even recollect when you were an _infant_, little one—you
cannot recollect all that happened last year, or last month; how should
you be able to look back through a vista of past lives that the doors of
many deaths have closed behind you. Perhaps at the close of your present
life the whole vista may be thrown open, and you may be able to look
back to the beginning. Oh, Rosalia! I remember that in the earliest
years of conscious human existence, in infancy, my mind struggled as
much backward for recollection, as forward for new knowledge.” She was
silent awhile, and then pursuing the train of thought, she said,—“The
analogy between material and spiritual nature seems to me to be perfect
in all its particulars. I never saw a human being who had not his type
in the minerals, in the vegetables, in the insects, in the birds, and in
the beasts.”
“What is my type in each?” asked Augustus.
Hagar laughed as she replied,
“You, Gusty, are so much modified by education—the widow’s petted
child—that the stamp is nearly effaced, or at least smeared over;
however, I can fancy you ascending the scale of being by these steps:
mineral, bloodstone; vegetable, mustard; bird, the turkey; animal, the
mastiff. There is, with all your strength, spirit, and courage, so much
homeliness, domesticity about you, dear Gusty.”
“And, Sophie, dearest Sophie, tell us all her incarnations.”
“An agate—the sober-hued stone of which rosaries are made—then balm, so
fragrant and refreshing in sickness, then the brown partridge, then the
timid fawn, then _Sophie_.”
“Good! that’s like her—now yourself, Hagar.”
“The ruby, pepper, the falcon, the tiger. But these are fancies.”
They rode on towards the Hall.
“And oh!” said Hagar, “I tell you what character I admire—a spirit that
has ascended through iron ore, oak, the elephant, into the form of some
square-built, strong-minded, large-hearted, great-souled man!”
“Heaven send you such an one!” exclaimed Gusty, dismounting to assist
them from their saddles at the gate of the Hall. A servant approached to
take charge of the horses, and leaving them in his care, our little
party entered the house. Sophie received them at the door and conducted
them into the parlor.
It was just dusk, yet Mr. Withers, exhausted by illness, had retired to
bed. It is years since we have seen Sophie, and she is somewhat
changed—yet what her face had lost of infantile roundness and freshness,
it had gained in intelligence and interest. She took her seat smilingly
at the head of the tea-table and called the young people to seat
themselves around her. When they were seated and served each with a cup
of tea, she informed them that she had just written, at Mr. Withers’s
request, to recall Raymond to the Hall, from the Theological college at
the North, the preparatory school of which had been for two years under
his charge.
“And is it possible that he has never been at the Hall since he left it,
the summer of your marriage, Mrs. Withers?”
“Never, Gusty. He remained at college until he took his degree, and then
passed immediately into his present business.”
“He was a great friend of Hagar’s the little time he remained with you?”
“Yes,” said Hagar, “_he_ loved me, _he_ never forgot or neglected me;
even after he went away, in his letters to my aunt he always sent me a
message until _I_ learned to write, and we have corresponded ever
since.”
“And Rosalia has never seen him?”
“No,” said Hagar. “Rose did not arrive until after he had left us, and,
as we have just told you, he has never been here since.”
“And Rose will not see him now,” said Sophie, “for she leaves in one
week for Boston for Mrs. Tresham’s school.”
“And when,” inquired Gusty, “will Raymond be here?”
“Not sooner than two or three weeks.”
“Then Rose will _not_ see him?”
“No, and I shall be so sorry,” said Rose.
After further desultory conversation, they finished tea and arose from
the table. Rosalia and Augustus remained all night, and early the next
morning departed for the Grove Cottage. All the next week was occupied
by Emily May in preparations for Rosalia’s departure, and, if it must
out, in preparations for her own marriage with the Rev. Mr. Buncombe,
the curate of the parish, the tutor of Hagar, Rosalia, and Gusty, and
the boarder and suitor for many years of Emily May. It was for the
purpose of getting her dear son’s consent and presence that she had
waited these last three years, and it was for the sake of gratifying her
pet child, Rosalia, that she now determined that the marriage should
take place before her departure to the North. Captain Wilde, whose ship
now lay at Norfolk, had also been summoned to attend the wedding, and
arrived in due season. Of course Mr. Withers and Sophie had been
solicited, and were expected to attend. Upon the evening of the marriage
day, however, as Rosalia was performing for Emily the affectionate
service of dressing her for the ceremony, a note was handed the latter,
which on being opened and read was found to be an apology from Sophie
for nonattendance. “Mr. Withers,” she said, “was very much worse, and
required her constant care.” If there was another motive for her absence
it was not acknowledged to her own mind, scarcely recognised by her own
heart.
* * * * *
The quiet wedding was over, the routine of the quiet cottage scarcely
disturbed by its occurrence, and the quiet bride and bridegroom had
returned, the one to his studies, the other to her household affairs, as
though nothing had happened. Captain Wilde had returned to his ship, and
the pleasant intercourse between the Hall and the cottage resumed. The
last night before the departure of Rosalia was at hand, and at the
earnest request of Sophie, Mr. and Mrs. Buncombe had agreed to bring her
over and spend it at the Hall. Augustus May was also of the party.
Rosalia’s trunks had been packed and sent over early in the day, and in
the afternoon the family from Grove Cottage rode over. It had been
settled that Augustus May should attend Rosalia to the North. The packet
that was to convey them to Baltimore lay at anchor under the shadow of
the promontory.
It was late in the afternoon when the carryall containing Mr. and Mrs.
Buncombe, Rosalia, and Augustus, drew up before the gate of the Hall.
Sophie met and conducted the party into the dining-room, where a feast
had been prepared in honor of Rosalia’s departure. Mr. Withers, pale and
emaciated, and propped up in a chair, was also present. It was her last
evening at the Hall for some time to come, and so they sat up late. Mr.
Withers, from extreme fatigue, retired early, but it was midnight before
the remaining members of the party were in bed. Morning dawned,
breakfast was over, adieux were wept and kissed, and as the first ray of
the rising sun gilded the waves of the bay, Augustus handed and followed
Rosalia into the packet for Baltimore.