“She is all simplicity,
A creature meek and mild,
Though on the eve of womanhood
In heart a very child.
She dwells among us like a star,
That from its bower of bliss,
Looks down, yet gathers not a stain
From aught it sees in this.”
MRS. WELBY.
There was going to be another great day at Heath Hall; a breakfast,
dinner, and ball. Such was Hagar’s will, and of course no one thought of
opposing a bride in her honey-moon. Only old Cumbo swore in her wrath
that before she would stay and cook for another such a “weddin’,” she
would be “sold to Georgy;” which, in negro thought and dialect,
expresses the very extremity of perdition. It was a great day at Heath
Hall; the breakfast-table was set out under the shade between the rows
of poplar trees, and it was loaded with the delicacies of the season,
the peculiar delicacies of that favored neighborhood, game killed the
day before, fresh fish, oysters, and soft crabs, caught that morning,
&c., &c., &c. All the county, and—Captain Wilde were there, and after
breakfast the company dispersed, and wandered over the house or grounds,
or rowed out upon the bay at will.
Hagar, Raymond, Sophie, and Captain Wilde were grouped upon the point of
the promontory. The captain occasionally swept the whole expanse of the
bay within range of the telescope he held to his eye, and dropped it
with a sigh and a shake of the head. There was no sail in sight.
“Have they not written to you, Mrs. Withers?”
“No,” said Sophie, “not since Gusty left—we did not expect _that_; we
expected them to hurry home with all possible expedition; oh, I grow so
uneasy.”
“Nay, do not be anxious, Sophie,” exclaimed Hagar, “if anything had
happened you know that Gusty would have written.”
“But I have been so fearful ever since that wreck,” sighed Sophie,
paling.
“That is one reason why _I_ am _not_ anxious,” said Hagar. “We have just
had a wreck—such things do not occur frequently; that wreck will do for
the next three or four years.”
While she spoke, Tarquinius Superbus was seen strutting up the
promontory from the hall; he came up to Sophie, and ducking his head by
way of a salutation, said—
“Mrs. Widders, madam, dere is an ’rival at de Hall, and Mrs. Buncombe,
she ’quests you to come down.”
“An arrival—have they breakfasted—who is it? Mrs. Green!”
“It is Miss Aguilar and Mr. May, madam!”
“Rosalia and Gusty! why did you not say so before, you stupid fellow!”
exclaimed Hagar, “how could they have come, Sophie? They must have
dropped from the sky. How did they come, Tarquin?”
“In de poshay, Miss Rose, she ’fraid o’ water.”
“Ah, that was it,” said Hagar, “I knew it was some of Rosalia’s
cowardice and selfishness that has given you all this uneasiness,
Sophie!”
But Sophie was hurrying on, too happy to speak, far too happy.
They reached the Hall.
“Where is Rosalia? Where is she?” inquired Sophie, anxiously hurrying
along in front of her party.
“In her chamber, changing her travelling dress—go to her—I will attend
her,” said Emily, as, at the same moment starting from her side, Gusty
May sprang forward with strange gaiety in his manner, considering what
we know of his then recent love-crosses, and grasped Sophie’s hand, and
then Hagar’s, and then Raymond’s, and then Captain Wilde’s, shaking them
all emphatically, joyously, as asking after everybody’s health, and
explaining that he and Miss Aguilar had had a delightful overland
journey in a post-chaise, because Rosalia was afraid of the water, &c.,
&c.
Sophie passed on up stairs, and Hagar was about to follow her, when
Emily laid her hand on her shoulder, and murmured close to her ear—
“Do not both of you leave your guests at the same time again, Hagar; you
should remember the punctilious etiquette exacted by Mrs. Gardiner
Green, and others present.”
The spring of Hagar’s upper lip started as the spring of her foot was
arrested; and with a “Mrs. Gardiner Green,” repeated in no very
reverential tone, she stood still, especially as Raymond’s hand very
softly fell upon her own just then.
Sophie passed up stairs, and opened the door of Rosalia’s chamber,
catching for a single instant a glimpse of this beautiful picture. The
lovely girl reposed in a large, easy chair; her pale gold wavy hair,
parted above her fair brow floated down her blue-veined temples, down
her faint rose-tinted cheeks, down the tender undulations of her
dove-like throat and bosom, and flowed upon the soft, white muslin that
covered her form. As the door opened and Sophie flew towards her, she
arose and dropped in her embrace; the gentle arms were around Sophie’s
neck, the golden hair overflowing her, her soft form folded to her
bosom, the warm heart throbbing against her heart, the warm lips pressed
to her lips, and tears of joy slowly falling.
“My love, my baby, my dove-eyed darling, welcome! welcome!” sobbed
Sophie, pressing her again and again to her bosom. “Oh! is it possible
that now I shall have you always with me, to see you as much as I
please, to love you as much as I please, to kiss you! oh! my dove! my
beauty! as often as I _must_. How have you been, Rose? how do you feel,
Rose? are you well? are you much tired? what will you have, Rose? Come
to the window and let me take a good look at you;” and Sophie drew her
to the window, held her off and gazed upon her beauty as though she
could have quaffed it up, and opening her arms, folded her again in an
embrace, murmuring “oh! my child, my nursling, you are _so_ fair. Look
at me, Rose; look at me, my darling! bless those dove eyes, with their
brooding tenderness!” Then she sat down on the lounge, and drawing Rose
to her side, passed her arms around her waist and said, looking down in
her face lovingly, “I am going to be married soon, Rosalia; to be
married to one whom I love, and who loves me above all things.”
Rosalia’s eyes started, dilated, and then softened as she murmured, “And
he loves you?”
“Yes.”
“And you love him?”
“Yes, darling.”
Rose stole her hands up around Sophie’s, and kissed her, exclaiming
softly,
“Oh! I am so glad, so glad, Sophie, dear Sophie!”
They were both silent, because Rose was bending forward before her,
holding both her hands and gazing lovingly up into her face. At last she
inquired,
“And is he gentle and kind—in a word, is he _good_!”
“Very good, my little love.”
“And handsome?”
Sophie smilingly replied, “I think so, darling.”
“Is he young?”
“Well, _yes_!”
“How young?”
“Thirty!”
“Oh, that is _old_.”
“Why, no it is not, darling—except in the estimation of ‘sweet
sixteen.’”
“And Hagar is married—how funny!—and—how _serious_. What makes me feel
so differently about your marriage and about Hagar’s, Sophie? Your
marriage—the idea of it fills me with still religious joy, like _church_
music swelling from the deep-toned organ, echoing through the lofty
arches and filling one’s soul full of love and awe, tempered by faith.
But Hagar’s marriage affects me like martial music that attends the
troops in their embarkation—inspiring, animating, but sad, but painful.
Now, why is this, why does my heart fill and overflow my eyes, when I
think of Hagar’s being a wife; surely it is a happy destiny; and why,
tell me why, when I kneel down night and morning to say my prayers, it
comes into my head to pray _so earnestly_ for Hagar’s happiness—why do I
weep now that Hagar is a happy bride? she is a _happy_ bride, is she
not?”
“Just as happy as _Hagar_ is capable of being, my love.”
“As happy as you are?”
“She should be.”
“Then why do I feel so?”
“I do not know, my love; possibly you feel that Hagar is too wild to
make a quiet wife, too fierce to make a loving one, and too self-willed
to become a complying one; while on the other hand you rest in the
assurance that I am sober and common-place enough to make a quiet
fireside comfortable.”
“No, that is not it, I never studied that much in my whole life. But how
do you feel about it, Sophie?”
“My love, I had some of your forebodings, but I had a better reason than
instinct for them, and now they are about dissipated. Hagar is naturally
wild, fierce, self-willed, and scornful—but she has the very companion I
should have selected for her happiness. Raymond is wise, gentle, and
firm, or he impresses me in that way. You have never seen Raymond?”
“Oh, no! you know, never. Is he like uncle?”
“The very opposite in many things.”
“There! dear Sophie, now please send Hagar to me. I want to see Hagar so
much—but stay! perhaps Hagar might think I ought to go to _her_; she is
so proud. But tell her, Sophie, that I am not dressed yet, and that I
want so much for her to hug and kiss me here, before I go down to all
those strangers.”
And Sophie pressed her hands and withdrew from the room.
Soon after the door was thrown quickly open, and Hagar sprang upon her
cousin’s neck, half cutting her soft shoulders in the wire-like embrace
of her slender arms, while the dark brow bent over the fair one, the
blue-black ringlets glittered over the pale golden hair, and the deep
carnation cheek met the pale, rose-tinted face an instant, and then she
was released.
“So, Hagar, you are married! dear me, how queer! is it not? Why, Hagar,
you don’t look at all different, not a bit like a married woman.” And
Rose got up and stood by her, and took her hand affectionately and
looked up merrily in her face, “dear me, no! not at all like a married
woman; Mrs. Withers! goodness! do they call you ‘Mrs. Withers,’ Hagar?
and do you always remember to answer to that name—and how do you like
being married, sure enough, Hagar—Mrs. Withers, I mean? Don’t turn your
head away and crimson and darken so, while scorn and mirth gleam and
flash from under your eye-lashes and upper lip; and don’t laugh—don’t
_you_ laugh if I do; it is no laughing matter; I feel it so most of the
time when I think of it. Oh, Hagar, my only sister that I ever knew, I
do pray for your happiness morning and evening!”
“Thank you.”
“Now tell me about Raymond, he is young, handsome, graceful,
accomplished, and all that; but tell me, is he _gentle_?”
“_Gentle!_ why do you ask, Rosalia? _Gentle!_ I gave him my hand—that is
your fit answer, dear.”
“Yes, I know—I asked because—I may say it to you without blame now,
Hagar—because his _father_ was not gentle, you know—and—and we sometimes
love those who are not gentle with us, Hagar,” and her soft eyes were
suffused.
“Yes,” exclaimed Hagar, “and then there is even in seeming gentleness,
sometimes gentle strength, gentle force, gentle firmness, more
irresistible, more inevitably enslaving, than rudeness, roughness,
violence could be,” and the dark girl’s soul half gleamed from her
countenance like a dagger half-drawn from its sheath.
“What do you mean, Hagar—dear Hagar, what do you mean?”
“Nothing! I mean that it is time for you to dress and come down—and I
mean that you must not ask me any more questions. Come, let me be your
dressing-maid for once, and—but no matter, I fear I should make a
failure in the essay,” and taking up a hand-bell, she rang it at the
door. A negro girl came in, and with her assistance the toilet of
Rosalia was soon made. Her golden hair was arranged in ringlets; her
dress was a light blue silk; her fair neck and arms were bare, and
adorned with a pearl necklace and bracelets. Hagar wore a black lace
dress. Now, as Hagar clasped the last bracelet on her arm (she did that
for her), standing with her before the mirror, nothing could have been
more unlike in feminine beauty than these two girls. Hagar, so small,
straight, dark, and sparkling—Rosalia so fair, soft, and gentle.
“Come, now, let us go down into the drawing-room, Rose.”
“But see here, dear Hagar, I must go in the kitchen, and see Aunt[6]
Cumbo first; I know she wants to see me so much, so do I her.”
Footnote 6:
In the country parts of Maryland and Virginia, the children and young
people usually call the old negroes “Aunt” or “Uncle.” Further south,
“Mammy,” or “Daddy” so and so.
“But, my dear—”
“Oh, but _please_ let me, dear Hagar; for poor old Cumbo, you know, we
must not slight her, because she is old and—no, we must not slight her;”
and looking pleadingly at Hagar she passed out slowly before her, and
stole down the back stairs. Hagar followed her. They went through an end
door, and making a circuit to avoid meeting any one, reached the
kitchen. The old woman was busy, and grumbling over her culinary
operations before the fire, as Rose stood in her blooming loveliness in
the door.
“Aunt Cumbo, how do you do?” said she, approaching. At the sound of her
voice the old woman dropped ladle and pan, and turning around, gazed at
her through bleared eyes.
“Oh, Aunt Cumbo, don’t you know me? It’s me—Rose,” said she, going and
taking the black old withered hand in her own.
“Oh, it’s my baby! it’s my baby! it’s my sweet, lovely baby come back to
its old mammy again!” and the old creature fell weeping over her
shoulders.
“Oh, Rose, shake her off—don’t you see she is ruining your dress.”
“Oh, no! would you hurt her poor old feelings about a dress? her poor
old feelings!” said Rose, raising her hands and stroking her withered
cheeks, and looking kindly into the dim face.
“My baby! Oh, de little soft cotton wool hands!—bress Gor A’mighty for
lettin’ old nigger lib to see her baby once more ‘fore she go—see if old
mammy ain’t got anoder biscuit in her bosom for it—no, dey ain’t bake
yet; nebber min’ she’ll save one, and you set down dere, on dat ‘tool,
while mammy roas’ a sweet tatoe for you;” and the old creature put her
gently down on a stool, and went to rummaging under an old locker. Again
Rose’s eyes were full of tears, and she said in a low tone to Hagar—
“She is in her second childhood, Hagar; you did not prepare her for
this; poor old human being; nothing at all left of her but the loving
heart. They tell me that it is the first thing that lives, and the last
that dies.”
“You had better look at your dress.”
“How can she do her work?”
“Mechanically—we do not wish her to work; but I believe she would die if
she had not the privilege of cooking and grumbling; and Rose, don’t be a
fool—she is well enough; you know it is so with all these Guinea
negroes; they have such tenacity of vitality, that their strength of
body outlives for years the decay of their mental faculties; besides,
she is seldom so confused as this. Your sudden arrival has startled her,
and jostled past and present together in her apprehension; but come now,
Rosalia, you must come into the house;” and Rosalia went up to the fire
and said—
“Aunty!—mammy!—you will let me go into the parlor with the other ladies;
you know—”
“But, honey, de tatoe ain’t roas’ yet!” replied the old woman, as she
raked the ashes over the sweet root.
“Well, aunty, when the potatoe is done you send Tarquinius for me, and
I’ll come out here and eat it.”
“Yes, honey! yes, my baby! and when you go in house you jes speak to
Miss Sophie ’bout ’Quinius ’Perbus; he too much mun—don’t min’ nuffin
‘tall I say, till I have to switch him some ob dese days; you min’ now.”
And they left the kitchen.
Rosalia Aguilar had come home to no very near relations, to no mother,
father, sister, or brother; yet never did any child returning to
idolizing parents meet with a more tender and enthusiastic reception,
from Sophie down to old Cumbo, and thence down to the cat that ran
between her feet, crossing before them, rubbing her sides against them,
and impeding her steps as she walked into the drawing-room. A low murmur
of irrepressible admiration saluted her as she entered—old friends then
crowded around, and new acquaintances were introduced to her, and it was
half an hour before the beauty and the pet was left in quiet possession
of her sofa. Sophie sat on one side of her, Captain Wilde on the other.
At this moment Raymond Withers entered the room bowing and smiling, and
passing up to Hagar, who stood by one of the open windows, he said—
“Which is your cousin?—I have not been introduced to her yet.”
“Have you not?—I will present you, then,—but first,” said Hagar,
covertly watching his countenance, “look at her and tell me what you
think of her. There, now you have a good opportunity of observing her
without attracting her notice; there she is, seated between Sophie and
Captain Wilde, talking with the latter.”
Raymond’s eyes followed the indication of her glance. Rosalia’s form was
slightly bent towards Captain Wilde, and her face was softening and
glowing under the inspiration of their conversation. Raymond slightly
started—his gaze became fixed—absorbed—Hagar’s eyes burned into his
countenance, but he did not feel it.
“Well,” at last she said, “what do you think of her?”
He did not reply—his eyes were riveted upon the group on the sofa.
Hagar’s eyes were fixed on his face—her lips compressed until the blood
left them pale.
“Well,” she said, again, speaking very slowly and distinctly, “what do
you think of Rosalia?”
He did not seem to hear her; his soul was absorbed. Now all the fire
seemed to have left Hagar’s lips and cheeks, and to be concentrated in
the intensely glowing eyes that burned into the face of her husband, and
he did not feel it!
At last a motion, a change of attitude, a raising of Rosalia’s eyes,
dissolved the spell, and he turned to Hagar.
“Well,” said she, with pale lips, “how do you like her?”
“She is beautiful! beautiful! the most perfectly beautiful living thing
I ever saw. In all my dreams of beauty, I never saw a vision of
loveliness like that! Do but see, Hagar!—the heavenly love and
tenderness in her air and manner; one looking at her, fears that she may
fade into air like a vision of poetry.”
“Shall I take you up and present you?” she asked, in a low voice.
He might have observed—_must_ have observed, the painful constraint of
her manner, but that his attention was so concentrated.
“Shall I take you up and present you?”
“No, no, love! not yet—I wish to observe her from this point a little
longer.”
She bit her lips until the blood started—her eyes seemed drawn inwards
in their intense burning.
“Well, then, will you excuse me, Raymond? I wish to leave the room.”
“No, love! no! I cannot spare you—you have been away from me too long
this morning already,” and he closed his hand firmly upon hers, while he
still poured his gaze upon the sofa group.
At last she spoke again—“Raymond,” and pressed his hand to call his
attention,—“_Raymond!_”
“Well, love!”
She spoke so low that he had to stoop to catch her words.
“Do you not think that if before our union you had seen Ro—”
“Well?”
“Nothing—nothing—I had better not—see! they are looking over here—come!
now let me introduce you.”
He now first observed her pallor.
“It seems to me you do not look well to-day, Hagar.”
She smiled bitterly.
“Perhaps not—_to you!_” she added, mentally.
“Are you not well?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you look so haggard, then?”
“_To you?_ The force of contrast!—and your eyes are dazzled.”
“I must know what you mean, Hagar, but here we are,” he whispered, as
they paused before the sofa.
Hagar presented him, and Rosalia arose, in her simple, affectionate way,
and offered her rosy cheek to the kiss of Raymond, as her relative.
Captain Wilde, starting from his seat, exclaimed,
“Come, Withers, I will do the magnanimous, although it costs some
self-denial, I assure you, yet you shall have my place—come, Mrs.
Withers, senior!”
And going round to Sophie he drew her arm through his own, and walked
her away to the piazza, leaving her place to Hagar, who immediately
assumed it.
“Now!” said Sophie, her brown eyes dilated, blazing with light and joy,
“what do you think of my Rose—is she not beautiful?—is she not sweet,
blooming, fragrant?”
“Beautiful!—stop, Sophie! don’t set me off!—you know I am ‘gusty’
(_stormy_), when I get an imposing subject! Beautiful!—why she
_radiates_ beauty—no one can sit by her or talk with her without
catching beauty! growing beautiful! Did you observe that poor old
Gardiner Green, how, as he talked with her, all the latent goodness and
gladness that were smouldering in the bottom of his heart, was kindled
up and broke through his face, lighting up his winter-apple cheeks and
black eye-brows until they glowed with beauty, as an autumn landscape
glows in the sunbeams!”
“Oh, you admire her; you love her; you are a poet!”
“She has made me one!”
“I _knew_ you would love her—still I am so glad to _feel_ it.”
“Love her! dearest Sophie! I was prepared to love her for your sake; now
I love her for her own!”
“And I _knew_ you would, as I said, and now I rejoice to feel it; now,
then, you feel the same pleasure that I do in the thought of having the
sweet girl with us?”
“Have her with us! Yes, that is the best of it—we shall have her with
us—by our fireside in winter, and about our piazza in summer, and all
around us—so we can see her always, and caress her as much as we please,
and love her as dearly, and make her beautiful being as happy as
possible—have her with us—see here, Sophie, I am afraid I should be
tempted to kick any fellow who should come courting her—yet of course it
must come to that, and it will come very soon to that. Beauty and
sensibility and susceptibility like hers will not long remain unwooed,
unwed, in a naval station full of gay and romantic young officers; and
even now I am afraid Hagar will be wanting her, and that Rosalia will
prefer to go with the companion of her childhood—and that chap, Raymond,
will take sides with them, and we shall lose the dear girl after all.”
“You need not be afraid of that. Hagar does not want her. Hagar loves no
human being, neither man, woman, nor child, no one except Raymond.
Hagar’s affections are very concentrative. She has never loved any
creature but Raymond, and she has loved him intensely from childhood,
and indeed I fear there is as much tyranny as tenderness in her
affection for her husband.”
“Oh! well! never mind them, Sophie; let them torture and transport each
other in turn, as young lovers of their temperament must for a while;
only let them leave this charming Rosalia to light our sober, quiet
home. What are you laughing at, you partridge?”
“Thinking how very sober any home is going to be that calls such a
boisterous fellow as you are, master.”
“Humph! but, Sophie, but it will be _you_ that will make it quiet, my
love! my dove! _you_, Sophie—come! does not my boisterousness subside
into gentle joy by your side? Say, am I not quiet enough?—I can get
quieter!”
“No, don’t—I—I think—perhaps I like you all the more for being just what
you are.”
“Are you really contented with me, Sophie?—I have been so much afraid,
sometimes, that my ‘boisterousness’ should shock and alarm you—now does
it, ever?”
“Never—never—it is never rude or violent, you know, Gusty, and it only
lifts my own sober cheerfulness into agreeable gaiety.”
You do not care to hear all that was said by the partners in this
“mutual admiration” firm—they walked and talked, as long as _you_ walked
and talked, with you remember whom—or as long as you _expect_ to walk
and talk with, perhaps you _do not_ know whom. They did not return to
the house until summoned to dinner. A large company sat down at table. A
dancing party in the evening closed the day, and the guests dispersed.