THE BRIDE’S PARTING.
“From the home of childhood’s glee,
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears;
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!
Bright one, oh! there well may be
Trembling ’midst our joy for thee.”
MRS. HEMANS.
“Mother! is not Rosalia to stay with you?” asked Gusty May, as he
lingered over a late breakfast with his mother.
“Why, _no_, Gusty, certainly not! what put such a thing in your head?”
“Why, mother, it came there naturally enough, as Rose lived with us many
years before she went to school, and as you always seemed so fond of
her, and she also seemed so necessary to you, I thought, of course, you
would like to have her again.”
“But you know, my dear, _why_ Rose lived with us; that reason no longer
exists, and Rose goes with her natural guardians.”
“And, mother, who _are_ her natural guardians? Two new brides, quite
lost in the glory of their bridehood; have _they_ thought or care for
Rosalia?”
“Sophie has.”
“Yes, but Sophie! Sophie is so innocent. Sophie is going to live—didn’t
you know it? on board the store-ship.”
“Ship!”
“Lord bless you, _yes_, mother! aboard the store-ship uncle commands.
There is an elegant cabin, furnished luxuriously as any city
drawing-room, and far beyond anything you see down in this neighborhood.
Well, as I was saying, Sophie will live there—now is that a desirable
home for a young girl like Rosalia, among all those gay, young officers,
with a chaperone no wider awake than Sophie is, with a guardian merry
and wild as Uncle Gusty?—and I tell you, mother, those young officers
are devils of fellows—you know I know them.”
Emily fell into thought a moment, and then she said,
“Sophie is indeed very abstracted, and my brother, as you say, is wild;
but then there is Hagar; I think that it were better she resided with
Hagar.”
“What, mother, with Hagar! don’t you know that Raymond proposes to board
the first year? and with the narrow salary of an under professor, will
Raymond be able to take her? Besides, a girl dependent, as she is,
should be made to feel that she has quite a choice of homes, that many
hearts and doors are ready to fly open to her.”
“You know that I should love to have her with me, Gusty. I will invite
her, press her to come. I do not think, however, that either Sophie or
my brother will be willing to resign her.”
“Thank you, dear mother! thank you!” exclaimed Gusty, jumping up and
kissing her, “oh! thank you—‘willing!’ no, I don’t indeed suppose they
will be willing to resign her—who _could_, in fact? nevertheless, we
must try to overrule them.”
“You run quite enthusiastic upon the subject, Master Gusty!” exclaimed
Emily, looking at him attentively.
“Enthusiastic, mother! Gracious Heavens, mother! one must be cold, dead,
yes, a _corpse_—a corpse! I mean a _statue_—one must never have _had_
life—a statue! I should rather have said a _block of marble_—one must
never have had _form_ not to be inspired with enthusiasm by that
girl—that seraph!”
“Hey! Master Gusty! have you fallen in love with Rosalia?”
“Speak low, mother! Oh! breathe her name in flute-like tones—for,
mother! when I speak of enthusiasm, I mean the rapt enthusiasm of the
adoring saint for his guardian angel! the silent enthusiasm with bended
knees, clasped hands, and upraised eyes, mother!”
“Humph! not the enthusiasm for instance that Hagar inspired some weeks
ago—a passion that was going to compel you to send the planets whirling
against each other!” archly smiled Emily.
“Mother, no more of that ‘an you love me.’”
“So you have got over your phrensy for Hagar?”
“Why, mother,—_of course_,” said Gusty, assuming a look of shocked
propriety, “_of course_—you did not suppose I was going to keep on
loving her _now_, did you?”
“I should hope not, certainly; and I am glad your lips confirm my hope.”
“I am a man of honor, mother!” said Gusty, dilating.
“Certainly you are, my love! I am very sure of that—nevertheless, Master
Gusty, I cannot really give you credit for the exertion of any great
moral power in this affair. I think that your passion has been conquered
as the Indians conquer danger when pursued by the flames of a burning
prairie—fire by fire—love by love.”
“Stop, mother! be just—despair and conscience did much for me even
before I left her.”
“And yet that was a great infatuation of yours, and now here is another
quite as great—I am afraid you are fickle, Gusty! Have you really quite
ceased to regret Hagar?”
“Quite, mother.”
“And care nothing at all about her?”
“Oh! stop—_yes_, I care a great deal about her in—in a brotherly way,
you understand! in fact, just as I always _did_, until I had to go mad
about her, you know. Care about Hagar? yes! I guess I do! Let any fellow
crook his finger at Hagar, and see if he don’t get his neck twisted,
that’s all? It is singular that I should have got into such a delirium,
is it not, though? and more singular that I should have got out of
it—don’t you think so, mother?”
“No, indeed—it is perfectly natural—the ‘harder it storms the sooner it
is over’ is an acknowledged atmospherical fact, and by all that ever I
have seen, it is as true of passionate as it is of atmospheric storms. I
hope that you will never marry during the raging of any phrensy of
passion—for, if you do, you will be very apt to make yourself and
another miserable for the rest of your lives.”
“You may well call it a phrensy—a storm, mother! Gracious Heavens! yes!
That intoxicating Hagar! I used to reel away from her whirling,
spinning, tipsy! That electric Hagar! she would flash into my soul blaze
after blaze, like the lightning of a dark, tempestuous night, dazzling,
blinding, stunning me!”
“And this other?”
“_And this other_—oh! stop, mother; put a long pause between _that_
and—‘this other,’ and sink your voice low, like you were whispering in a
church—this other dawns on my soul like a soft, rosy morn, faintly,
gently, sweetly, and bright and brightening! Hagar broke the silence of
my heart as with a laugh, a shout, a whoop, a halloa! ‘This other’
_steals_ upon the ear like a soft note of music, rising and swelling
into harmony and volume!”
“My poet!”
“No, mother, not your _poet_; I feel more like your _apostle_—I feel
when I think of her more like saying my prayers—I feel while sitting by
her as if I were doing a meritorious thing; my heart is hushed into a
holy content and calm, such as one feels when taking a seat in the
church while the organ is pealing ‘gloria in excelsis,’ or the preacher
is reading ‘The Lord is in His holy temple—let all the earth keep
silence before Him.’”
“Do not be irreverent, Gusty.”
“Oh, I am not, mother; indeed, so far from it, that I never thought of
the Lord so much, worshipped the Lord so much, felt the Lord’s presence
in all the beautiful sights and sounds of nature so much, as during that
heavenly journey with Rosalia. Let me tell you about it, mother—good,
best mother, you know I tell you everything—always did ever since I was
a boy.”
“Everything, Gusty?”
“Well, yes—that is—_almost_ everything. Well, you know after I set out
from here, I tried not to think of Hagar, but the more I struggled with
the image, the more intensely I thought of her.”
“Of course; you should have _fled_ from the subject, fixed your
attention on something else—never let your thoughts struggle with a
sinful subject—fly from it.”
“Yes. Well, I was a little shy of meeting Rose—she always _was_
delicate, sensitive, and refined—and I thought two years in a
boarding-school had educated and refined her tastes and manners up to
the highest fine lady standard. Well, when I got to Boston, and when I
reached the outskirts of the town, and when I passed the gate in front
of Mrs. Tresham’s marble and stuccoed mansion, I felt embarrassed. I had
to recollect that I was an officer in the United States Navy, mother! I
had to turn all the way back to my hotel, wait half a day to get a card
engraved, put on my best new uniform, get a pair of lavender-colored
gloves, and a cambric handkerchief—throw myself into a carriage and ride
there (I had walked before), and all for fear Miss Aguilar should think
me rough, countryfied. Well, I made coachee get down and ring the bell,
take in my card, ‘Augustus W. May, U. S. N.’ Come, I thought, that would
do—that was going it _en grand seignior_. Presently I alighted, and was
shown into the parlor. Magnificent, mother! precisely like a wealthy
merchant’s drawing-room; and while I was waiting there—sitting on a fine
crimson velvet seat, lolling back with one arm grandly thrown over the
back of the chair, throwing back my shoulders, expanding my chest; in
fact, enlarging and dilating generally and sublimely! telling myself all
the time that I was Aug. W. May, U. S. N.,—the door swung noiselessly
open, and a tall lady, in stiff black satin and a turban, entered,
followed by a lovely girl, with golden ringlets flashing down upon her
light blue silk dress. While I arose and was flourishing my grandest
bow, and the lady elaborating her profoundest curtsey, Rosalia, the dear
girl! floated towards me, holding out her dear white arms, and warbling,
‘Gusty, Gusty!’ just as when she was a baby, and I a lad. I forgot that
I was Aug. W. May, U. S. N. I forgot Madam Tresham—and Gusty Wilde
started—sprang—clasped Rosy in his arms, to his bosom, and kissed her
eyes, and nose, and mouth, while the room spun round for joy! and he was
just about to whirl Rosy all around the room in a reel, when he was
arrested by the sight of her Royal Highness, Madam Tresham, sinking
superbly into a chair, elevating her double chin with slow haughtiness;
then he dropped Rose, and blushed, and bowed and sat down.
“‘Your _brother_, of course, I presume, Miss Aguilar?’ she said,
elevating her chin sublimely.
“Now, she _knew_ better, of course she did; she said that out of an
air.”
“In rebuke, Gusty, and she was right; you behaved indecorously.”
“See here, mother, can I help it? When my blood gives one jump from my
heart to the top of my head and the tips of my fingers!”
“Well, what did Rosalia reply?”
“She said, ‘Oh, no, dear madam, he is not my brother; but we were
brought up together,’ and the old lady said ‘Ah!’ and then I handed my
credentials, Sophie’s letter requesting the presence of Miss Aguilar. I
swear madam did not seem inclined to comply! however, next day we set
off by stage for New York, because Rose was afraid of water, and we
travelled by coach as far as Baltimore, and then, as no stage runs this
route, we were obliged to take a chaise, and oh! was not that a
delightful journey,—a glimpse of Heaven, mother! a specimen of life in
Paradise, those three days’ journey in the chaise! I and Rose alone; the
dear girl, how many times she would get out to rest the horse and walk
by my side while I led him up the hill! Now, mother, don’t forget;
you’ll invite Rose, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“You love Rose, don’t you?”
“Yes, as a daughter.”
“And you would take her for a daughter, wouldn’t you?”
“Most willingly.”
“That’s you, mother.”
* * * * *
Rosalia was in demand. That same morning Raymond Withers stood by the
mantel-piece, his elbow resting upon the top, his head leaned upon his
hand, his eyes bent down upon the slight figure of Hagar, whom he held
in a half embrace with the other arm.
“Hagar, love,” he said, in his flute-like tones.
“Well, Raymond!”
“What disposition is to be made of your cousin?”
“Rosalia?”
“Of course, Rosalia.”
“She is to reside with Captain Wilde and Sophie.”
“I want you to invite her to accompany us—to live with us, in fact,—to
make one of our family.”
Hagar was silent.
“Well, Hagar?”
She did not reply.
“Will you invite her to-day, Hagar? we have but a few days left, and the
child should know where she is going. Invite her to-day, Hagar—now!”
Hagar’s eyes were rooted to the rug.
“You do not reply, Hagar: perhaps you would rather _I_ should speak to
her myself, and yet methinks it would beseem _you_ more; shall I invite
Rosalia, or you?”
“Just as you please.”
“Then you speak to her, and let me know her decision, will you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“At the first opportunity.”
“You speak coldly, I had almost said sullenly, Hagar. Do you not like
this plan?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Do not press me for a reason, Raymond; why should _you_ be so anxious
for Rosalia to become an inmate of our family?”
“First, because it is only common kindness to a young relative who is
depending upon some of us to offer her a home; and secondly, because I
am very much pleased with Rosalia, and think that she will be quite an
acquisition to our fireside.”
Her hand was in his as she stood by his side; but her forehead was bent
forward against the lower part of the chimney-piece, so that her long,
extremely long blue-black ringlets hung down below her stomacher, like a
veil concealing her face, hiding the corrugating brow, gleaming eyes,
flushed cheek, and quivering lips.
“Miss Aguilar is not dependent for a home—her father left her a small
property.”
“I do not say and did not mean that she was dependent for a roof to
shelter her fair head, or a board to sit at, but if she has ever such a
fortune she is a young, delicate, sensitive girl, and she _is_ dependent
on some of us for a _home_, for kindness, tenderness, affection.”
“She has all that, or will have all that with Sophie and Captain Wilde.”
“Nevertheless let her feel that she is encompassed with affection—poor
girl, she has no _parents_, let her feel that she has _friends_.”
Hagar was again silent. Then he spoke.
“What is your objection to our plan?”
“We are going to board, as I understand, and so we have after all no
home of our own to offer her.”
“But we are _not_ going to board—I have changed my plan.”
“Since when?” inquired Hagar, with a slightly sarcastic tone.
“Since my tenant moved out of my house on the Hudson!” replied Raymond,
coldly.
“Oh! I did not know you owned a house anywhere.”
“Probably _not_! you have no _means_ of knowing—you have just learned
_that_ fact for the first time, as you will soon learn _others_, my
love!”
“What others?” sneered Hagar.
“No matter now—invite Rosalia to come with us as I requested you, my
dear, will you?”
“Yes, I will—Raymond.”
“Well, love?”
“You seem very much charmed with Rosalia!”
“I am—I could not tell you _how_ much charmed with her—she is a seraph!”
“Raymond!” she spoke huskily now, “suppose you had met Rosalia before
our marriage, even before our engagement?”
“Well!”
“Do you not think that you would have rather loved and wooed _her_ than
_me_—that you, even now, were we free, would prefer her?”
“Prefer her!”
“Prefer her to _me_—could you not love Rosalia better than Hagar?” said
she, speaking with great rapidity. “She is fair, full formed. I am
small, thin, and dark. She is soft, gentle, sensitive. I am wild,
fierce, and proud, proud to every one but _you_, Raymond. She is tender.
I am hard. She is graceful. I am rude. She is all that is lovely,
fascinating in form, features, temper, and manners. I am all that is
repellent in person, character, and deportment—every one loves her—all
dislike me.”
“Hagar.”
“Tell me, Raymond, have you not followed the stream in this general,
this inevitable admiration and love?”
“Hagar!”
“Have you not claimed my hand too hastily? Do you not now regret it,
wishing that you had waited longer and looked further—lamenting that you
had not seen Rosalia while you were yet disengaged?”
“_Hagar!_”
“You do not deny it! You only echo and re-echo, ‘Hagar!’ ‘Hagar.’ Yes,
_Hagar_! that is my name, my fit name—what strange prophetic inspiration
was it that made them drop my proper name of Agatha and call me ‘Hagar?’
Alas! I might have known it, Raymond! Oh! did I not _beg_ you to defer
our marriage? Alas! what forebodings were mine! Truly coming events cast
their shadows before! Oh! Raymond, I might have known—Rosalia has won in
succession every heart from me—first Sophie’s, then Mr. Withers’s, the
servants’, the neighbors’, Mrs. May’s, and lately, think of it! I _was_
really glad of _that_, not knowing what an omen it was! lately,
_Gusty’s_. A month ago Gusty was perfectly infatuated with my poor face,
raved, talked of blowing his brains out. Well! two weeks ago he set out
for Rosalia, met her again, brought her home, and now he raves more
about Rosalia’s shoe or glove than he ever did about my whole being! And
then! and then! oh! God, you, Raymond, _you_! If you could have seen
yourself when I first pointed her out to you, as _I_ saw you, drunk with
her beauty!”
Her blood was kindling in her veins, while her bosom heaved and set with
the motion of the hidden fire that blazed and died and blazed upon her
cheeks, as you have seen a red flame in the night rise and fall waved by
the wind—while her eyes scintillated sparks.
“I wish,” she said, “that as I am so much smaller, I were soft and weak
like other women! that I had more lymph, and so could easily melt! could
weep! I can _not_—I am _hard_—my muscles are like tempered _steel_—they
imprison a strong grief that rages, burns, and rends, finding no escape,
no vent, no expression! I wish that I could weep! could die! like other
women.”
During all this rhapsody, Raymond had been looking down on her with the
greatest calmness of attitude and expression—his head still supported by
the arm that rested on the mantel-piece—his eyes quietly observing her.
Now he took her hot and quivering hand and led her to the window—there
were two chairs facing each other at this open window. He motioned her
into one, dropping into the other himself—he took both of her hands into
his own and gazed into her agonized countenance a minute, and then said:
“Hagar! look me in the face, look me straight in the eyes, come!” and as
she raised her eyes piercing with anguish to _his_ eyes, there was a
sedative influence emanating from his manner that acted upon her nerves,
reducing her to quiet, she knew not how or wherefore. He held her hands
thus, looking straight into her fascinated eyes thus for a few moments,
and then his flute-like tones gently stole on the silence as he said,
“Hagar! I love peace, quietude, repose, benign repose. I love low tones,
soft footsteps, gentle manners, sweet smiles, and complying tempers
around me, and I must have them—look straight in my eyes and see if you
do not feel that I _will_ have them? So, Hagar, no more of this tragic
acting, if you please, my love.”
Her eyes were fixed full on his, in a vague but painful surprise; she
did not attempt yet to reply.
“It is this harmonious repose that charms me so in Rosalia.”
“Then why,” she murmured at last, “why were you ever attracted to one so
every way opposite as myself?”
“Because you can be made every way better; one don’t want a character
_all_ cotton wool; a good steel spring that rebounds from pressure is
not unpleasant in your organization. I like to know that there is a
strength, force, energy in you when required, but I like
it—_latent_—under perfect _command_—do you mark! and you are not,
because you happen to have a whole magazine of artillery and ammunition,
to fire and flame and blaze away at such a rate! _or in the least
degree_; you must grow tame, my wild love.”
“My peculiarities, then, are not altogether repulsive to you; you love
me, despite of them all!”
“I love you _because_ of them all, my Hagar; and—but _mind_!” and here
his voice sank to a lower key and deeper tone than she had ever heard,
and his gaze was steadily fixed on hers, “_You must place confidence in
me_; that I demand! without that your love is worthless to me; mine to
you. I love Rosalia, but not in the way you imagine, foolish girl. I
would not marry her if I could. You spoke of my admiration of her last
evening. I was ‘drunk’ with gazing on her beauty—a delicate word for a
lady, by the way—never let me hear it from your lips again, Hagar! I was
‘entranced,’ &c.—now observe, I will illustrate—last week you and I rode
out together; it was a beautiful evening, and the sun was sinking like a
world in flames, lighting up into flashing splendor half a hemisphere of
crimson purple and gold sky, of blue water, and green hills and vales;
and you, drawing rein upon the brink of a lofty cliff, gazed rapt upon
the scene until your face was as a small mirror reflecting all the glow
of the sunset—your soul seemed pouring from your eyes, until the sun
sank behind a bank of clouds that lay like a low range of blue mountains
immediately on the horizon, and then the spell that bound your revery
was dissolved.” Oh! how intensely her eyes burned into _his_ eyes while
he spoke; he continued speaking slowly. “As you, upon the brow of the
cliff gazed, gazed on the sun-set’s glory; so _I_ gazed upon the young
girl’s beauty!”
“Ah! ah!” said she, with wild energy, “but I was upon _the brow of the
cliff_! the brink of destruction, where a single mis-step would have
precipitated me into ruin; and I was pouring my soul out through my
eyes, I was entranced until the glory was lost in clouds, the light in
darkness. Alas! _wail_ for your illustration, Raymond!” and suddenly
springing from him she fled up the stairs to her eyrie. He stood looking
after her a moment, and then followed her leisurely. He found her in an
excited stillness, gazing “too earnestly for seeing” out upon the bay.
He went up to the window, and leaning his arm upon the flap of the
escritoire, looked down at her, looked steadily at her—and spoke:
“Hagar.”
She started, turned, impatiently exclaiming, “Can I not escape your eye
and voice anywhere, _anywhere_?”
“Why _no_, love, of course not!”
She was turning away—“Nay, pause. Hagar, how long have we been married?”
“I do not exactly know, and I do not want to calculate now; it seems to
me much longer than it really is—a long, long time!”
“Something less than six weeks? Is not this a promising beginning?”
Hagar suppressed a groan. He drew her away to a lounge, and they sat
down. “Hagar, do you remember the night of our first meeting? when I was
a youth and you an infant?”
“_Do I not?_”
“Your first words to me—it was at Sophie’s wedding party, you
recollect—your first words to me formed a _jealous question_, and I knew
that you were strong and fierce and jealous, though so little even for
your years; and your first question was a _jealous_ question.”
“You have a good memory.”
“I _have_! therefore do not store it with facts that will be likely to
injure you in my estimation. Well, to go back to that evening—I loved
the little, fierce child—it was piquant to see so much intense fire
concentrated in so small a space. I felt that it would be interesting to
subdue this fierceness into gentleness. I was called away from home; but
I never forgot the interest she gave me. I returned, and the little girl
had become a little woman—and was wilder, fiercer, more piquant than
ever; she interested me, attracted me more than ever—and I wished to
possess her—I do possess her. I wanted her for interest, amusement,
occupation, use—not for _torture_! I wish her _esprit malin_ to stop
just when and where it ceases to be _agreeable_—do you hear, love? For,
Hagar, I have extremely keen nerves and senses; as most people of my
complexion enjoy a moderate degree of any sort of pleasure thrillingly,
but do not like to be shocked and stunned; things that would scarcely
act upon a lower organization put me in pain. And now another picture,
Hagar. Do you remember the monkey Augustus May brought you from sea,
when you were a little girl? You kept it years until my return; you had
educated it almost up to human intelligence; and showed it to me with so
much pride and pleasure. I was so amused with its antics—not so much
with what you had _taught_ it as with its _own primal_ nature, breaking
through all. _Yes, look at me, Hagar!_ keep your eye _so_—for I want you
to read all in my _soul_ that you find upon my _tongue_. You remember
the day we stood upon the point of rocks between the river and bay, on
the other side; you remember you had your monkey in your arms; you set
it down, and I made it bound and bound for a chestnut, while we both
laughed at its antics, until the thing, exasperated to anger, sprang
upon my chest and set its teeth and claws into my flesh, and then! Ah!
you grow pale, proud one! _what then, Hagar?_”
She answered, and spoke low and slowly, as though the words were drawn
from her involuntarily. “You tore it from my bosom by the heels, and
dashed its brains out on the rocks.”
“It was an involuntary impulse, Hagar, deplored, perhaps, the moment
after; nevertheless, Hagar, you monkey!” and here he smiled a strange
smile,—“be as spirited, fiery, and piquant as you please, but never set
your teeth and nails into my flesh _again_—and Hagar!”
“Well?”
“I want a mark of confidence from you. Invite Miss Aguilar to stay with
us—do you hear?”
“Yes.”
“‘Yes,’ what is that? Yes you hear, or yes you will do it?”
“Yes, I hear, and I will do it.”
“This day?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her forehead, arose, and sauntered out of the room. And Hagar
sprang upon her feet with a snap of her teeth, exclaiming, “Powers and
principalities of darkness! is this I? is this I? What is this? am I
bewitched, enslaved? I—_I_—_I_! pale, and tremble, and obey—_I_! Come,
Hagar!” said she, to herself, “let us go to the glass and see if we have
changed as much in person as we have in manner during the last ten
minutes!” and she went to the glass and glared at herself. “Would I
submit to this, if I did not love him, if I did not want him to love
_me_? Raymond! oh! you who looked _so_ gentle, so fair—who could think
that under those golden lashes, in those soft eyes, lurked such spring
lancets! And Rosalia! Was he sincere? or was he self-deceived? or
perchance am I mistaken?”
The dinner bell rang, and hastily arranging her dress, she descended the
stairs and entered the dining-room. Raymond came forward to meet her,
and led her to her seat at the table, whispering as he went,
“Your cheek is flushed, love, and your ringlets a little dishevelled. I
am sorry to see that; take time in future, love, even though you should
keep people waiting a few minutes; take time to compose yourself and
arrange your toilet.”
That afternoon Rosalia Aguilar had three distinct invitations to make
her home under the room of three distinct friends. She gratefully
declined two—that is Emily’s and Hagar’s, in favor of Captain Wilde and
Sophie.
The next Sabbath, the whole family from Heath Hall attended divine
service at the parish Church of the Ascension—Rev. Mr. Buncombe in the
pulpit. It was to be the last Sunday of their stay. Mrs. Withers’s pew,
in which sat Hagar, Raymond, Rosalia, Sophie, and Captain Wilde; and
Mrs. Buncombe’s pew, occupied by herself and Gusty, were the two front
pews of the middle aisle, immediately under the pulpit. After the
morning service was over, the benediction pronounced, and the
congregation had retired, the occupants of these front pews filed out,
and placed themselves before the altar in the following order: Captain
Wilde, with Sophie on his left hand, and next to her Rosalia; on his
right hand, Gusty, while Emily, Hagar, and Raymond were grouped near.
The preacher opened his book, and in the holy stillness of the empty
church, commenced the marriage rites that were to unite for life Sophie
and Augustus; he went on, finished them, the names of bride, bridegroom,
and attendants and witnesses were affixed to the register; kisses were
given and received; heartfelt, low-toned congratulations breathed, and
the little party slowly left the church, got into their saddles, and
rode over to Heath Hall, where a small party were assembled to dinner.
Dear girls, have I given you love, courtship, and marriage enough in
this and the last? Whatever you may think, there is “more truth than
poetry” in the story I am telling you, and more sadness than either.
Gusty rode by the side of Rosalia Aguilar—Rosalia was in one of her
softest moods, and tears and smiles and blushes chased each other over
her cheeks. She was thinking of “dearest Sophie,” and sympathizing with
her happiness. Gusty was sighing like the wind in the main-sail. His
mother’s invitation, backed by his own eloquence, had been inefficient
in persuading Rosalia to remain in the neighborhood.
“No, dearest Gusty,” she had said, “I should love so much to have you
all with me; it grieves me to part with any of you, but you know, Gusty,
that I must mind what Sophie says, and Sophie says that I must go with
_her_; besides, as I cannot stay with all, I prefer to stay with Sophie
and with Captain Wilde, who loves me also.”
“See here, Rosalia, I—I—I—”
“Don’t cry, Gusty, don’t cry—I will write to you every week, and can’t
you come and see me?”
“_Cry!_ am _I_ crying?—it’s—it’s the wind blowing in my eyes that makes
them water—pshaw! fiddle-de-dee! _me_ cry, indeed!—but,
Rosalia—stop—don’t ride so fast; let the folks get along before.”
“Why?”
“Oh! because—because—because it will tire the _horse_, you know, poor
fellow.”
“Oh, will it?” said Rosalia, reining up, and falling into a walk.
“Yes, to be sure it will, walk him slow,—there!” and then he rode up
close to the side of Rosalia, and said, “Rose, stop, little darling,”
and she stopped, and turned her gentle face towards him. “Rose, look at
me, darling,” and she looked straight in his face, with her large
innocent eyes. “How do you like me, altogether, Rose?”
“Oh! so much, so dearly, you _know_ I do, Gusty!”
“Ah, my seraph!—but, Rose, could you _love_ me?”
“Could I, Gusty? Why, I _do_ love you dearly.”
Then he sank his voice to a low whisper, and said,
“But, loving darling! you love _everybody_!—Raymond and Augustus
included.”
“But I love you better than them, Gusty—oh, ever so much better. You
know I have known you all my life, and never knew them until last week;
so good as they are, dear Gusty, and much as I love them, I love _you_
the most!”
“Love! love! love! Ah, my little angel, I am afraid you do not love me
as I would have you. Do you love me well enough to _marry_ me—now—soon?
My pay is enough to support us, and mother has consented. Sophie has a
good opinion of me, and—and—well! what do you say, my Rosalia?”
She was smiling and blushing.
“Well, Rosalia?”
“Why, it would be too curious! too queer! so funny. Sophie would laugh
at us, and all the girls would make fun of us. You know I am nothing but
a child yet—but oh! I know you are only joking.”
“As the Lord in heaven hears me speak, I never was more in earnest in my
life.”
“Oh! no, Gusty! not in earnest! I do hope not in earnest.”
“As the Lord lives I am, Rosalia—come, Rosalia! I see you will not drive
me to despair—you will give me your hand, and instead of going North,
you will just cosily settle down here, with mother. Come, put your hand
in mine, and I will take that for yes!”
“Oh, I am sorry to vex you, Gusty; indeed I am, dear Gusty, but I can’t
get married, it is too funny!”
“Do you not love me, then?”
“Yes, indeed I do, Gusty.”
“You _love_ me, dearest Rose?”
“Yes, indeed I do, Gusty, the angels know I do!”
“Then why not marry me, my sweet love?”
“So! Gusty, I had just as soon marry you as any one else, only I do not
like to marry one—”
“Good heavens!—oh, gracious Providence, _hear her_!—she had as lief have
me as _anybody else_!” roared Gusty, striking spurs to his horse and
making him bound in the air.
The girl grew pale, and hastily exclaimed,
“Well, well! maybe if I was obliged to marry, I would _rather_ have you
than anybody. Oh! don’t scare me so, Gusty! you make me weak all over,
and—and—I feel like falling from my saddle!”
And he saw, indeed, that his violence had nearly overwhelmed the
delicate girl, who was trembling very much. He rode to her saddlebow,
and said gently,
“Rosalia, I beg your forgiveness; I have startled you by my rudeness;
the fact is, Rosalia, I have been accustomed to Hagar, who, with
reverence be it said, is as rough as an unripe persimmon, as sour as a
lime, and as bitter as an aloe, and she has spoiled me for such gentle
society as yours; now compose yourself, Rosalia, and hear me, and
believe me when I say that if you refuse my hand—if you leave me here
and go to the North—I—well! perhaps I shall not go mad, or blow my
brains out, or break my heart, and die, but I shall be utterly wretched,
and make every one miserable around me, I _know_ I shall! I begin to
feel it now. So, Rosalia, I have to propose to you to break this matter
to Sophie, or let me do it, and to beg you, if she shall see no improper
haste in the project of our marriage, that you will accept me; Rosalia,
you make me talk _so_ much, darling!—now, Rosalia, what do you say?”
The girl paused, not in reflection, but in hesitation.
“Dearest Rose, you give me so much pain. Rose! Rose!”
“Do I? I did not mean to.”
“Will you give a reply, Rose?”
“Wait, Gusty, till I talk to Sophie; but, oh! no, I do not like to,
either—it is too queer. You, Gusty, you may talk to her.”
“Do you, do you say that, Rose! Tell me! tell me over again, Rose! I may
ask your hand of Sophie and Wilde?”
“Yes,” whispered Rose, the blood rising to the edges of her hair.
“Oh, glory, hallelujah! God bless you, Rose! God Almighty bless you,
Rose. Hey! stop, Lightning!” said he, suddenly jerking the bit, though
in fact it was not the horse but Master Gusty that was bounding. “There,
I am frightening you again, Rose! Be easy, Lightning!”
“Won’t you ride on? Sophie will be waiting for us.”
“Yes! yes! my angel Rose,” and they cantered on through the forest-path.
It was the same forest-path leading from the village to the church so
often mentioned in this story. They overtook Sophie Wilde and their
party. Sophie was buried in thought; she was in fact just passing the
spot where she had, eight years before, seen the apparition of the
wanderer, and now passing the road for the last time, and under her
peculiar circumstances, the fact was forcibly recalled to her mind.
Rosalia paced up lovingly to her side, and kept there during her ride
home.
Soon after dinner Gusty May found an opportunity of taking Sophie aside
and making known his wishes. His embarrassment under _all_ the
circumstances of which _we_ are cognisant, you know, was very natural
and amusing. Sophie Wilde (I love to call her Sophie Wilde) was not
perhaps the person of all others to consult in such a case; it did,
however, vaguely dawn upon her mind that a little delay might not be
unadvisable in the proposed marriage of a youth of nineteen with a girl
of fifteen and a half; so she said dreamily that she would “Talk with
Captain Wilde.”
Up shot Gusty, exclaiming,
“‘_Talk with Captain Wilde!_’ ‘talk with Captain Wilde;’ yes! that’s it!
that’s the tune! ‘talk with Captain Wilde.’ What’s Captain Wilde to do
with it? I asked _you_, because she insisted you should be consulted,
and you are her little mamma. Seems to me that you have quite
unnecessarily elevated him to the throne. ‘Captain Wilde!’ he’s a great
fellow, isn’t he? Captain Fiddlestick’s end! I should just like to hear
_him_ object—I just _should_. Shouldn’t be surprised though if he
didn’t. ‘Talk to Captain Wilde!’ oh! _de_-cidedly. _She_ said ‘Talk to
Sophie,’ you say, ‘Talk to Captain Wilde,’ _he’ll_ ‘talk’ to Parson
Buncombe; and while you are all ‘talk’-ing, my prospect of getting a
pair of white kid gloves grows
“‘Small by degrees and beautifully less!’”
exclaimed Gusty, ranting up and down the piazza, and flinging his
coat-tails about. “I was born under the lost pleiad! I _know_ I was! to
be always crossed in love! to be hammered into a poet or something by
hard blows! I be hanged if I will. I’m to be put in the still as roses
are, and the essence of soul, the double extract of soul distilled from
me by fire, while flesh and muscle, life and health shrivel up like rose
leaves in the heat! No, I be hanged if I will. Cast me into the furnace
and see if I don’t turn out to be gunpowder, and blow somebody up! or
spirit-gas, and set some one on fire! _that’s_ all!” and blowing, he sat
down.
“Look here, my dear Gusty,” said our bride, “don’t talk nonsense. You
have a long leave of absence; come! go with us North. You indeed have
the best excuse; you may be said to be in duty bound to go, as our
groomsman, and in that capacity you must constantly attend Rosalia, and
who knows, you may be appointed to our ship; the set of officers is not
yet complete.”
“So I may! oh, God bless you, Sophie, it took just _you_ to think of
that! though you may not be as sensible as mother, or as brilliant as
Hagar—yet you are better. I wish the comparative had been _good_er than
_either_ of them! anything that is to make anybody happy, dear Sophie! I
shall not leave it to ‘who knows’ and ‘perhaps,’ I shall beg uncle to
get me appointed to his ship, if he can—where is he? I am going to him!
in the meantime consider me enlisted for this Northern bridal cruise,”
and off he went to seek Captain Wilde.
I leave it to any gentleman or lady present whether it was in Captain
Wilde’s power just that day to look rationally, sensibly, coldly, upon a
young lover’s passion.
“Why, Gusty, my boy,” he said, “you know very well that I have very
little influence; however, I will exert that in procuring your
appointment to my ship, and Gusty, in the meantime come on with us and
remain until you receive orders somewhere. Rosalia is a treasure, and if
I had the power of bestowing her, I do not know to whom I could give her
with so much pleasure as yourself. But you must wait, Gusty, for a year
or two—you are both somewhat too young to think of this marriage yet a
while.”
“Why, uncle, this ‘wait’-ing might be endurable if the time were passed
with you all, and in daily company of Rosalia, to be sure.”
This arrangement was finally concluded. And Emily, who loved Rosalia,
and preferred her above all others as a future daughter-in-law, readily
consented to forego the society of her son for the present, merely
saying—
“_When_ you marry, if you ever marry Rosalia, you must bring her home
here and leave her with me while you are at sea, Gusty, and that is the
only condition upon which I can consent to part with you, Gusty, for
this term.”
Of course Gusty consented and promised.
* * * * *
“And so, my little dove-eyed darling is scarcely out of school, before
she is betrothed—do you know the meaning of your vows, my little love?”
asked Sophie, very seriously, the same afternoon as Rosalia nestled on a
stool at her feet. And Rose dropped her blushing face in the lap of
Sophie, and was silent. “Do you?—tell me, Rose?”
“Dear Sophie, I had rather not get married—only, you know, poor Gusty,
it would be a pity to hurt his feelings!”
“You child!”
“But, Sophie, I am not—not betrothed, as you suppose—no indeed, I gave
no positive answer until I could hear what you would have to say.”
“You did not!” said Sophie, suddenly. “Oh, then, my dear Rose, I beg—I
entreat that you will bind yourself by no rash vows now—wait—you are
heart-whole yet—wait—Gusty is going on with us—you will see more of
him—he of you—and you will both find out whether you are fitted for each
other. Will you promise me not to engage your hand ever without my
consent, Rose?”
“Dear Sophie, to be sure I will—I never once thought of doing
otherwise.”
This was perfectly easy for Rose, for her own inclinations were
uninterested in the matter.
Breaking up an old home, the home of many years—I had nearly said
centuries, is not like a modern city May day flitting. A home like old
Heath Hall, with its accumulations, its secretions of many years and
many hearts, with its innumerable old closets, cupboards, wardrobes,
escritoires, and “old oak chests,” with their inexhaustible treasures,
relics, and curiosities—from the doublet and hose that the founder of
the American branch of the family wore—with his point and ruffles
and bonnet and plume—to the cocked hat and rusty sword of
great-great-grandfather, and the hooped petticoat and high heeled shoes
of his wife—from the first baby cap that the first American Churchill
baby wore, to the lock of grey hair that was cut from his coffined head
just before the lid was screwed down—from the veil that fell around the
maiden at her bridal to the cap the grandmother died in—from the bullet
extracted from the fiery-hearted son who had perished in battle, to the
clerical black silk gown his gentle bosomed brother had worn in his
ministry when he married, christened or blessed. Truly the organ of
veneration must be largely developed in these old Maryland and Virginian
families—all things linked with family associations are relics it would
be little short of sacrilege to destroy. The cast off bridal wreath and
veil that a northern or a city belle would generously and properly
bestow upon some young sister or cousin, is gently lifted from her
daughter’s brow by a Maryland mother—reverentially lifted as you have
seen a minister raise the cloth from a communion table, and laid away a
sacred treasure, a relic to be handled with awe and love by the children
in future ages. The wardrobe of the dead that many northern and city
families send to the proper destination, the backs of the ragged living,
in Maryland and Virginia is carefully collected and packed away in
chests and locked, and hermetically sealed as it were to moulder away to
dust in long years. These old houses—how the very smell of their musty
mysterious old closets and closely shaded rooms, for dreaming carries us
back to the days when people did not understand that ventilation was
necessary to health, to the days when we lay across grandmother’s soft
lap, watching through our winking eyes grandmother’s dear good face,
and, vibrating between angel dream land and her capped and spectacled
face, dimly wondered what we were, and slipped from this vague feeling
into sleep. These old houses have no antiquities carrying us back to the
very ancient feudal times, it is true; but they have that which comes
more warmly, _so_ warmly! home to the heart, all the signs of _long
inhabitedness_. The old windows may creak in the wintry blast, and the
wind whistle up from crevices at the very foot of the old mantel-pieces
beside the blazing hickory fire, yet the heart is all the warmer for its
old age, because grandfather and grandmother lived there and _their_
grandparents before them. These old houses scattered at wide intervals
up and down the shores of the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries, and
under the Easterly shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and in and out
among the hills and through the forests between them—these old houses,
spotting the verdure of new settlements like iron-mould—these old
houses, many of them still inhabited by the old families, while both
decay together, still blossoming out occasionally with young life, young
children, remind me strongly of old mouldering tombs from which fresh
blooming flowers are springing.
“Let’s leave all things just _so_, Hagar, love,” said Sophie, as the two
were making a tour of the old Hall, opening and examining old closets
and chests with a view of determining what should be taken, what left,
what burnt and what given away. “We will lock up all the rest without
examination. I have not nerves for it, Hagar. It is like dissecting a
heart, to explore the treasures and memorials and relics of the long ago
dead. Let us leave them so.”
“Let’s make a general bonfire of them,” said Hagar, “I never like these
relics, they come across me unpleasantly, very—why should people
accumulate them—storing up pangs against some day of pangs. ‘Let the
dead past bury its dead;’ _en avant_ is my motto.
Sophie looked at her with her brown eyes dilating in reverie.
“Perhaps you are right after all—these relics awaken mournful, not to
say maudlin feelings that might sleep but for their sight; nevertheless,
_I_ could not destroy these things, neither can I consent to their
destruction.”
It was finally agreed in consultation that all things should remain just
as they were, that the Hall should be closed, and left in charge of old
Cumbo and Tarquinius.
* * * * *
“Where are you going, Hagar?” said Raymond, as she sauntered from the
breakfast-room off into the yard.
“To see Starlight. I have not seen him since our marriage, and I was
accustomed to go to his stall every morning when Tarquinius carried his
oats.”
“Why did you not ask me to attend you?” inquired Raymond, as he drew her
hand under his arm.
“Because, Mr. Raymond,” flashed Hagar’s eyes and teeth, “I love to shake
you _off_ some time! when you set like a trammel—besides you do not like
Starlight.”
Raymond replied by drawing her arm closer and holding her hand tighter,
while her pointers, Remus and Romulus, seeing her, sprang to her,
bounded around her, and she stopped to caress them with her free hand.
Raymond an instant looked annoyed, then raising the loaded end of his
riding-whip, struck them away. Hagar snatched her hand from his arm, and
all the fire of her race and nation was burning in the indignant gaze
she flashed upon his brow that still remained unfurrowed by a frown in
its superb calmness.
“Well, Hagar, I am not scathed, blasted by that lightning stroke, am I?
Nonsense, Hagar, do you suppose I am going to permit a hand I love to
kiss to be licked over by those two curs?—pooh! go wash it.”
“They are _not_ curs, they are fine splendid pointers! Look at their
shining black coats and eyes like coals! and their _love_ has more
generous disinterestedness than—” And here she paused, her expiring
flash of spirit died out beneath the steady inquiring gaze of the soft,
deep blue eyes, striking up through which came a will, a purpose, the
strength of which was dimly guessed from the depths from which it seemed
to come.
“Than _what_, Hagar?”
“Nothing!” said Hagar, as her high heart-throbbing subsided. He drew her
arm again within his own, and they proceeded to the stables. At the
sight of his mistress, Starlight neighed loud for joy, and breaking
away, cantered up to meet her, pawed the ground, stretched out his head,
and couched it in the open palms she held to receive it. Hagar smiled in
his eyes, full of the earnestness she could not speak, and stroking his
jet black neck, let him lay his chin upon her shoulders alternately, and
rub his mouth upon her neck and cheek, snorting with joy between times.
“See, Raymond! see,” she said, with her momentary anger all conjured
away. “See how the very _want_ of the gift of speech makes his eyes and
motions so eloquent! See how glad he is to see me! don’t I understand
you, Starlight? and don’t you know every word I am saying?” said she,
caressing him.
But now her eyes fell upon Raymond, who was standing with folded arms,
curling lip, and scornful eyes, regarding her.
“Why do you look at me in that way, Raymond?”
“You have no refinement, no delicacy. Your dress pawed over and soiled
by your canine pets—your ringlets snuffed at, and your neck rubbed by
the nose of your pony. I am glad that in a few days I shall be able to
remove you from all these things.”
“But I wish to take Starlight and Remus and Romulus with me,” said
Hagar, as she turned away from the stable, and they sauntered on.
“You cannot do so.”
“Why?” she asked, anxiously.
“I do not like dogs and horses myself, and I very much _dis_like your
attachment to them, and I utterly disapprove of your use of them; when
you cannot walk there are carriages to be had!”
“You never told me that you disapproved of my habits before!”
“I had no right to _express_ it before, and yet you learned it from my
silence, and now I say it explicitly, and expect that my tastes be
consulted in the matter.”
“And you have no right to express it _now_! sir,” exclaimed the mad
girl, with the fire flaming in her eyes. “No right to express it _now_!
_what_ right have you _now_, more than you ever had over me? None that I
acknowledge! None that I will bear to have you assume! None, Raymond!
_none!_ All love! all compliance that I yield you now I would have
yielded you before! and you know it! you know it! of my own free will!
of my own glorious free will!—not from constraint! God in Heaven! you
exasperate—you madden me—by attempts at constraint! Raymond! what do you
mean by this? I do not like it. No! I will turn away, I will not look at
your cold, spirit-killing eyes. I will not let your cold, damping,
implacable will extinguish my life and soul as the rain puts out the
fire. _I_ have a will! and tastes, and habits, and propensities! and
loves and hates! yes, and conscience! that all go to make up the sum
total of a separate individuality! a distinct life! for which _I alone_
am accountable, and _only_ to God! How weak and worthless would my
obedience to God be if it were fettered through a submission to _any_
lower will. No, I will _not_ bear to have you assume any right over my
freedom of action, and I shall take my favorites with me to the North.”
A sarcastic smile fluttered around the beautiful lips and gleamed under
the golden eye-lashes of Raymond Withers as he slightly raised his hat
from his head with a mock bow, and sauntered away from her side, quoting
for her benefit the very last clause of Genesis iii. and 16. It only
needed his sarcasm to exasperate the girl to phrensy. She snapped and
ground her teeth together, and stamped with both little feet, springing
to the ground as though they would take root there—while anger rocked
and flamed to and fro in her bosom like a sea of fire lashing its
shores. Suddenly—veiling her flashing eyes and setting her gleaming
teeth with a look of resolution, she went to the stables and calling
Tarquinius, bade him saddle Starlight.
“We will have another day together, my old friends,” said she, as the
horse neighed joyously, and the dogs bounded around her each in
intelligent anticipation; and in ten minutes from this Hagar was flying
over the heath towards the forest attended by her favorites.
The sun was setting in golden glory as Hagar rode into the yard at Heath
Hall, sprang from her horse, and throwing the reins to Tarquinius walked
leisurely towards the house, smiled and bowed salutation to the company
assembled to enjoy the evening air in the piazza, and passed on into the
Hall—Sophie followed her, and with the tears welling up to her eyes
exclaimed,
“Oh! Hagar, what have you done?”
Hagar threw up her little glittering head of ringlets and replied with
laughing defiance,
“I have been taking one of my old days among the hills! I wished to feel
my freedom a little, that is all! I have been galled by the too close
pressure of my chains lately, and have broken them through for once,
that’s all.”
“How will you meet Raymond after this escapade?” said she, sadly.
“Nonsense, Sophie, how will he meet _me_?” and she ran up stairs.
“Be quick, dear, trying Hagar, tea is nearly ready,” said Sophie, gazing
earnestly after her—then with a second thought, inspired by this second
and closer glance, Sophie went up stairs to her room, found her standing
leaning her elbow on her dressing-table, while her forehead rested upon
the palm of her hand, and her long glittering ringlets fell half way to
her girdle—her little figure was visibly throbbing with emotion. Sophie
went and took the hand that was hanging down; it was burning, hot, and
dry.
“Hagar!”
“Well?”
“You are wretched, poor child, and indeed I do not wonder. Hagar, will
you take my advice?”
“What is it?”
“_Tell_ your husband when you meet him that you are so—_you_ have
sinned, Hagar, and _you_ must atone for your sin; lay your small hand
gently on his arm, and look into his face, catch his eyes, and ask him
to forgive you.”
“WHAT!” snapped the proud girl, bounding like a little bombshell; “hold
out my wrists humbly for the gyves, and ask my master please to fasten
them on again! No! may I die if I do!”
“Oh! don’t look at it in that light, Hagar; you have wronged, outraged,
insulted Raymond.”
“Did he tell you so?” sneered Hagar.
“Can I not see it, Hagar? No, he did not tell me so—do you not know
enough of Raymond’s proud and fastidious nature to see that he _could_
not tell me so, Hagar? No, poor misguided child, your day’s absence was
enough. Come, Hagar, seek a reconciliation with him—you _have_ been
wrong—say so to him at once. You will have not a moment’s peace until
you are reconciled to your husband—seek that reconciliation at any price
of your own sinful pride.”
“I will not! cannot!”
“But, Hagar, you _do_ regret this, you suffer torture.”
“I can _bear_ torture! but not humiliation! degradation!”
“Alas! look at you, the very flame of mental fever flickering through
your cheeks and eyes—the freshness of your lips scorched by the dry heat
of your breath. What a day you have had to-day, Hagar! how much your
defiance has cost you! Come, come, bathe your eyes; after tea I will, if
I can, talk with you again. You will be wise.”
The supper bell rang, and Sophie, with a hasty charge to Hagar to make
her toilet quickly, arose and left the room. And Hagar sprang to her
feet with a determination to look very regal, happy, and defiant. She
bathed her burning eyes and brow, but without cooling their fever. She
smoothed her long glittering ringlets, and collected them under a
jewelled comb. She changed her black riding-dress for a crimson satin,
with full and falling sleeves, fastened a ruby bracelet on her slender
but rounded arm, and descended the stairs, trying to draw her heart up
blithe and high; she entered the drawing-room with head erect, expanded
brow, and elastic step, and was passing on proudly alone, behind the
company, who were going to the supper room, when quickly and softly at
her side was Raymond, his graceful head, with its wavy golden hair,
bending forward, smiling up into her face; his soft eyes radiant under
their golden lashes, and his delicate hand seeking hers, to draw it
through his arm, just as if nothing had happened. Her own Raymond!—her
pride was disarmed in a moment. Sunbright was the smile of surprise,
joy, love, and gratitude she flashed up in his gentle face, and suddenly
it softened into tenderness; how could she have defied a gentle soul
like his?—in truth, she would have given everything she possessed on
earth, except Remus, Romulus, and Starlight, to have blotted out for
ever the offence of the day. She had not expected this; she had prepared
herself to defy the storm, not the sunshine, and her defences were all
melted off. She was subdued, and quietly and generously resolved in her
own mind not to shock and wound his fastidious delicacy again, and so
they sat down to supper. The neighborhood gossip of a tea-table occupied
the company. But Hagar continued to watch Raymond with a new feeling,
new interest; it seemed his character was now constantly unfolding
itself to her; new leaf after leaf was turned; she watched him covertly
but closely. His manner was just precisely as usual; and, though she
often caught his full eyes, not the slightest consciousness of
remembering that anything unpleasant had occurred was to be detected in
their glance. His countenance and manner wore their usual air of
graceful self-possession and elegant repose, and she would have thought
that, indeed, the occurrence of the day had dropped from his memory, but
that once, quickly, under his breath, he had said, “Your restlessness of
manner, your anxiety of expression, will draw attention—be at ease.”
“Be at ease”—these words, though spoken in the softest key, and with the
sweetest smile, somehow did not set her at ease; and “You will draw
attention,” raised an anxiety that she had not felt before. Was it the
dislike of drawing attention?—but she would wait. Oh, how she longed for
the stupid evening to be over; it is so hard to bear calmly, cheerfully,
a toothache or a heart-ache in company. It was long before they left the
tea-table, and then it was long before they got ready to go home, and
after they were all in their saddles and in their carriages on the road,
it was long before Sophie’s smiling good night broke up the family
circle for the evening. Sophie left the room with a congratulatory smile
to Hagar, happy in the thought that their quarrel was made up. Raymond
followed her, smiling, to the door, opened it, bowed her out, closed it,
and returned; then with a sudden impulse went back, re-opened it, and
passed out.
Hagar awaited his return half an hour, and then sought her chamber. She
expected him joyously, yet with a little undefinable anxiety. At last
she heard his steps ascending the stairs, he opened the door, and came
in; she turned quickly, and going to meet him, holding out both hands,
exclaimed,
“Dearest Raymond, I am so glad that we are alone, together at last, my
heart has been ready to burst all the—” She stopped short, and gazed in
surprise at him. How changed his aspect! was it the same Raymond that an
hour ago was smiling, bowing, glancing, gliding through the lighted
drawing-rooms? He stood with folded arms and curling lip; his cold eye
crawling over her from head to foot, yet so fascinating in his beautiful
scorn, that she could have uttered a death-cry of anguish, as love and
pride tugged at her heart-strings. He passed her and threw himself upon
a lounge. She had been prepared for this scorn and anger three hours
before, but she was not now—not after having been subdued by soft
smiles, sweet words, and gentle tones, that she had received in all
trust—no, not now—the touch of the soft fingers that had sought and
pressed her hand in drawing it through his arm; the touch of those soft
fingers was yet quivering on _her_ fingers; the rays of those gentle
eyes were yet beaming in _her_ eyes; the tones of that low, love-pitched
voice yet breathing in her ear—no, she could not believe in this
harshness, at _least_ she could not bear it. He was now sitting on the
lounge, making entries in a note-book, with his usual air of elegant
ease. She looked at him an instant, and then going up to him she stood
before him; he continued his writing, without looking up; the flame
flickered in and out upon her dark cheek; soon she dropped both hands
upon his shoulders, and dropped her proud head until the long glittering
ringlets fell each side of his cheeks, and sitting down beside him and
dropping her face upon his bosom, she whispered softly,
“Raymond, make friends with me! I will do anything in the world you wish
me to do—come! I will leave undone all you wish me so to leave, if you
will make friends with me again;” and a tearless heart-sob breaking from
her lips showed how great had been the pang of her vanquished pride.
He lifted her head from its resting-place, smoothed back the ringlets of
her hair, and holding her face between the palms of his hands, gazed
smilingly into her eyes, with a look, half of love, half triumph, and
said,
“You will? but then your ‘separate soul—will—individuality’—what are you
to do with it all? Answer me—I want a literal reply, in words—”
“I don’t know!—how do _I_ know?—don’t seek to humble me, dear Raymond—I
am tortured!—tortured!—tortured!”
“Tortured?”
“Yes!—yes!” exclaimed she, wildly,—“_tortured!_”
“Who tortures you, my piquant little love, my little vial of
sal-volatile?” said he, condescendingly, caressing her.
“You do, Raymond!—and myself!—myself tortures me!”
“Why, so it seems.”
“Yes, Raymond, understand me, and help me to understand myself. I only
lately began to know myself. I am a strange blending of pride and
aspiration!—and of love, and through love, fear!—the eagle and the
dove!—alas, bear with me!—hold my throbbing temples between your cool
hands, Raymond—_your_ hands are _always_ cool—so!—now calmly, I do not
know that there is anything to make me wild, or angry, just now—yet
these clashing and conflicting elements do so war in my nature—listen,
Raymond! when you angered me this morning, and left me, the aroused
passion of my soul heaved and set like the sea in a storm, leaping from
its bed and lashing the shores! I could not have believed it possible
that you _could_ have angered me so—or being angered so, that I could
have got over it so; and now that is gone, and—never wound my poor dove
because my eagle has stuck her beak and claws into you—”
“No, love, the dove shall never be wounded, but _the claws and wings of
the eagle shall be clipped_,” said he, looking steadily in her anguished
eyes. “Don’t reply to me yet, Hagar, you are about to say something that
will make more trouble between us.”
Then with a dry sob and gasp, Hagar’s heart shrank into silence, and he
smiled to see it, and all this while he was lightly caressing
her—running his fair fingers through her glossy hair, and kissing her
lips from time to time. At last she said—
“I have been thinking what to do with my favorites, Starlight and the
pointers.”
“And has your unassisted wisdom arrived at any conclusion, my love?”
“Yes, I will leave them here, in the care of Tarquinius, for a while;
then, perhaps, after a while, when we get settled, you will not object
to have them.”
“I am sorry, love, that our thoughts did not happen to run in the same
channel, very sorry. I made a sale of the horse and dogs to Gardiner
Green, this morning, while you were taking your last ride with them, and
to-night, after you came home, I sent them over to his farm by
Tarquinius.”
“NO!” exclaimed Hagar, starting violently.
He held her tightly, gently compressing his arm about her waist, and
replied, softly,
“Yes, love—nay, do not start and struggle, I cannot spare you, yet—yes,
love, they are sold.”
“_My_ horse!—_mine?_—_my own!_—my dear Starlight!—and my dogs—and
without my leave!”
“Come, come!—come, come! be still, Hagar, no phrensy,” said he,
smilingly, tauntingly caressing her, while a gentle, cruel strength
struck out from the pressure of the soft arms that held her in a fast
embrace; “if your eagle flaps its wings and beats its cage so violently,
I am afraid clipping its pinions and claws will not be enough—I am
afraid I shall have to crush it altogether,” said he, looking down into
her eyes.
She ceased to struggle, and dropped her hands clasped upon her
lap—dropped her head upon her chest, while the color all faded from her
cheeks, and the light from her eyes.
“Hagar!”
“Well!”
“What is the matter, love?”
“_What you please_ shall be the matter!” exclaimed she, laughing
bitterly, while light and color suddenly flashed back into her sparkling
face.
“Come, love, you are a spirited little thing, but you will be docile by
and by, and then—”
“I wish you joy of your automaton!”