THE FORSAKEN HOUSE.
“Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth,
Oh, silent house! once filled with mirth,
Sorrow is in the breezy sound
Of thy tall poplars whispering round.”
HEMANS.
The family met at breakfast the morning succeeding the events of the
last chapter. The family—that is, with the exception of Rosalia, who had
been spending a week at Grove Cottage, consoling Emily for the
disappointment of losing her company for the winter, by remaining with
her as long as possible, and indeed up to the day of the proposed
departure. Hagar entered the breakfast-room, escorted, as usual, with
the gentle and assiduous attention always given her, in public, by her
husband. He led her to her place, and seated her with a graceful bow and
sweet smile, and then assumed his own chair—smiling the morning
salutation to Captain Wilde, who just entered the room. But Sophie
looked at Hagar,—looked at her in astonishment. The spirited, springy
little figure was almost languid, though she sat erect; the healthy
crimson glow of her dark complexion had concentrated in a circumscribed
purple spot on her cheek, leaving her contracted brow and quivering lip
pallid; her strained glance expressed a mingled anguish and defiance.
And then Sophie’s glance turned off from Hagar to Raymond; but his fine
brow was perfectly smooth, his eyes smiling and his lips composed as he
received the cup of coffee from the waiter held by Tarquinius. Sophie
was so disturbed, upon the whole, that she could not eat her breakfast.
This was the last day of their stay at Heath Hall. The packet that was
to convey them to Baltimore was moored under the shadow of the
promontory. Immediately after breakfast, both gentlemen left the house
to superintend the removal of their baggage. Hagar arose from the table
and went into the large old drawing-room, Sophie’s whilom school-room.
Sophie, leaving her table in charge of the servants, followed her. She
was walking uneasily about the floor, and seeing Sophie enter, she
paused before the window. Sophie stole gently to her side, and passing
her soft arms over the girl’s shoulder, stooped forward and looked
seriously and lovingly into her anguished face, as she murmured in her
low, sweet voice,
“I must not ask you _now_, Hagar, my former question of ‘What is the
matter between you and Raymond?’ but let me comfort you in some way. Oh,
it is dreadful, indeed, my love, that you, a wife of scarcely two
months—but I will say nothing of that—only I see,” said she, dropping
her voice very low, “it is your _pride_, Hagar—don’t start, love, or
repulse me, for you know we shall be separated very soon—it is your
_pride_, love, that rebels against a rule every way gentle, just, and
reasonable. Subdue it, Hagar. Your husband has been educated among the
refinements of cultivated city society. He, himself, perhaps, among the
most fastidious of that class. His taste is offended, his delicacy
shocked by your wildness.”
“He knew all this before. Why did he mar—”
“Hush! hush! Hagar! Never think such thoughts—ask such questions. He
loves you, Hagar—has loved you long with a constancy I have never seen
equalled but in one instance. He loved you—let me speak plainly, Hagar,
for your sake and his—he loved you when you were a very _un_lovely
child—at least to every one but me.—Well, he loved you, and sought and
gained your love. You gave yourself away to him, and now he very
naturally expects you to conform your manners to his tastes. Hagar, if
liberty were dearer to you than love, you should never have given
yourself to a husband. But that is not so—you know it—it is only your
struggle, now—and, Hagar, this struggle, this resistance of your pride,
_must cease_. Listen! Oh, Hagar!” said she, with unaccustomed energy,
“listen to me—to _me_. I love you, and have no possible interest except
your own welfare, in what I say to you. Your pride must be subdued—it
must!—_must!_ If you do not subdue it _yourself_, _he_ will, with cruel
pain to you. Raymond’s demands are all reasonable; such requirements are
usual—in your case any man would make them—but in one thing Raymond
differs from most men that I know—in the possession of an indomitable
WILL. In my long acquaintance with him, when my faculties were mature,
and yours in the green bud, I have had an opportunity of seeing and
knowing this. I am afraid _you_ have mistaken him—with all his fair
complexion and golden hair; in that beautiful form lives calmly an
immensity of force, an eternity of purpose, almost omnipotent in its
repose, and that it would be vain to look for in more impetuous,
seemingly stronger natures; a power that is calmly, silently surrounding
you. You feel it—do not struggle against it—you cannot overcome it,
cannot escape from it, and it will never be withdrawn—it will close
around you.—Yield gracefully to it! To your submission it will be a
loving embrace—to your proud resistance it will be a galling chain;
cease the struggle, Hagar, and be still.”
“Never! never! never!” exclaimed the proud girl, while her brow flushed
to crimson as by the smite of shame.
“But you have a traitor in your bosom that continually betrays you; or
rather, I should say, your husband holds your heart-strings in his hand.
You love him—yes, Hagar, _him_ only, of all the world! You do not love
me, or anybody else. From infancy the stream of your affections has run
in one deep and narrow channel. Let that be checked, and the waves,
turned to flame, will roll back upon your heart consuming it. Why, see,
Hagar, see! when your wills clash, your pride is in arms—you oppose him,
defy him, and he meets such defiance with a calm, quiet strength, not
yielding an inch, and you suffer, as you are suffering now. Why suffer,
Hagar? Tame that wild heart of yours. Hagar, the great secret of the
power he possesses over you is this: he is calm, while you are
impetuous—he can control _himself_, and thereby _you_—he can stifle, as
you can not, that ‘mighty hunger of the heart,’ that craves a return of
love—he can look coldly, sternly on you for days, weeks, while his very
soul wails for your love. You cannot do this yourself, or bear it from
him long; in a word, dear Hagar, you have neither might nor right on
your side.”
During all this speech Hagar had been standing with her face to the
window, with her eyes burning and burning through the glass, and Sophie
had been standing by her side with her arm around her waist caressingly.
“Come, Hagar!” she whispered low, “let me confide to you some of my own
feelings,” and while she spoke she slightly smiled, her voice slightly
quivered as with bashfulness or happiness, and the rose clouds rolled up
over her cheeks, and even flushed her brow,—“I love my husband so much,
so much, so much, with a fulness of tenderness that it seems to me could
not be expressed, except by suffering something—sacrificing something
for his sake. I am sure sometimes I wish he would ask me to do something
naturally repugnant to my feelings, that I might have one opportunity of
showing him how much I do love; to give up my very dearest wish for his
pleasure would give me exquisite joy—a joy that I crave. I do not
comprehend this, dear, but so it is.”
“Oh, _I_ comprehend it, Sophie, perfectly; it is the very same principle
that led the saints ages ago to scourge and starve themselves to testify
their love to God—God forgive them the blasphemy! You, Sophie, have a
propensity to worship, and a very decided vocation for martyrdom, which,
unfortunately, under existing circumstances, _I_ have not!” sneered the
scornful girl.
Sophie’s brow was crimson now, and the tears swam in her eyes an
instant, and she remained silent. At last she said,
“Hagar, I must go away now; I have some arrangements to make for old
Cumbo before we go. But before I leave you, Hagar, let me say again, you
love your husband, and he loves you; he can stifle his affection, you
cannot yours; his will is strong and fixed, yours impulsive and erratic.
Your tastes and habits are in some respects opposed, and he requires you
to conform yours to his; and, Hagar, you will have to yield—to love now,
or to force, without love, hereafter. Yield now, dear, yield. There is
no degradation in making a sacrifice to love.”
The high-spirited girl turned flashing around upon her—pride and scorn
seemed sparkling, scintillating from face and figure, by glance and
gesture.
“Yes, there is degradation in sacrificing _freedom_ to love—freedom to
_anything_ but God’s law!”
Sophie paused, as if in doubt whether to go on, or to return and speak
again. Finally she went out.
* * * * *
Rosalia returned that evening, accompanied by Gusty and the Buncombes.
The family expected to leave Heath Hall the next morning, after an early
breakfast. The Buncombes were to remain all night to see them off, and
to shut up the house after their departure. Rosalia happened soon to
perceive the cloud upon Hagar’s brow, and watching her attentively, saw
that there was something wrong between her and Raymond; and the simple
girl, remarking that _her_ brow was angry and _his_ serene, assumed
immediately that he was the injured party, and so, through her
benevolence, it happened quite naturally that her voice and smile
softened into more than kindliness, into sisterly affection as she
frequently addressed him. What a contrast to Hagar’s dark brow, curled
lip, and bitter tones! It was morning and midnight, sunshine and storm,
discord and harmony, fierceness and gentleness, scorn and reverence,
hate and love—I had nearly said Heaven and Hell contrasted.
That evening! To Hagar it was an evening to remember, to date from.
While she sat there watching the innocent, the childlike maiden, with
her gentle beauty and winning grace, smiling so sweetly, kindly, in
Raymond’s face, lighting his countenance up with _real_ and not
conventional smiles, her mind flew back to the past, and all her
childhood came before her; she recalled the day of Rosalia’s arrival at
the Hall, and recollected how, from that day, she had drawn away all the
love of the household from herself; she remembered that lately Augustus
May had well nigh adored her, until the beauty and tenderness of Rosalia
stole his heart away—and now! now! now!—oh “_that_ way madness lay”—she
watched them covertly through her tortured eyes, and with a gnawing pain
at the heart—distinct as any physical pain, sharp as though a scorpion
living there stung it to agony. Thus the seeds of evil, sown in her
heart ten years before, were springing up into a thorn tree, that,
lacerating her own bosom, should wound all near her. And Rosalia, too,
with all her sweet, endearing qualities, she was vain, and often
selfish. It was difficult to perceive this in the dear girl whose
caressing hands and tender eyes seemed always pleading for your love.
* * * * *
The next morning early the family assembled at the breakfast-table for
the last time at Heath Hall. And that last breakfast was over, and they
arose and went down to the beach under the promontory, where the packet
lay already laden with their personal effects. They reached the water’s
edge, took an affectionate leave of Emily and Mr. Buncombe, entered the
boat that lay waiting to receive them, and were rowed to the packet. As
soon as she had seen them safely embarked, and the vessel on her way,
Emily took her husband’s arm, saying,
“Come, let us return; we have enough to do to close up everything at the
Hall, for one day.”
The packet wended on her way, in time reaching Baltimore, where another
vessel, bound for New York, received them.
At the end of a week from leaving Churchill’s Point, they arrived safely
in New York harbor, where the U. S. store-ship Rainbow waited to receive
Captain Wilde and his party.
* * * * *
Before entering upon the new scenes and deeper life of our story, let me
recall distinctly the facts of history, and daguerreotype a set of
pictures upon which the sun shone on Saturday, the 28th of September,
18—. First:
CHURCHILL’S POINT—HEATH HALL.
On Saturday, the 28th of September, the sun shone down on the waters of
the Chesapeake Bay, as they washed sleepily up towards the shore; on the
lazy and shabby little village of Churchill’s Point, with its
steep-roofed old houses, with its small interests and dead-alive look;
upon the burnished surface of the heath bronzing under the dry heat;
upon the changing foliage of the distant forest dropping its leaves—and
the sun shone down warm and still upon the dark red crumbling walls, the
closed doors and boarded windows of the old Hall, and the tall dark
poplar trees that waved like funeral plumes around it. Old Cumbo sat in
the kitchen door, with the accustomed red handkerchief tied over her
white and woolly hair, while her face, black, hard, and seamed with
wrinkles, like an Indian walnut, was bent over her work, the tying up of
dried herbs—fit guardian of such a desolation. It was a still, deserted
scene, filled with low sad music—the waters moaned as they washed the
shore—the wind sighed in the distant forest, and rushing over the heath,
wailed through the poplar trees that rocked to and fro round the
deserted house. Nature seemed to mourn the loss of the joyous
worshipper, the exultant young life that had vanished from the scene.
Keep this picture in your mind for a while, for years passed and brought
no change, but change of seasons, to it.
GROVE COTTAGE.
The same morning the sun shone upon the Grove, refulgent in its still
autumn glory, and falling upon the dry leaves and red berries of the
rose trees, stole into the quiet parlor of the Cottage, still glittering
in its sober, polished steel-like splendor, and smiled a morning smile
upon the parson and his calm wife, sitting within. They were seated at
opposite sides of a round table. The parson with his manuscript upon a
small portable writing-desk, busy in correcting his sermons for the next
day, while he carried on a desultory chat with his wife. Emily with her
work-box before her, embroidering a very minute cap, and sustaining at
her leisure her part in the quiet conversation. There they sat with no
children to bind them together, yet loving and contented as a pair of
partridges. They could not work apart, and the parson had abandoned his
well appointed study and handsome writing-table, and Emily had forsaken
her elegant workstand, and he had brought his manuscript, and she had
brought her sewing to the small, round table, large enough, though, for
the convenience of loving partners. And every day as soon as he arose,
the sun looked full through the front window and laughed good morning,
and every evening he glanced obliquely through the end window and smiled
good night, with a promise to return. Remember this picture also, dear
reader; for years passed away and brought no change to the Buncombes,
except a baby to Emily, a little girl, born when she was thirty-seven,
and two grey hairs to the parson, which Emily kissed when she saw them.
THE U. S. STORE SHIP RAINBOW.
The sun arose the same day upon the harbor, shipping, and city of New
York, upon Brooklyn and its Navy Yard, and upon the store-ship Rainbow
stationed there, and shining down upon the snowy sails, the well
polished deck, the varnished tarpaulin hats and blue jackets of the
sailors, the red coats and glittering bayoneted muskets of the marines,
upon the flashing epaulets of the officers, at last stole down the
gangway into the captain’s cabin, where around an elegantly appointed
breakfast sat our party from Heath Hall, in the following order: Sophie
at the head of the table, blushingly doing the honors of the coffee and
tea—on her left sat Hagar, with Raymond by her side—on her right sat
Rosalia, and next below her Gusty; then came several young officers of
the crew, and at the foot of the table Captain Wilde presided over the
dish before him. It was a novel sight and scene for our visitors.
Hagar’s lightning eyes and apprehension had taken in all the wonders of
the ship at a glance, and she had no more to learn and nothing to wonder
at. Sophie seemed to defer her curiosity and govern her glances, until
the absence of her guests and the settlement of herself and effects,
gave her full opportunity of satisfying it. But Rosalia seemed as though
her eyes would never weary of wandering over the strange new scene.
Captain Wilde was in the finest spirits, as well he might be; Raymond
serene as usual—but poor Gusty looked cloudy. A disappointment had
overshadowed him. Another passed-midshipman was appointed to the
Rainbow, and he was ordered to sea, and to sail in five weeks, for a
voyage of three years. So Gusty was cast down, as well _he_ might be.
Rosalia, with her sweet benevolence, was doing all that in her lay to
soothe and comfort him. She promised to marry him when he came back; she
would have promised anything in the world to have raised his spirits;
and she continued to remind him that at least they had five weeks to
spend together yet—a long, long time, she said; and at last Gusty got
over the first shock of his disappointment, and became cheerful. Forget
this picture as quickly as you please, for it changed and vanished like
the shifting combinations of the kaleidoscope, and was never
re-produced.
Immediately after breakfast, Raymond and Hagar took leave of their
friends, and entered a steamboat bound up the river.