TREACHERY.
“He, in whom
My heart had treasured all its boast and pride,
Proves faithless.”
EURIPIDES’ MEDEA.
It was the first of November; a Sabbath day; it had rained all night;
the dawn of morning found the rain still pouring down in torrents; it
was a dark, dark day; _so_ dark that a twilight gloom hung over all the
rooms; so cold and wet that a damp chill pervaded the house. The family
met at breakfast in the back drawing-room; a good fire had been kindled,
but neither the cheerful fire nor the exhilarating coffee, could raise
the spirits of the little party. Hagar was wretchedly pale and haggard;
Raymond’s gaiety was so evidently assumed as not to be mistaken, even by
the unsuspicious Rosalia. Rose looked from one to the other in
unconcealable distress. Seeing that Raymond tried to make himself
agreeable, while Hagar fully indulged her gloom, Rose again, as usual,
settled it in her own mind that Hagar was the offending, and Raymond the
suffering party. When they arose from the table, when Raymond walked to
the front drawing-room window and stood there looking out upon the black
sky and pouring rain, and when Hagar rising withdrew from the room and
went up stairs, Rose looked around in perplexity, in a sort of sad
lostness, not knowing what to do with herself, scarce feeling able to
keep her feet, for loneliness and dreariness. At length with sudden
inspiration she ran up stairs to seek Hagar. She entered her bed-chamber
without knocking, and found her seated alone by the window, in an
attitude of deep dejection. She went up to her, and throwing her arms
around her neck, burst into tears, weeping freely over her shoulder.
Hagar quietly disengaged her arms, and gently pushed her off. Rosalia
sank upon a cushion at her feet, and dropping her head upon her lap,
sobbed out—
“Hagar! oh! what _is_ the matter? Hagar! tell me, what _is_ the matter?
Oh! dear me! The house grows more sorrowful every day! Time passes like
a funeral train leading shortly to the grave. Oh! I feel faint, sick,
dying of gloom, of coldness and darkness in seeing your sorrow and not
being admitted to share it, and not being able to do anything to
alleviate it. Hagar! tell me; perhaps I _can_ do something for you; I
love you so much, dear Hagar! and surely _love_ can help sorrow to bear
her burden. Oh! Hagar! let me do something for you!”
She was looking _so_ beautiful! _so_ winsome! with her pleading, coaxing
attitude and expression, with her soft white fingers pressed together,
with her blue eyes raised floating in tenderness and love to her face.
She was looking so beautiful! so graceful! so irresistibly charming in
her childlike humility and gentleness! Hagar thought of her husband’s
heart, and looked at Rosalia. The fire flamed in and out upon her
cheeks, burned on her lips, and shot lightning through her eyes;—rising,
she pushed Rosalia off, and walked away.
“Oh! it is I! It is _I_, who have offended you somehow! what have I
done, Hagar? dear Hagar!” exclaimed Rose, following her, weeping.
“Nothing! nothing! Oh! go away!”
“Have I not done something to offend you?”
“Nothing, Rosalia! Oh leave the room; do!”
“You are angry with me!”
“No! no! not with _you_!”
“With whom, then?”
“Rosalia! leave the room this moment when I tell you; haven’t I said
that I would not be questioned?”
“Hagar! yes, I will go. One word, let me say one word, and then I _will_
go. Hagar, I suppose it is Raymond—you are angry with him. Hagar! oh!
_do not_ treat him so badly, cruelly; make up with him; please _do_; see
how unhappy he is! see how hard he tries to be pleasant; but he cannot
disguise his sorrow. Oh! dear me! what _does_ make you two fall out so?
Oh! dear me! I do wish I was in Heaven—_all I love here do make me
suffer so much! so much!_” and she fell sobbing into a chair, while the
dark clouds lowered, and the rain pattered heavily upon the window.
At last Rosalia arose and left the chamber, crossed the hall, and
entered the nursery. Mrs. Barnes and the housekeeper were both engaged
dressing the children; they were now nearly five months old, and when
they saw Rosalia enter, both began to bound in their nurse’s arms, to
crow and laugh, and hold out their hands joyously to Rosalia. The clouds
fled from the young girl’s face before the morning sun of their
innocence and love, and a tender smile softened her gentle countenance
as she floated towards them, murmuring in low music—
“God bless my darlings! God love my angels! _they_ are glad to see me
_always_!”
As the children were now dressed she sat down in a large chair, and
received them both into her arms, saying, as they fondled on her—
“Now, Mrs. Collins, and Mrs. Barnes, _both_ of you go down to breakfast
_together_—you must breakfast together sociably such a dreary day as
this; I will mind the babies till you come back.”
It was the custom for one of the two matrons to remain in the nursery
while the other took her meals. This morning, glad to be relieved by
Rosalia’s kindness, they set the room in order, mended the fire, making
it blaze cheerfully, and then, while Rose stood up with the children,
they wheeled the easy chair in front of it, and left the room together.
Rose resumed her seat in front of the blazing fire; it was a large,
deep, soft chair, whose wide arms held the maiden and the babies very
comfortably. Rose loved luxury, and she revelled with the babies in that
easy chair, while the fire glowed before her, and the rain pattered
without.
Let me strike out a bird’s-eye view of this family as they now stood. It
is but daguerreotyping the sky before the descent of the thunderbolt.
Raymond walked gloomily up and down the dim vista of the two
drawing-rooms, pausing now and then at the windows to look out upon the
dense, dark clouds that hung like a pall over all things, and to listen
to the beating rain. Hagar sat gloomily in her dressing-room, gloomily
as we once saw her sit in her childhood in the attic of Heath Hall. Her
elbows propped upon her knees, her pale face dropped in the palms of her
hands, while her hair fell out of curl all over her; it was an attitude
and expression of utter desolation.—The blackened sky, the beating rain,
were unheeded in the deeper darkness of her own heart, in this deep
darkness where was gathering the lightning, was lurking the thunderbolt.
Rosalia still sat in the large chair playing with the babies, fondled by
them, talking that sweet baby-talk, melodious, but unintelligible as a
bird-song to any one but women and children.
Then the door was thrown widely back, and Hagar stood within it, with
her thin face thrown out in ghastly relief by her black hair and black
dress; she came towards Rosalia and paused, gazing with an expression of
anguish striking fiercely through her set eyes. Rosalia looked up in
surprise and distress.
“Give me the children, Rosalia! give them to me! they are mine! they are
like me! they are _all_ mine! Give them here! You shall not wile _their_
love from me also! Give! give them to me! they are my only consolation.
_Why_ don’t you give them to me?” exclaimed she, wildly holding out her
arms. Rosalia, in fear and bewilderment, gazed on her with dilated and
dilating eyes, scarcely distinguishing, certainly not comprehending, one
word of her wild appeal. “Give! give them to me!” again exclaimed Hagar,
snatching the children to her bosom, “and go, Rosalia! go! go! go!”
Rosalia got up from the chair, and pressing both small hands upon her
white temples, stood in amazement.
“WILL you go?”
Rosalia dropped her hands, clasping them together, and so left the room,
passed down stairs in a dreary, bewildering sorrow, and entered the
dusky drawing-room. _Raymond Withers was reclining with veiled eyes, in
a day-dream on the lounge._ Seeing him she went and sank down on the
carpet by his side, dropping her head upon the side of the lounge in
childlike sorrow and humility, exclaiming—
“Oh! Raymond, my heart is broken, _broken_! I am chilled to death in
this cold, _cold_ place—oh! Raymond, where on the wide sea are my
friends? Send me to them—_do_, Raymond; I shall _die_ if I stay
here—_die—die_! I shall!” and heart-breaking sobs burst from her lips
between every sentence. Up sprang Raymond from his recumbent position,
exclaiming as the fire shot through his spirit-piercing blue eyes—
“Has Hagar! has that kite, that wild-cat of mine been teasing you, poor
dove?”
“Don’t! hush! no!—oh, don’t call her ill names! don’t—it is so dreadful
in _you two_ to quarrel so!” He was looking straight in her face. “It
kills me to see it, Raymond! Oh! do send me to Captain Wilde and Sophie.
I cannot please you two, though I have tried so hard to be good—oh!
haven’t I? But you don’t love me, and you don’t seem to love each other;
and you make each other suffer so much—_you two!_ and you make _me_
suffer so much—and great God! what is it all about?” Her tears gushed
forth again, she buried her face in the cushions of the lounge, and
sobbed as though her heart were struggling in its death throes. _His_
manner changed; he governed himself, or rather he resumed his usual
tranquillity of attitude and expression, leaning over her fair head,
while his elbow rested on the end of the lounge, and his moist and
dishevelled golden locks trailed over the delicate white hand that
supported his cheek; with the other hand he stroked her hair, stroked it
down and down, while her bosom rose and fell, and sobbed itself into
quietness. She was at rest—sweetly at rest. It seemed as if, baby-like,
she had wept herself sleepy there, kneeling on the carpet by his side,
with her face upon the cushions of his lounge, his delicate hand
stroking her head. She was going to sleep; the sobs and sighs came
deeper and at long and longer intervals; at last they ceased entirely,
her head gradually turned upon its side, and she lay there in the sweet,
deep slumber of a child that has cried itself to sleep. How beautiful
she was in her unconscious innocence! Her hands lay folded one over the
other upon the cushion, and her side face rested upon them; tear-drops
sparkled on her drooping eye-lashes and on her glowing cheeks like
bright dew on the red rose; her fresh lips were slightly apart,
revealing the small pearly teeth, and her golden hair fell in moist and
tangled ringlets over her.
He had tranquillized _her_ passion of grief, but now as he gazed down on
her sweet face, watching the color deepen in her cheeks, watching the
regular rise and fall of her beautiful bosom, and the quiver of her
crimson lip, moved by her breathing, an emotion arose swelling, heaving
in his breast, like the mighty power of the subterranean fire rising in
the volcano. It was advancing upon, it was overwhelming him; he must
escape—he called her—
“Rosalia! Rosalia!” She started out of her slumber, and gazed up
bewildered for a moment. “You must go to your own room, Rosalia; you are
not well,” said he, looking away from her.
“Alas! are you angry with me too? _You_, Raymond? Every one drives me
away, every one! Oh! Father in heaven, what have I done? Hagar sent me
away from her, and then from the children, and now _you_ send me off.”
And the child dropped her head, and wept again.
“Go to your room, Rose, go,” exclaimed Raymond, rising and walking away
in strong agitation.
“Oh! Raymond, you! _you, too!_ to grow cruel to me! Oh, Raymond, what
have I done that every one should repulse me—every one that I love!” she
cried, following him; “oh, Raymond, if I have done anything wrong, scold
me; I had rather stay here with you and be scolded, than go away by
myself; tell me what I have done, that you all should repulse me so
much, that all I love should drive me from them?”
He waved her a gesture of desperate rejection as he still walked away,
until he reached the window, where he stood, setting his teeth sternly,
folding his arms in a strong rivet, bracing every nerve, and staring
with set eyes unconsciously through the panes; she followed him, stood
by his side, pleading, cooing in her dove-like tones.
“Girl! you will madden me! go! go!” he exclaimed, without turning
around.
“Tell me! just tell me how I have offended you all, Raymond? Oh! I am
_so_ unhappy! so lonesome—no one loves me now! tell me why?” She laid
her soft hand upon his arm, and, bending forward, looked up in his face
with her tender and coaxing gaze.
The effect was electrical! Turning, he suddenly caught and strained her
to his bosom, exclaiming, “My flower! my dove! my lamb! my angel! Rose!
_oh, Rose!_” and pressing burning kisses upon her brow and lips between
every breath and word. “Love you! I love you; more than life, soul,
Heaven, God! Love you! my joy, my destiny! _love you!_ let me have you
and die! give yourself to me, and the next hour let me die, die!” His
arm encircled her beautiful and shuddering form like a chain of fire,
and hot kisses rained upon her face.
And she! Tides of blood rolled up and over bosom, cheek, and brow, like
flame, and passed, and then she grew faint and weak in his grasp, the
color all paled in her cheeks, leaving them snowy white; the light fled
from her eyes, leaving them dim and heavy with drooping lids—aye, the
very brightness seemed to fade from her golden ringlets, leaving the
pale yellow hair falling away from ashy brows and temples—she seemed
fainting, dying in his embrace; alarmed, he looked at her—his reason
returned—he bore her to the sofa, and laying her on it knelt by her
side, gazed mournfully at her, half believing her to be expiring.
“Rosalia! oh, God! what have I done!” She shuddered from head to foot.
“Rosalia! oh, I am _so_ sorry, _so_ sorry, Rose!” She raised her heavy
eyelids languidly, and fixed them sorrowfully on his face, then dropped
them as a quick flush spread over her face, faded, and left her pale,
paler than ever. “Rose! Rose! forgive me, I was mad, mad.” Again she
looked at him mournfully, her pale lips moved, but no sound came thence.
“Rosalia! oh, Rosalia! speak to me—say that you forgive me, or put your
hand in mine in token of forgiveness!” She raised one pale hand feebly,
but it fell heavily upon the sofa again. “You _do_ forgive me, Rosalia,
my pure angel! my holy angel! you _do_ forgive me!” Rosalia shook her
head sadly—Raymond dropped his face into his hands and groaned; soon he
felt his hands touched by a soft hand that struck the whole “electric
chain” of his being; dropping his hands he saw Rosalia looking sadly,
lovingly at him, murmuring very faintly,
“Forgive _me_, the fault was _mine_—mine _first_, mine _only_; the sin
of ignorance—alas! I have nothing to forgive! forgive _me_!”
“Rose! my Rose!” She sighed deeply. He knelt by her side and gazed
mournfully in her face. She could not bear that gaze; raising her hands
feebly she spread them over her face. He groaned “God! my God! why do I
love you so! she was right after all—poor Hagar!” Deep sighs broke from
Rosalia’s bosom; she made many feeble attempts to rise and go away; he
did not attempt to prevent her; but an overpowering weakness overcame
her; she yielded to the spell that held her enchained, and so she
lay—her face concealed by the veil of golden curls she had dragged
across it; her frame shuddering from time to time until she sank in the
collapse of exhaustion. And there he knelt—reproaching himself bitterly,
yet sinning on—gazing eagerly with his lips struck apart at her pale
cheek through its glittering veil of hair, watching, silently praying
for a responsive glance. At last, he said, “Rosalia! darling Rose, go to
your room, love; it is not safe or well to stay here—go, Rose,” she gave
him her hand, and he raised her up.
He raised her up—she stood pale, trembling, bewildered, weak; and walked
with tottering steps towards the door. He went and opened it—held it
open for her—she passed; and as she passed, raised her eyes to his face,
met his eyes full of anguish looking down upon hers, turned, and threw
herself in his arms, exclaiming,
“Oh, Raymond! Raymond! you are _so_ unhappy!—_I_ am so miserable to see
you thus! Oh! Raymond, is it I? is it I that have made you so? Tell me!
tell me! can I dissipate it?—can I drive your sadness away? Would my
death do it, Raymond? I would _die_ for you! Oh! Raymond, it does not
seem to me to be wrong to love you, love you so!—to love you so!” She
hung heavily upon his bosom.
“Go! go! go! go, Rose!—go, mad girl!” he cried, tearing her away from
his bosom, and almost fiercely pushing her through the door, and
shutting it abruptly upon her—then walking wildly up and down the floor,
like a chafed tiger in his cage, grinding together his teeth, and
exclaiming,
“She loves me!—loves me!—loves me!—me first!—me only!—as she never loved
before!”
Rosalia crept slowly up the stairs—reached her own room, and threw
herself upon her bed, her senses whirling in a bewildered maze. The
sound of the pouring rain became painfully distinct in the dead silence.
The dinner hour arrived. The servants came in to lay the cloth. Raymond
Withers walked to the window to conceal his still unsubdued agitation.
When all was ready, the ladies were, as usual, summoned by a message.
Soon Hagar entered. Raymond met her at the door, with a troubled, gloomy
look, and giving her his arm, conducted her to the table. He looked
around, and uneasily watched the door, but did not inquire for Rosalia.
She, also, waited for the entrance of the girl, expecting her every
instant. At last she said to the servant in attendance,
“Let Miss Aguilar know that dinner is ready.”
The man left the room and soon returned—
“Miss Aguilar is not well, and begs to be excused,” he said.
They raised their eyes, and met each other’s gaze of inquiry at the same
moment, but neither asked a question, or made a comment upon her
absence—each was silent from a private motive of his or her own. Hagar
supposed that her harshness had deeply wounded the sensitive girl (as it
really had), and that that was the reason of her absence—while Raymond,
of course, _knew_ the real cause.
The dreary meal was over—they arose from the table—Hagar was preparing
to leave the room. Raymond went after her, and took her hand, looking
with a troubled expression into her face—she met that strange look with
a sad, inquiring gaze.
“Where are you going, Hagar?”
“Up stairs.”
“Will you not stay, and pass the afternoon with _me_, Hagar?”
She looked at him in anxious, in sorrowful perplexity.
“_Do_, Hagar—I need you so much now!”
“Ah! for want of more attractive company!” exclaimed she; and laughing
bitterly, threw off his hand, and left the room.
Hagar, half repenting her harshness to Rosalia, and entirely ignorant of
the scene that followed, went to the girl’s room, to inquire concerning
her health. She entered it. Rosalia was lying on the bed, with both open
hands spread over her face—pressed upon her face—she did not remove them
as Hagar entered. This Hagar attributed to resentment. She went and
stood by her bed in silence an instant, and then called to her—
“Rosalia!”
She started—shuddered.
“Are you ill, Rosalia?”
A silent nod was her reply.
“Can I do anything for you?”
She shook her head, in mournful negation.
“Will you have anything?—speak!”
“Nothing.”
“Where are you ill?”
“All over.”
“What _will_ you have, Rosalia?”
“_Solitude!_”
“Are you angry, Rose?”
“No.”
“I suspect you are!”
“No.”
Hagar went up to her, and drew her hands away from her face. The hands
were icy cold—the face snowy pale. To avoid Hagar’s glance, she closed
her eyes, while a shudder ran all over her frame. Hagar went into her
own room, poured out a glass of wine, and brought it to her. She waved
it off, and turned her face to the wall. After some further fruitless
attempts to aid her, and after finding that all her efforts increased
the girl’s distress, Hagar left the room, thoroughly persuaded that
Rosalia was sulking with _her_, and determining to send Mrs. Collins in
to her. The housekeeper entered—there was a sternness about the
expression of her shut mouth and solid-looking chin, that we have never
seen there before, as she looked at the languid girl.
“What is the matter, Miss Aguilar?” she inquired, rather abruptly.
Rose uncovered her face, and looking up with an agonized, an imploring
expression, said—
“I am sick all over, and I want to go to Sophie!”
“I think if that were possible it would be very well.”
“Is it not possible, then—can’t I—oh, _can’t_ I go?”
“Your friends are on the sea, Miss Aguilar, I presume.”
“And is there _no_ way to get to them—no way, oh, my God! to escape?”
“I do not know much of these things, Miss Aguilar, but I should think it
were quite out of the question.”
“No way, oh! my God, to escape!”
“What do you mean, Miss Aguilar, by that?”
“I mean—oh! I mean—that I am _crazy_—and have no one to love me and take
care of me _till I come to my senses_!” said Rose, pressing her temples.
“I am done to death—_done to death_!”
“I do not understand you, Miss Aguilar,” said the old lady, seating
herself, and looking steadily and severely at the pale girl.
“Don’t look so hard at me, Mrs. Collins, please don’t—oh! I am
_crazy_!—yes, I must be!—yes, I must be! Oh! Mrs. Collins, I have been
delirious—delirious within the last hour, and I am insane still!—_Insane
still!_ I—oh! my God!—I did not know before that people _could_ be crazy
and _know_, and not be able to get well!”
“_What has turned you crazy, Miss Aguilar?_”
“Oh! don’t call me ‘Miss Aguilar,’ _every time_, and don’t look so hard
at me!” cried Rose, covering her face with her hands.
“GOD is looking at you, Miss Aguilar, and you cannot cover your face
from Him!” said the old lady, severely.
“I do not wish to, indeed,” replied Rose, meekly, uncovering her face
again, “I do not wish to; but I _do_ wish He would take me away—would
catch me up from the earth—would send my angel mother to fetch me!”
Mrs. Collins did not reply to this; she sat the bed, seemingly unwilling
to converse with her. At last she said—
“Did you ever mention to your cousin your wish to return to Maryland,
Miss Aguilar?”
“No, I did not.”
The old lady looked disapprobation, but inquired—
“May I presume to ask _why_, Miss Aguilar?”
“I have made several attempts, but Hagar gives me no opportunity of
speaking to her at all!”
“Not to-day, Miss Aguilar?—not a half hour before this?”
“Oh, to-day—to-day—I _could_ not talk to her—could not _look_ at her or
bear her look!”
The old lady now grew positively pale, and shrank away from the side of
the girl. Rosalia followed the gesture with deprecating eyes.
“You must excuse me, Miss Aguilar, but all this is very horrible—very!”
She was silent again for a long time, and then she said—
“You spoke, Miss Aguilar, of your wish to follow your friend, Mrs.
Wilde; as that is quite impossible, why not now go back to Maryland to
your future moth—to Mrs. Buncombe?”
“Yes, yes; I will do that, if they will let me—I wish to do it!”
“Mrs. Withers will very gladly assist your departure, Miss Aguilar.”
“Will _you_ ask her?”
“I will.”
“Go now and do it; let it all be arranged during these rainy days, so
that as soon as the bad weather is over I shall be able to set out; it
is no use to put off the journey until we can write to Emily and she can
reply to our letter or come after me; _that_ would make the interval too
long. Some one will be travelling down to Washington just at this
season. Yes, members of Congress will be going soon, and Hagar can send
me with some gentleman’s family; or, at all events, I can travel alone—I
am not afraid of water now! not now! My God! not of death in any shape
or form. Go now! go to Hagar, Mrs. Collins!”
The old lady arose and left the room, full of the darkest suspicions;
she found Hagar in the nursery. After a little desultory conversation,
she remarked, as composedly as she could—
“I have just come from the chamber of Miss Aguilar; I think there is
nothing as yet the matter with her health of body; her mind seems
disturbed, disordered, depressed.”
Hagar, of course, knew _that_; but attributed it to the wounded
spirit—wounded by her own recent harshness. The old lady continued—
“And she expresses a wish to return to Maryland!”
“Indeed! Does she?” exclaimed Hagar, looking up.
“Yes, and I think the change of air and scene would benefit her
spirits.”
The color was coming back to Hagar’s cheek, and the light to her eye.
The old lady went on to say—
“Her health is delicate, I think, and our climate is severe—very
severe—and if I might venture, I should advise that she be sent down
without delay to Maryland, to spend the winter.”
Hagar was sitting in an attitude of aroused and hopeful thought, with
her elbow resting on the crib, finger on her lip and eyes raised, while
life and light were tiding back, till face and ringlets flashed bright
again.
“And she really wishes this, Mrs. Collins?”
“She really does.”
“Does she complain of her position here?”
“N-no, not exactly—certainly she complains of _no one_—so far from that,
she speaks as usual with the utmost affection of all.”
Mrs. Collins, noticing the eloquent expression of returning hope upon
Hagar’s face, ventured to remark—
“And there are _other_ reasons why this journey should be hurried, Mrs.
Withers”—
But, with a dignified gesture of the hand, Hagar arrested her speech.
“No matter for other reasons, Mrs. Collins; you have given enough. I
will write immediately to Mrs. Buncombe, and you will be so kind as to
go to Miss Aguilar’s room, and tell her that every arrangement shall be
made for her journey without delay; tell her I should like to see and
converse with her as soon as she feels well enough to receive me; and as
you go, send the housemaid in to me.”
The housekeeper left the room, and soon the maid entered it.
“Sarah, go to Miss Aguilar, and tell her that you are ready to assist
her in preparing her wardrobe for her journey—she is going to make a
visit.”
Raymond received the news of Rosalia’s intended departure in gloomy
silence. It was a strange thing to see Raymond Withers gloomy—he who had
borne himself through all scenes with such gay nonchalance. Rosalia
appeared at the breakfast-table next morning, looking pale and pensive,
and withdrew from it as soon as she possibly could.
“That girl looks badly,” remarked Raymond, making an effort at
conversation.
“Yes,” replied Hagar.
“Have you taken it into consideration that she cannot travel alone down
South?”
“Yes; she wishes you to inquire and procure for her an escort.”
“I will do so,” said he, and turned to receive the packet of letters and
papers from the servant, who had just brought them from the Post-office.
He opened one or two letters, ran his eyes over them, and carelessly
threw them aside. One, however, caught his particular attention; he
started on seeing it—he read it with great care. Hagar arose to leave
the room, but he arrested her by a gesture; she returned and sat down;
he continued his reading carefully to the end, folded the letter, and
holding it in his hand, fell into thought, lost consciousness of his
wife’s presence, and was only aroused from his lethargy by her rising a
second time to leave the room.
“Stay, Hagar,” said he.
“But wherefore? I wish to go to the children, and you seem quite
absorbed in thought; no bad news I trust, though indeed there is no one
from whom it is likely we should hear bad news.”
“No, there is no bad news—but this _is_ rather an important mail,” said
he, laying the letter on the table before her. “You may remember that
Wilde has been teasing me for a long time to accept his influence in
procuring me a post under the present administration, with which his
political friends have considerable influence. I laughingly accepted his
kind offer when he was here last fall, and permitted him to write his
friends, Secretary ——, and Judge ——, about me. Here is the result. I
need not say that it was wholly unexpected by me.”
He handed her the letter—it was a notification of his appointment to the
post of Consul at the port of ——, in the Mediterranean.
“And you will accept it?” inquired she.
“And I will accept it.”
“And take your family with you.”
“By no means, love—what should I do with you and the children on the
voyage? in your present condition of nervous irritability too? It is not
to be thought of for an instant!”
“Oh! Raymond,” she pleaded, involuntarily clasping her hands and raising
her eyes imploringly to his face; “oh! Raymond!”
“Oh, _nonsense_, love! no extravagance, now, I beg of you—not one word,
Hagar! I cannot bear it, cannot be annoyed, cannot!”
“But, Raymond!” she persisted, laying her small hand gently on his arm,
and looking up in his face seeking to catch his eye—“but, Raymond!”
“But _folly_, Hagar! do not trouble me; I will have no controversy about
this—I hate controversy, as you very well know—I will do what I think
best for us all—and you must be content with that—or _appear_ content,
and stop troubling me!” said he, averting his face.
She was standing by his side, leaning over his arm, and now she passed
her hand up around his head, and trying gently to turn it around, said,
“Raymond, look at me; _please_ look in my face.” He looked down in her
eyes inquiringly. She said lowly, gently, “I have a secret to tell you,
Raymond; before you come back, I shall be a mother _again_,” and dropped
her head upon his bosom too soon to see the slightly startled eye and
the frown of vexation that contracted his smooth brow as he held her
there; presently he led her to a chair and seated her—stood by her half
embracing her shoulder, stroking her head. “_Now_ you will not go,
Raymond; or if you go, you will take us with you, will you not?”
He did not reply for some time, and then he replied gently, “Be
reasonable, Hagar, always. I am sorry, Hagar, for this—yet you know,
love, that men frequently have to leave their wives under such
circumstances; men of the army and navy all have this trial to bear.”
“But it is _their_ profession, _their_ duty, _they_ cannot avoid it; but
you can, can you not, dear Raymond? You can, _at least_, take us with
you; a privilege which, with very rare exceptions, is not enjoyed by
those in the professions you name.”
“Dear Hagar, you try my patience! Come, you are taking advantage of my
sympathies at this moment, to worry me; have done with it—listen to me!
this administration is in its third year—I shall probably hold this
office nearly two years; if the same party remain in power, I shall
probably continue to hold it—in which case I shall send for you and your
children.”
“And you _will_ go?”
“Yes, love.”
“And it will be rather more than a year, nearly two years, before you
return or send for us?”
“Yes, love, but what is that? Officers commonly leave their wives for
_three_ years at a time. Come, Hagar! do not be selfish, brace yourself
to bear a little trial that is not an unusual one among your sex.”
“Oh! but this is so sudden! Great God!” and Hagar, clasping her hands,
left the drawing-room and went to the nursery. Raymond Withers walked up
and down the two rooms, with his hands clasped behind his back, with a
fixed eye and a curdled cheek, not noticing the boy who entered to clear
the table, and who was watching him attentively, and who on going to the
kitchen, remarked in a suppressed whisper to the cook,
“Well! I never did see any man look so much as though he were making a
sale of himself to the devil, as our Mr. Withers does!”