THE LONE ONE.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deepest on the brow?
To view each loved one blighted on life’s page,
And be alone on earth—as I am now.
The preparations for Rosalia’s departure for Maryland went on rapidly. A
letter had been received from Emily Buncombe, in reply to the one
written by Hagar, in which she expressed the great degree of pleasure
with which she should expect the arrival of her dear adopted daughter
Rosalia. Rose had wept over the letter—there was none of the pleasure
expressed in her countenance, that might naturally have been expected.
Raymond observed it, but _he_ appeared fully occupied with the winding
up of his business, and with making arrangements for a visit to
Washington, to receive his credentials previous to his departure on his
foreign mission. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, that
Raymond Withers should propose to take his young ward and cousin under
his escort for the journey, and to see her safe in the house of her
future mother-in-law—so perfectly natural and proper, that Hagar could
find no word to say in objection—and Rosalia—but when did Rose ever
object to any course proposed for her by another? She went on
sorrowfully with her quiet preparations, and in a few days these were
completed. The day of their departure drew near, and Hagar sank deeper
into despair, that sometimes broke out into expressions of wildest
anguish. Raymond wore a dark cloud of gloomy abstraction, of morose
determination, from which the lightnings of a sudden anger would
sometimes flash, when he would be exasperated by the wild and passionate
grief and resistance of Hagar—sudden outbreaks of phrensied opposition
to the overwhelming destiny coming on, slowly coming on, surely coming
on—she felt it.
“It is unreasonable, Hagar, this wild grief at the thoughts of an
absence of but two weeks, Hagar, only two weeks. I shall be back again
in even _less_ time, probably, and remain with you a month before my
final departure.”
“Ah! ah!”
“Do you not believe me, then?”
“Yes, I believe you! I believe you! but—”
“But, _what_?”
“I cannot! cannot shake off this avalanche of cold horror from my
soul—it seems like direst doom bearing me down and down to perdition; it
seems as though the end of all things were at hand.”
“Hagar, it is your health, morbid nerves—you will get over this in a few
days, after I am gone.”
“After you are gone—yes, after you are gone, when all is silent for want
of your voice, when all is dark for want of your glance, when my whole
soul will starve for your presence—but you will no longer see my
paleness, hear my moaning, or be troubled with my heart’s sorrow!” she
would exclaim wildly and bitterly.
“No more of this! you SHALL NOT excite yourself thus in my presence. I
WILL NOT have it, you selfish and absurd woman! bah! why do you compel
me to speak to you in this manner? be easy, love! go play with the
babies, sing a song, take a ride, practise a piece of music, swallow an
opiate, read a novel—do anything, rather than cling about and around me
so tightly, that I shall have to hurt you in shaking you off. Go! go lie
down, read a play.”
“Read a play!” exclaimed she, bitterly.
“Well, go hang yourself, then!” exclaimed he, savagely, breaking from
her, flinging himself out of the room, and slamming the door after him.
Hagar stood where he had left her, transfixed with astonishment; this
was the first occasion upon which she had ever seen him depart from the
Chesterfieldian propriety of his usual self-possession. Slowly she
recovered her senses; slowly left the room and sought her children. A
death-like calmness settled on her pallid brow, she made no further
opposition to his plans, asked no further questions of his purposes.
The night before the parting came. Their trunks were all down in the
piazza—the carriage was even packed with the small bundles, so that
there should be as little delay as possible in the morning, as they
wished to reach the village in time to meet the morning boat, which
passed about the break of day. Supper was served an hour earlier, so
that they might all retire to rest sooner, and be up in time. At that
supper and during that evening, Hagar’s manner was quiet—quiet as death,
except that from under her heavy pallid eyelids, flamed out a gloomy,
baleful fire, as she would fix her eyes upon Rosalia; in her cheek came
in and out a flickering fire; her bosom would heave, her teeth snap with
a spring, and her hand clinch convulsively, while a spasm would convulse
her form. Raymond watched her with visible anxiety, sought to catch her
now murky and fiery eye; in vain—he could not control or affect her in
any way. They arose from the table.
“Give us one more song in this room, Rosalia, before you leave it,” said
Raymond Withers, leading her to the instrument—at the touch of his hand,
waves of blood bathed the girl’s bosom, neck, and face, as a fire bath,
and then receding, left her ashy pale—and tottering on the verge of a
swoon, she sank into the music-chair, ran her fingers feebly and
mechanically over the keys, striking a faint prelude, opened her lips to
sing, stopped, dropped her head upon the music, and burst into
tears—then rising suddenly, left the room. Neither Raymond nor Hagar
attempted to prevent her—they looked at each other.
“What an evening!—my last evening at home!”
“Your _last_!”
“Well! my last for a week or two.”
“Ah!”
“What is the matter with _you_ this evening, Mistress Hagar?”
“I want a ride, an opiate, or a novel!” laughed she, sardonically, then
suddenly she sank into a chair, and subsided into the gloom of her
former manner—an excited gloom like a smouldering fire—he watched her
uneasily.
“Hagar.”
“Well!”
“Where are your children?”
“Asleep in the nursery, of course; where else should they be?”
“Do you not usually see them to bed yourself at this hour?”
“Yes! but to-night I put them to sleep an hour earlier, that _I_ might
spend the evening—_your last evening_, Raymond, with you!” exclaimed
she, sarcastically.
“Hagar! there is a lurking phrensy in your look and manner that annoys
me.”
“Ah!”
“Makes me uneasy.”
“At last!”
“There is danger in you.”
“THERE IS!” she exclaimed, starting with wild energy.
“HAGAR!”
He caught her burning hands and held them with the strength of a vice,
trying to catch her fiery and flying glances; at last they fell and
struck into his own, quenching their fire in the cold, calm, liquid gaze
of his mesmerizing eyes, then—
“Hagar!” he said, very softly, “why, what a temperament you have—will
_nothing_ quiet you?”
She kept her gloomy eyes fixed upon him, and was about to reply, when
the door opened softly, and Rosalia re-entered the room. Hagar started
violently, and shuddered at her sudden apparition, but Raymond continued
to hold one hand to prevent her moving, as Rosalia passed up to the
piano, and resuming her seat, with an air of forced calmness, said—
“I have come back to sing you the song, as this is the last evening of
my stay.”
There was an air of effort, of painful effort, about her singing and her
deportment generally, very distressing to see, as if the poor girl had
forced herself to a measure exceedingly repugnant to herself, for the
sake of giving pleasure, or of deprecating blame. Raymond did not
approach her while she sang; indeed he dared not yet leave the side of
Hagar, who was now looking more like a half mesmerized maniac than
anything else. By the time Rosalia had ceased singing, a servant entered
with the chamber lamps on a waiter, and accepting that as a signal for
breaking up, Raymond handed one to Rose, and bidding her good night,
opened the door and dismissed her. Hagar, with wild eyes, sprang
suddenly past him, and arresting Rose by grasping her arm, exclaimed,
“Rosalia! secure your door on the inside to-night! _do it!_” and letting
fall her arm she returned to the room, and sank into her seat. Raymond
was standing before her with folded arms and severe brow.
“What is the meaning of this new phrensy, Hagar?”
She looked up at him with fiery and bloodshot eyes.
“Raymond! I am mad! I am terrified! I am in the power of a passion I
cannot control! a fiend I cannot resist! All this evening! all this
evening! I have been impelled by an almost irresistible impulse!
attracted by a terrible fascination! _to a crime!_ _to a_ CRIME! hold
me, hold me, Raymond! keep me away from myself—I am going mad! I am! I
am!” her eyes were fiercely blazing wide, and every vein and nerve
visibly throbbing. He went to the side-board, poured out and handed her
a large glass of water, which she immediately drained. Then he leaned
his elbow on the table, and bending forward, spoke to her—
“See here, Hagar, you _are not_ mad, and you _shall not_ go mad! Listen
to me, and I will bring you to your reason very soon, and very
thoroughly. You give way to all sorts of wild impulses—always _did_,
always _will_—extravagant in every emotion, frantic in every passion;
from the love of your children to the hatred of your fancied rival; from
the adoration visited upon me to the worship tendered God; from your
taste for horses, to your talent for harmony; all, all extravagance; I
naturally expect it from you; but there is a limit to your license,
mistress; you are not to grow malignant or dangerous in any way;
harmless and quiet lunatics may go at large; phrensied, mad women must
be confined; harmless lunatics may be permitted to remain in the house
with children, maniacs must be kept away from them. I am going to leave
the country. I cannot think of leaving my children within reach of a
woman, subject to visitations of irresistible impulses and terrible
fascinations to deeds of blood—I must see her calm. You are calm now, I
think, Hagar! quite cooled down, are you not? Say, Hagar?”
She was. The color had all faded away from her face, and she sat with
haggard eyes fixed upon her clasped hands.
“Will you retire to rest now, as we leave so early in the morning?”
She arose and walked quietly to her room—he followed her after a while.
She did not sleep all night, but lay quietly with her fingers pressed
around her forehead. Before the first faint grey of morning dawned, Mrs.
Collins rapped at their door to say that breakfast was ready. In half an
hour from that the travellers had dressed, breakfasted, and stood
grouped in the chilly hall, while the carriage was rolling up to the
door. It stood still—the driver jumped down, opened the door, let down
the steps, and remained waiting by its side.
“Hagar!” said Raymond Withers, turning pale, as he went to her and
opened his arms.
“You last—you last!” she exclaimed, hastily kissing Rosalia, and
turning, throwing herself into his arms.
“Come, Rosalia,” said he, and drawing her arm through his own, and
descending the stone stairs, he handed the pale and trembling girl into
the carriage—she turned around to take a last view of her late home, and
her eye fell upon _this picture_, a picture ever after distinctly
present to her mind—the portico, with its slender white marble pillars
visible in the grey of the morning, the front door partly open,
revealing the lamplight in the passage-way, which struck across the
stone floor and fell upon the haggard form and face of Hagar, as she
stood there in her desolation, as she stood there leaning against the
pillar, with her pale countenance struck out into ghastly relief by the
dishevelled black hair falling down each side of her cheeks, and meeting
the black boddice of her dress; but one glimpse Rosalia caught of that
death-like face seen through the cold grey morning light, and against
and intercepting the glancing and oblique rays of the gleaming
lamplight, but one glimpse as the carriage door closed upon her, yet
that despairing look was never absent from her mind; it went with her on
her journey, pursued her through life, and unto death. The carriage
rolled away, and Hagar, turning, fell lifeless upon the threshold of her
own door!