THE DESOLATED.
“Thou knowest well what once I was to thee;
One who for love of one I loved—_for thee!_—
Would have done, or borne the sins of all the world;
Who did thy bidding at thy lightest look;
And had it been to have snatched an angel’s crown
Off her bright brow as she sat singing, throned,
I would have cut these heart-strings that tie down
My soul, and let it sail to Heaven to do it—
’Spite of the thunder and the sacrilege,
And laid it at thy feet. I loved thee, lady!
I am one whose love is greater than the world’s,
And might have vied with God’s; a boundless ring,
All pressing on one point—that point, thy heart.
——But, for the future,
I will as soon attempt to entice a star
To perch upon my finger, or the wind
To follow me like a dog, as think to keep
A woman’s heart again.”
FESTUS
“Well, just once more, mother!”
“But this is expensive and inconvenient, please to remember, Mr. Gusty,
and we are not rich.”
“Not rich—oh! mother, I wish you would take something from _me_—which
you never will.”
“No, Gusty, I had rather be extravagant with my own funds than with
yours. I wish you to accumulate property, Gusty—that is to say only
_this_—spend as little of your limited income as possible, lay by the
balance until you get enough to purchase a piece of land and build a
house. I do think that every young man should do that—I mean every young
man with a fixed salary—of course men engaged in commerce may use their
money to better advantage by investing it in trade. But, oh, Gusty, I do
wish to see you have a house of your own so much; a home that you can
improve and beautify to your own taste; and I do wish to see your
Rosalia presiding over it. Come and kiss me, dear Gusty! dear fellow,
don’t you think that I sympathize with your hopes?”
Gusty laughingly sprang to his mother, and catching her around the neck,
kissed her uproariously, saying—
“_Ah, mais, maman maligne_, you will not make a feast for Rose, this
evening!”
“Oh! but, Gusty, see here! we have been making feasts every evening for
a week past, and she has not come to eat them—and may not come this
evening—and, Gusty, besides, if I take this little bride of yours here,
and wish to keep her for four or five years, to save some hundred
dollars of your salary annually, I must not make her too expensive to
Buncombe. Dear Buncombe, he is so wise! so good! and so unobtrusive in
his wisdom and goodness—I have already too much overlooked his interests
and comfort in my economies and sacrifices for you and Rosalia—I must”—
Up sprang Gusty, exclaiming—
“If I thought that, mother, my honor”—
“Is _safe_ in your mother’s keeping, Gusty, believe that.”
“But, mother!”
“Come, Gusty, nonsense—no high points of honor with the woman that
brought you into the world, or with her husband either—Buncombe suffers
many privations that you know nothing of, and could not sympathize with,
if you did know—he wants certain books, scientific and mathematical
instruments, &c., that he can never purchase, because he spills his
money all over the parish; lavishing his slender means upon the poor,
instead of influencing the rich to relieve them from their ample
store—for Buncombe can give, but he cannot beg, even for others—that
requires a high moral heroism in a sensitive heart like his. I have had
to pick his pockets before he goes out, every day, else they would come
home empty. He never economizes; never thinks of expense—not he—and when
Rosalia is seated by our fireside, he will never think whether she costs
us a hundred cents or a hundred dollars a year—the blessed
soul!—nonsense, Gusty,” said she, with tears in her eyes, “you will
break my heart if you get upon your dignity with Buncombe.”
“Getting upon my impertinence, it would be, mother,” said Gusty,
seriously, “only—well!—yes, I am sure, mother, I can leave it all to
you—must do it, in fact—for until my marriage, I have no right to
object, and after my marriage, there is no place where I would leave
Rosalia but here with you; and if you will not receive any compensation,
it cannot be helped for the present.”
“You must appreciate Mr. Buncombe, Gusty!”
“Oh! I _do_, mother, I _do_! I think he is an admirable—Crichton, or
Christian—which is it, mother?—I do, indeed—I really do—your
appreciation and affection endears him, mother! But now, mother, indeed
it is almost four o’clock, and there is no certainty about these evening
boats—they pass any time between five and ten—come, mother, tell Kitty
to make a nice little supper, and not to forget the rice cakes, with
honey sauce, that Rose likes, and then, mother, get your shawl and muff,
and _do_ come along with me to the cliff, to watch for the boat—come,
mother, oh, _do_ come!”
Emily arose with a smile and a sigh.
“Mothers with marriageable daughters make heavy complaints—the
egotists!—but a mother with a marriageable son—a great loblolly boy, in
love, who is always melting over her!—has not _she_ a trial? As for
those rice cakes, Mr. Gusty, they are very well once in a long time, but
we have had them prepared every week for your Rosalia, who has not
appeared to partake of them; and we have had to eat them all up
ourselves, to keep them from being wasted, and we are all getting the
dyspepsia, and I am losing my complexion from indigestion, and whatever
you may think, I assure you, Master Gusty, that I value the beauty of my
complexion for the sake of my good man, quite as much, and perhaps more
than your Rosalia values hers, for the sake of you—and as for this trip
to the beach, Master Gusty, every afternoon, through the cold, and over
the snow, it does not help to counteract the ill effects of the cakes
quite as much as I could wish, because, Master Gusty, I have to stand
upon the wet beach, in the current of wind too long, Master Gusty—and
so, Master Gusty, you will please to be a trifle more reasonable in your
love, if love and reason ever can coalesce in you—but, however, Master
Gusty, I will once more take cakes and cold for your sake,” and going
out into the kitchen, she gave the necessary orders, and returned
enveloped in a large hood, shawl, and muff. Gusty buttoned up his great
coat, and they set out. The walk from Grove Cottage to the promontory
was rather long. The afternoon was clear, bright, and cold, and the
snow, slightly crusted, crackled under their feet as they pursued their
way towards the cliff. They reached its summit, and stood upon the
extreme point of the peak. Emily took out her watch to note the time,
gaily grumbling at its waste, while her son adjusted his
pocket-telescope, and took sight up the river.
“It is five o’clock, Gusty, and nearly dark besides, or would be, if it
were not for the full moon, helping the twilight.”
“It is coming, mother—the boat is coming!” exclaimed Gusty, still
keeping his telescope pointed up the river. “It is the Arrow, mother, I
can see the name.”
The boat bore down rapidly. They turned to descend the steep and
slippery sides of the cliff, and stood upon the frozen beach as the boat
flew swiftly on. His heart paused as it neared—stood still as it passed.
Let _me_ pause here. Reader, notice this party on the cold beach, and
now cast a magician’s glance into the cabin of the boat that is passing.
In a small state room opening from that cabin, upon the floor by the
side of the berth, kneels Rosalia Aguilar, with her face pressed down
upon the pillow, with the ends of the pillow held up against her head,
to shut out every sight and sound of the shore and home she is passing,
which is yet distinctly and fearfully present to her mind’s eye and ear.
She sees the village, the dividing river, the heath, with its forest in
the background; the promontory, the old Hall, with its broken garden
wall and poplar trees; lastly, the beach, and the party on the beach.
Emily and Gusty—she knows, she feels, that they are there waiting
her—she knows, she feels, that they were there yesterday, and that they
will be there to-morrow. She knows, she feels, how they will both wait
and wonder—how one will sicken and suffer with “hope deferred”—and ah!
reverting to another home upon the banks of a Northern river,—another
desolated home, desolated by herself, she sees _another_ bleeding heart
and burning brain, as she presses the pillow closer about her ears to
shut out sights and sounds that her spirit-eyes and ears must see and
hear—how long? Rosalia was not one to enjoy a single hour’s impunity in
singing—yet she went on.
Behold the insanity of passion that, through all the accumulating
anguish of remorse, perseveres in sin!
The boat has passed.
“Again, mother!” exclaimed Gusty, with a look of deep disappointment.
“Yes, and again many times, perhaps, my dear boy! Something detains her;
perhaps we shall hear by to-night’s mail,” and they turned to leave the
cliff.
Gusty saw his mother home, and, without stopping to take supper, hurried
off to Churchill Point, to await the arrival of the evening’s mail. He
returned in two hours—there was no letter. The next night, and the next,
and every night for a week longer, Emily and her son watched for Rosalia
in vain. The mail came in twice a week, and every mail-day Gusty was
waiting a letter at the post-office, and Emily waiting him at home. At
last, one night, Gusty hurried in with a letter. Throwing it in his
mother’s lap, he exclaimed,
“It is for _you_; open it quick, mother, do; there is something odd
about it; a letter addressed in Raymond Withers’s hand, and postmarked
Norfolk. What can it mean? Do read it, mother!”
Emily glanced her eyes over it, while Gusty stood pawing and champing in
his impatience. It was merely a formal announcement from Raymond Withers
of the change in Miss Aguilar’s plans; of her determination to go out
under his protection and rejoin Captain Wilde and Sophie, &c., &c. Emily
handed him the letter in silence, and watched him as he read it. Fearful
was the picture of passion presented by Gusty! his bosom heaved in
fierce convulsions—the blood rushed to his head, his face grew scarlet,
the veins on his temples and forehead swelled like cords, his teeth
ground together, his eyes glared and flashed. Crushing the letter in his
hand, he raised it above his head, threw it hard upon the floor, set his
foot upon the paper as though he would grind it to powder, and strode up
and down the room shaking his clenched fist, gnashing his teeth, and
exclaiming, as he foamed at the mouth,
“Villain! wretch! dastard! God! oh, God! that months, that days, that
even _minutes_ should pass before my heel is on his neck! my sword’s
point in his heart!”
Amazed, alarmed at his terrible excitement, Emily followed him up and
down the room.
“Gusty! dear Gusty! in the name of Heaven sit down—be calm!”
But, foaming and shaking, Gusty did not heed, or even hear her.
“If I had him here! If I had him here, with my foot upon his chest, my
hands around his throat—he would be but as a reed in my grasp—a fox’s
cub in a lion’s claws! Oh! if I had him here beneath my feet! _Oh!_ if I
had him here! _Oh!_ if I could get at him now! _Why_ can I not clear the
distance between us at a bound!—spring upon him! bear him down to the
ground!—God! oh, God! I shall dash my desperate brains out before I can
get at him!”
Emily had sunk pale and trembling into her chair, quite overwhelmed by
his frightful passion, while, like a man in a fit of hydrophobia, like a
maniac in the height of his phrensy, like a wild beast maddened in his
cage, he raved, and shook, and foamed!
Passions, like tempests, by their own fury, soon exhaust themselves.
Fits of passion, in some natures, spend their last fury in tears as the
storm passes off in rain. He raged until the exasperating image of
Raymond Withers was replaced by the subduing form of Rosalia, and anger
was drowned in sorrow for the time. He dropped heavily upon the sofa,
and burying his face in its large cushions, sobbed—yes, _sobbed_—
“Rosalia! Oh, _Rose_, _Rose_!”
Emily, much wondering at, and alarmed by, the great degree of emotion
raised by a seemingly insufficient cause, arose, and tottering, came and
sat beside him. He remained unconscious of her presence. She sat there
half an hour, waiting for him to look up, before he seemed to observe
her; at length he turned over, and revealed a face pale and ghastly, as
by a recent fit of illness. He looked up, with an appeal for sympathy
straining through his bloodshot eyes, piercing up to the gentle face of
his mother.
“In the name of Heaven, now, Gusty, what _does_ all this mean?” she
inquired, anxiously.
“_Mean_, mother! Ah, Heaven! _yes_, what does it mean!”
“Surely, Gusty, it is extravagant to manifest all this frightful passion
at this disappointment. I own that it was rather unkind in Rosalia to go
off to Sophie when we were expecting her, and that it was thoughtless in
Raymond to omit writing until the last hour, very thoughtless; but”—
“Thought_less_! the calculating, forecasting demon! it was just the
contrary—it was thought_ful_ of him!”
“What do you mean, Gusty?”
Could he reveal to her the fearful light that had broken upon _his_
mind? the terrible truth that had overwhelmed him? Oh, no! at least not
now; he remained silent, and she continued to misunderstand him. She
went on to say—
“Your disappointment blinds you—makes you unjust, Gusty; it was
thoughtlessness, or much occupation, that prevented Raymond Withers from
writing, to give you an opportunity of seeing Rosalia before their
departure; and for the rest, if you can only get over the present
disappointment, this arrangement will be better for your _pleasure_,
whatever it may be for your purse; for look you, Gusty: suppose Rose had
really come, as she promised, and you had married her, and, at the
expiration of your leave of absence, left her here, as arranged; you
would have spent only a fortnight with her, and then been separated from
her for two or three years. Now, by this new plan, you are for the
present disappointed, but then you will soon go out, meet her and be
near her all the time. Nonsense, dear Gusty! You have nothing really to
regret.”
And so, in her happy blindness, she continued to talk to the despairing
boy before her; and so, uninterruptedly, he let her talk on, while he
lay there with his hands clasped upon his corrugated brow. At last,
aroused by the laughing and crowing of a wakening baby in the next room,
she went and brought her little girl out and sat down with her by
Gusty’s side, thinking the glee of the babe, of whom he was very fond,
would enliven him. On the contrary he became very much agitated.
Presently he said—
“Mother, dear, if it will not be too much inconvenience, put a shirt or
two, and a pair of socks, &c., into my valise; I’m off by the morning’s
boat for the North.”
“Why, Gusty!”
“Dear mother, _yes_!—I must see Hagar!”
“Why must you?”
“I _want_ to see her, mother—_must_ see her! I am _anxious_ about her!”
“Anxious about her?”
“Yes, _very_ anxious!”
“And why are you so?”
Without replying, Gusty arose and walked the floor with his arms folded
and his chin bowed upon his breast.
“What makes you so anxious to see Hagar, Gusty?”
He paused, and looked perplexed for a few minutes, then suddenly
replied—
“Is it not natural that I should wish to see Hagar after so long an
absence?”
“But it is not so long an absence, and your resolution is so sudden.”
“Well, besides, mother, finding now that it is useless to try to see
Rosalia—for that was a ship-letter dated at Hampton Roads, and brought
in by the pilot, you know—I wish to dissipate my chagrin, mother; is not
that natural?”
“Oh, yes! Well, I suppose you do,” said Emily.
The next morning, early, Gusty May set out for the Rialto.