HAGAR AT HEATH HALL.
“Nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.”
DANTE.
All night the children slept on their rude pallet, lulled by the howling
of the storm, as it came dulled through the thick walls of the
fishing-house. All night Hagar slumbered a fitful and uninterrupted
slumber, more like a succession of fainting fits than a natural sleep,
for overpowered by fatigue, she would fall into a state of deep
insensibility, from which she would often start in terror, aroused by a
sudden consciousness or dream of wrong, danger, or censure, of a
terrible and impending destiny. All night Gusty sat upon the inverted
tub drawn up between the fire-dogs, guarding his charges and keeping up
the fire. Gusty, in whom the animal so largely predominated, found it
very hard to keep awake—yet Gusty, who had never lost a meal’s victuals
or a night’s sleep for any grief or disappointment he had ever
suffered—Gusty, now that the health and comfort of others made it
necessary for him to do so—propped his eyes open with heroic
perseverance. Every one knows how difficult it is to keep from going to
sleep, alone, in a quiet room over a good fire; there is something
soporific in its genial heat, even in the day time. Gusty could have
sworn he had not closed his eyes the whole night, yet by some
inexplicable magic he had, or dreamed he had taken up a stick to mend
the fire—at deep, dark, stormy midnight—and when he put it down, or when
it fell from his hand—the instant after—it was broad, bright, glorious
daylight! with the sun beaming a blinding light through the window,
whose form was traced in amber radiance upon the opposite wall, near
which Hagar stood in her travelling dress, ready for a walk, with the
two babies standing clinging to her skirts, and gazing with baby wonder
upon the strange scene in which they found themselves.
“Lord!—yes!—well!—I declare!—so it is!” exclaimed Gusty, starting up.
“I am glad you slept well, Gusty, dear, kind friend,” said Hagar.
“I never SLEPT!” averred Gusty, with his eyes still wide open with
astonishment, thinking himself bewitched.
Hagar smiled sadly to herself, and did not contradict him.
Gusty arose, and shook himself, like a great honest dog roused from
slumber, and walking to the door opened it and looked out.
“Oh! Hagar, come!” said he, “look out—what a glorious morning!”
She went up to his side. It was indeed a gorgeous scene! The heath and
hills were covered with crusted and brilliant snow, glittering with
diamond dust. The forest trees carved in ice, with icicles for foliage.
From every bough and bud dropped millions of pendent jewels. Earth wore
a gorgeous bridal dress, bedecked with diamonds, and the morning sun
kindled up into dazzling splendor the icy glories of the scene, until
the snow flashed back to heaven, in lines of blinding light, a glory
brilliant as the sun himself. Gusty shaded his eyes from the blinding
radiance. Hagar gazed unwinking with her eagle eyes upon the landscape,
until the fire kindled in her cheek and burned on her lips. When they
had breathed the pure air, and enjoyed the prospect a few minutes, Gusty
said,
“You must remain here an hour, Hagar, until I go to the Hall and fetch a
horse—it is almost impossible for you to get over these slippery and
mountainous snow-drifts yet.”
“But it will be quite impossible to get over it with a horse.”
“Yes, just now it will, but in an hour or two the crust will be melted.
Oh! this snow, deep as it is, will not last long; it comes too late in
the season; the last offering of old winter, who turned back to make it.
Yes, there is a great change since last night, I should think the
thermometer had risen thirty degrees. I declare the sun begins to feel
warm on my shoulders. Well, Hagar, stay here till I come. Oh! there are
some crackers in my trunk, if you want them for the children, here are
the keys,” and throwing them to her, he buttoned up his great coat, drew
on his gloves, clapped his hat upon his head, and set out. He might have
been gone an hour, but she heard no trampling of horse feet upon the
snow, and so was unconscious of their approach until Gusty opened the
door, and stood smilingly with his broad good-humored face within it.
Behind him—standing on tiptoe, to look over his shoulder, was
Tarquinius, grinning with delight from ear to ear, and breaking past
them, yelping defiance like fire and sword, sprang two pointers straight
upon Hagar, whom they overwhelmed with welcome caresses! She started
with brightening eyes, and returned their honest fondling. Then how they
bounded, leaped, and fell into convulsions of joy! or lay their muzzles
out upon her lap, every hair vibrating with a still delight.
“Come, Mrs. Withers, are you quite ready?” said Gusty, drawing off his
gloves and putting them into his pocket.
“Oh, yes, quite ready.”
“How do you do, Tarquinius?” said she, kindly holding out her hand to
the man that had been standing smiling and bowing his reverential
welcome (making his _obedience_, he called it), through all this scene.
“How is old Cumbo—how is your grandmother, Tarquin?”
“Putty much de same, I tank you, ma’am—I does not see any changes.”
“Yet she is very aged.”
“Yes, ma’am, but her ages does not get any wusser, but commiserably
better.”
“Can she do anything for herself?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am! she deforms de cookinary boderations as well as ever
she did,” and making two or three deep bows, Tarquinius Superbus retired
from the conference.
There was an unusual kindliness in Hagar’s manner while inquiring after
the welfare of her old nurse; one of the blessed influences of sorrow
was beginning to manifest itself—her heart was softening, becoming
capable of being impressed by the afflictions of others.
“Hagar, come!” said Gusty, lifting up a child in each arm, and preceding
her from the door.
Hagar followed, and no sooner had she emerged into the dazzling sunlight
upon the crusted snow, than with a neigh of joy her little jet black
pony Starlight, bounded to meet her. She fell upon his neck, caressing
him, as if he had been her brother, too surprised and glad to ask an
explanation of his arrival. She patted, talked to him, and laying her
hand upon his mane, sprang into the saddle with something of her former
agility and gladness. She had thought the coming of the dogs accidental,
she thought that Gusty had met them on an early hunt, and that they had
naturally recognised an old friend and followed him to the house; but
now that she felt herself again upon Starlight’s back, with the dogs at
her feet, she wondered how it came so.
“Sit Agatha here before me, Gusty, I can hold her with one hand, and
guide Starlight with the other. I mean to accustom the children early to
riding.”
“And which _is_ Agatha, and which is Agnes?—hang me if I can tell,
though I have a preference! for this little one on my left arm loves me
the most, presses close to me, looks up in my face, and seeks my eyes;
and if I turn away my head, she puts up her little dimpled hand upon my
chin, and turns my face around again, till she can see my eyes. God love
her! God bless her! the loving darling! while this other child sits
perched upon my arm, as if it were a high chair, with closed lips and
level gaze, with all the composed dignity of an infant princess. Now,
which is Agatha, and which is Agnes? If my loving darling is Agatha, I
won’t give her up.”
“No, your favorite is Agnes—the other is Agatha; hand her to me; and,
Gusty, I wish you would not manifest the slightest preference for one
child above the other—it is a fatal cruelty. Agatha is still, because
she has less vitality than her sister; she is more delicate, dear child.
I discovered it the first moment I had an opportunity of comparing
them.”
Gusty placed the sedate infant in her mother’s care, and seemed very
well pleased to be relieved from the burden, and at liberty to devote
his whole care to the “loving darling” in his arms. And so the party set
out over the brilliant snow, under the glorious sunshine. They reached
the old Hall in twenty minutes’ ride. Agatha had fallen asleep on her
mother’s bosom. They entered through the broken gate, and Hagar rode
quite up to the piazza, and handing the sleeping babe to Tarquinius, she
sprang from her saddle, took back the child, and entering the doorway,
stood one moment in silent prayer, and passed on into the parlor, where
stood old Cumbo leaning on her stick, with a red handkerchief on her
head, tied under her chin, and forming a brilliant red frame around a
face, black, wrinkled, and shining as a dried prune. Awed by the memory
of Hagar’s pride and hardness, the old woman did not advance to welcome
her, but when Hagar approached and spoke to her gently and kindly, she
fell to crying and calling her dear “piccaninni.” Hagar looked around
upon the scene; it appeared to her strange that everything had remained
unchanged during the long century that her two years’ absence seemed to
be. It was the same old parlor papered with the martyrs—with the shadows
of the same poplar trees intercepting the sun at the windows that looked
out upon the piazza. A good hickory fire was burning on the ample
hearth, and a good breakfast smoking on the table. Hagar set her child
down upon the carpet, and began to take off her travelling dress, just
as Gusty entered, followed by Tarquinius, bearing a dish of fine white
perch, fried, which he had just brought from the kitchen, and now set
upon the table. They sat down to breakfast.
“These are very nice, Tarquin—did you catch them?” asked Gusty, placing
a perch upon the plate before him.
“Yes, sir! I did, sir; I most in general confuses my ledger hours by
angulating in the bay, whenever the perdition of the hemisphere
commits.”
“Ah, that’s right; has my mother—has Mrs. Buncombe been over at the Hall
to give any directions?”
“No, sor, but de reverend gen’lem’n, sir, he come ober, and dejected us
to have ebery ting impaired, and all the molestic confairs deranged for
Mrs. Widders, an’ so we have conveyed his ardors to de best of our
debility.”
“Thank you—you are a valuable agent!—Hagar!”
“Well?”
“I shall have to take leave of you immediately after breakfast; I must
see my mother—she is uneasy, I know—perhaps sick. Say, are they all well
over to the Grove, Tarquin?”
“Yes, sir, de reveren gen’lem’n, he has got over his room-atism, and
goes all over the house; but he is inflicted with a dog-matism in his
ear, owing to Mr. Green’s big dog, Silver, jumpin’ up and bitin’ him.”
“Oh!”
“Speaking of dogs, will you tell me, Gusty, how Starlight, and Remus,
and Romulus came here?”
“Came here? Why, they have been here all the time; did not you know it?”
“No, indeed; tell me about it.”
“In the first place, the dogs would not stay anywhere else. Gardiner
Green tied them up, but they gnawed their rope in two and fled to the
Hall; and then he caught them and chained them, but they kept such a
dismal howling—”
“Poor dogs!”
“That Mrs. Green, who is very superstitious, insisted on their being set
at liberty, and they immediately returned to the Hall!”
“Dear, true dogs! Well, but Starlight?”
“Yes, Starlight! _he_ was worse, it was a regular conspiracy. Star
behaved like a comet—like a devil let loose. Gardiner Green mounted him
on Sunday to ride to church, but no sooner was he prisoned on the
saddle, than Star shot forward like a meteor, while Green fell upon his
neck and grasped his mane; Star fled across the meadow, making the turf
fly beneath his digging feet, fled towards the river, plunged in, swam
it, climbed the opposite side, and took the way towards the forest. Soon
the pointers came baying behind him. On fled Star, with Green clinging
in deadly terror to his neck, bent on a regular steeple chase, bounding
over the hills, tearing through the forest, springing over gates,
leaping across chasms, till at last reaching and clearing Devil’s Gorge
at a bound, he sent Gardiner Green spinning from his back like a shot
from a pop-gun! and keeping on his course, arrived in a somewhat excited
state of mind at his own stall at Heath Hall, where the pointers soon
overtook him. Gardiner Green was picked up by those who went to look for
him, battered, bruised, and terrified nearly to death, but not lamed,
dead, or otherwise injured. The next morning they sent over and had
Starlight led back; and Starlight stepped statelily forth with the
indignant air and threatening eye of a captive king led in triumph, who
expects yet to rise and crush his enemies.”
“My noble Starlight!”
“Oh! he was a hero—he was not born to be a slave, or to serve any master
except for love.”
“Like his mistress,” thought Hagar, and her brow grew dark with
recollection.
“Well, they carried him home and geared him up into Mistress Green’s
gig—but he ran away with that, threw Mrs. Green out, spoiling her beauty
but not seriously injuring her—kicked the gig to flinders, and brought
the remnant of his gearing as a trophy home to the stables of Heath Hall
that very evening. Then they put him in a cart, which he served in the
same manner. Then they put him in a plough with another horse.”
“Poor, dear Starlight—to degrade my elegant Starlight so!”
“Exactly! but his highness, Prince Starlight, the Black Prince, would
not stand it—he kicked, and reared, and plunged, and tried to excite his
comrade to run away. And when his small-souled comrade would not, he bit
him severely on the neck, as a punishment for helping to keep him
prisoner. And then Gardiner Green offered ‘the black fiend’ to any one
for half the price he gave for him. It was just at this juncture of
affairs that I had run down here to see mother again before going the
voyage I expected to sail on, and hearing of this, I gladly purchased
the horse at half-price, and returned him to the stables at Heath Hall,
for the use of Hagar if ever she should return—for, Hagar, it is
demonstrated that he will not serve man, woman, or child, but you.”
“I know that,” said Hagar, “and Gusty, I thank you, very sincerely—but I
must repay you.”
“Be hanged if you shall! I will give him to you, but as for _selling him
to you_! I’d cut his throat first! I was very willing to pay a good
price for him, only I was enraged with that old brute, Gardiner Green,
for having the atrocious assurance to buy your horse and dogs without
your consent; for, of course, Hagar, I knew perfectly well that you
would never have agreed to the sale, and so I would not be generous! I
was too glad to punish his fault through his tenderest point, his
pocket.”
“But,” said Hagar, choking with the unavailing effort to speak _a name_
that had not passed her lips since its owner was lost to her sight,
“_he_ sold them, and of course my consent was understood or
unnecessary.”
This was the first occasion upon which even the most distant allusion
was made between Hagar and Gusty to the party that was nevertheless ever
present to the minds of both. Gusty soon after arose from the table, and
in taking leave of Hagar, promised that if it were possible for his
mother to venture through the deep snow, he would bring her over in the
afternoon.
* * * * *
The family of Grove Cottage had just arisen from breakfast. The parson
had just buttoned up his greatcoat, set his hat upon his head, and was
drawing on his wool-lined gloves for a walk to the village, when the
door opened, and Gusty entered.
“Oh! how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Buncombe, slightly starting back with
surprise, and then cordially shaking his hand. Gusty, returning his
salute, passed on to where his mother sat at the head of the table.
Emily arose with tears in her eyes. Gusty caught and folded her warmly
to his bosom.
Mr. Buncombe returned, and laying his hand upon his step-son’s shoulder,
said—“Gusty, my boy, I am called to the sick bed of one of my
parishioners, and must leave you. I am sorry, but I shall meet you here
at dinner?”
“Yes, sir. Oh! never mind me, my dear sir.”
The parson departed, and Gusty releasing his mother, snatched up his
infant sister, Rose, and began to cover her with caresses and praises by
way of diverting the storm of maternal grief and resentment, that he
felt too ready to break over his head. Emily was weeping bitterly,
until, seeing _his_ grief and embarrassment, she arose and fell upon his
shoulder, exclaiming,
“Oh, Gusty! Gusty! you have destroyed the labor and the hopes of many
years and cares. You have nearly broken my heart—but you are welcome,
nevertheless! Welcome, welcome, my boy!”
“Mother! _don’t_, now _don’t_—don’t make me _feel_ like a brute, when I
_know_ I have behaved like a man!” said Gusty, setting down the child,
and returning his mother’s embrace. “I have not merited this misfortune,
mother; and I know that therefore, sooner or later, it will turn out
well!”
“Ah! but, Gusty, it is _such_ a blow! and you did nothing to avert, and
will do nothing to remedy it! _Why_ did you not, why _do_ you not, even
now, hasten to Washington, and petition to be reinstated?”
“I would see the whole United States Navy swamped first, mother! No,
much as I honor my flag, I honor myself more! and God most!”
“Ah, Gusty! ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ is a very true
proverb.”
“May be so—but I’ll improve upon that, ‘God helps those who help their
neighbors!’ I have Scripture for _that_, mother; ‘Cast thy bread upon
the waters, and after many days it shall return, and whoso giveth,
_lendeth_ to the Lord.’ Come, mother, I lost my commission by doing a
higher duty than any I owed my flag, and so I am not uneasy; but,
mother, you have not once inquired after Hagar, who landed last night in
the midst of the storm, and who is now at the Hall.”
“Well! how should I be able to think of Hagar, when I have so many
anxieties on your account, unfortunate boy? but how is Hagar, then?”
“Recovering slowly, but _very_ slowly; will you not go over to see her,
then, this afternoon?”
Emily was silent and thoughtful, and sooth to say, rather displeased at
the proposition.
“Will you not, mother? Come, mother; when you see Hagar, so wretched, so
ill, so changed, your unjust displeasure with her will be dissipated;
you should not indeed feel angry with her because she was the
involuntary, the unconscious cause of my misfortune, which she does not
even know of yet—thinking I am on furlough—and do not tell her, mother.”
“Yes, but I see no _reason_ for all this wretchedness. I knew that Hagar
madly loved her husband, but I do not see why his leaving her for two
years should cause her to lose the power of directing her own life, and
so cause you to lose all the hopes and prospects of yours.”
Gusty mused. Could he, he thought, enlighten his mother as to the _real_
state of affairs? After some minutes’ reflection, he determined to keep
the secret of the elopement, veiled as it was by the foreign mission;
both because, though his suspicions came as near truth as suspicions
_could_ come, yet they were not fully proved—_he_ might feel very sure
himself, yet he might not he able to assure another mind—and because he
did not wish to inflict upon his mother another sorrow, in addition to
the one she was now almost sinking under. He felt sure that she would
never receive a hint from Hagar, whom self-esteem, as well as her
continued and inevitable love for her husband, would keep silent upon
the subject of his perfidy, and her own wrongs and sufferings.
After dinner, Emily, attended by her son, rode towards Heath Hall.
* * * * *
When Gusty May had left the breakfast-table for his walk to Grove
Cottage, Hagar took her two children up to her own chamber—to her old
eyrie in the third story. This room also was unchanged—except—yes! there
sat her children’s little rose-wood crib, with all its furniture, just
as it was before it had been sold at the third execution. There could be
but _one_ to whom she was indebted for this delicate attention, and
though her morbid pride was at first startled, yet her affections were
touched by this instance of disinterested friendship.
Without any pretensions, Gusty was doing everything to sanctify the uses
of adversity to the heart of Hagar. It was impossible not to be softened
by the kind offices of a friendship that gave everything without hope or
even thought of return. This was Hagar’s first, her _very_ first
experience of disinterested affection—the love of Raymond was intensely
selfish, craving only the possession of its object, regardless of her
affections or her happiness—and Hagar had felt that bitterly through all
her married life, and most bitterly in her desertion. The effect of this
selfish and cruel abandonment on the character of Hagar’s mind and
heart, must have been most deleterious, fatal, but that the antidote was
provided in a new phase of human sympathy revealed to her in the
disinterested affection of one—an alien by blood—a rejected and humbled
lover of her girlhood, a sufferer by the same treachery that laid her
own hopes in the dust; one who, without pretending to any fine feelings,
or expressing any fine sentiments, had quietly suppressed and concealed
his own griefs, in ministering to her wants, in trying to alleviate her
sorrows. Hagar’s maternity had first inspired her deepest prayer—her
children had been the angels sent to conduct her heart to God—to whom,
ever since, with an almost hearing, seeing, touching faith, she had
offered all her joys, gratitudes, and praises, and where, alas! she had
also impiously carried all her fears, complaints, and reproaches. But
now she must ask a boon of Providence, that He would bless and prosper
the kind soul that she was unable to benefit. This was the silent
prayer—the silent fragrance rising from the bruised heart to
heaven—while she loosened her babies’ clothes, and laid them in the crib
to take their forenoon nap. And then she looked around the pleasant room
with its agreeable associations, the extensive prospect from the windows
of the broad river, the village with its little stir and bustle on the
opposite side, the boundless bay with its occasional passing packet, all
inspiring the feeling of life, liberty, and strength. If God is a kind
father, as all his children devoutly feel and acknowledge, _Nature_ is a
good nursing mother, and under the care of both, Hagar was even now
beginning to feel her torpid life stir again. She was at _home_, under
her own roof; what if the house were half a ruin—it was HER OWN. She was
upon her own land, and though it was only a desert heath, it was HER
OWN. There was a sense of independence in that, and of pride in the
thought that for this home she was not indebted to Mr. Withers—for,
though she still _must_ love him, in her high self-appreciation she now
felt an unconquerable reluctance to receive anything from him who had
withdrawn his love and personal protection. And then there was a sense
of returning power in the new life that was tiding in and filling all
her veins. Turning from the window, from which she had been gazing, her
eye fell upon her own image in the glass; that glass which had so often
reflected the slight dark figure of the high-spirited maiden, whose long
blue-black ringlets glittered down a crimson cheek blushing with pride,
_now_ gave back the form of the matron, whose fair, wan, spiritual face
was faintly flushed with returning life, and softly shaded by the tiny
black ringlets of the young hair just visible under the delicate lace
border of her little cap. Hagar scarcely knew herself. It was so strange
to see that changed picture in that frame.
Returning and looking again at her children, she drew the light muslin
curtain around them, and left the room to take a look through the house.
She went into the large, old drawing-room hall, as it was called in
those days, and there the first thing that met her eyes was her grand
piano, and her harp, from the Rialto. Hagar started in surprise and
embarrassment—the burden of obligation was beginning to feel
oppressive—she called Tarquin in.
“When did these arrive, and who brought them here?”
“They ’riv’ ’tother day, ma’am, by the packet ‘Future,’ Cap’n Hope, who
sent ’em up to the Hall by two sailors.”
“With any message?”
“No, ma’am, freight paid in advance—dinner is ready, Mrs. Withers,” said
the man, throwing open the parlor door with all the ceremonious
observance of “better days.” Hagar passed in and sat down to her
solitary meal. It was a well served, delicate little repast, purveyed by
the affectionate care of Cumbo and Tarquin from the rich resources of
the Heath and bay, which were always abundantly supplied with wild game,
water fowl, fish, crabs, oysters, &c., in their respective seasons.
There was no danger of our Hagar starving, and that was one comfort; nor
of her freezing, as long as the forest stood behind the Heath, and that
was another consolation. Her dinner was scarcely over and the things
removed from the table, when looking through the window, she saw Emily
on her little mare with her little girl before her, and Gusty riding by
her side. This of course was the first sight she had had of Emily for
two years past; she hastened out to meet her. Gusty had dismounted, and
was lifting his little sister from his mother’s lap, previous to
assisting her from the saddle. She greeted Hagar with as much cordiality
as could be expected under the circumstances. Hagar immediately ran, and
lifting, caressed the little girl that was but a few months older than
her own children. Emily’s sullen anger was somewhat softened by
witnessing the sincere interest manifested by the youthful mother in
_her_ child, and so they went into the house. Soon Hagar led her babies,
who could now walk, into the room, and the two women for a time
forgot—the one her pride, the other her anger, and both their
antagonism, in comparing and admiring the three babies as they toddled
about. Emily remained to tea, and forgot her displeasure so far as not
only to suppress the fact of her son’s having been cashiered, but also
to invite Hagar to come and spend a week at Grove cottage, as soon as
she should be able to go out.
The next morning, directly after breakfast, Gusty came over to Heath
Hall to inquire after Hagar and the babies, and to know if she wanted
anything.
“Yes, Gusty, I want to speak to you. Come in here, Gusty,” and taking
his hand she drew him into the drawing-room and pointed to the piano and
harp.
“Ah, yes! certainly! give me a tune!” said Gusty, blushing and
stammering with embarrassment.
“But, Gusty, _you_ sent these here!”
“Oh—yes—well—what of it?”
“Only _this_, Gusty, that you are _very good, too good_ for your own
sake—but, Gusty, dear friend, you must not lavish such presents upon
me.”
“Oh! nonsense! oh, pshaw! they were sold at auction, and I bought them
in for a mere trifle.”
“Yes, but, dear friend, there are many reasons why you should not offer
and I receive costly presents like these. Much as I dislike to do it I
shall have to draw—upon—upon _his_ banker and pay you for them as well
as for the horse and dogs.”
“HAGAR!”
“Dear Gusty, now listen to me quietly, _it must be so_; and moreover,
dear Gusty, you must not get into the habit of visiting me every day as
you appear inclined to do. You must never come to see me, Gusty, except
in company with your mother.”
“THUNDER!” roared Gusty. “Hagar, how have I deserved that sentence? I
can’t stand that!”
“Listen, Gusty! when I was a girl you know I did not care at all what
people said or thought of me. I cared for nothing but to keep my Maker’s
laws, because no one cared for me then.”
“And no one cares for you _now_ as I can see!” said Gusty, rudely.
“No—_but I care for others_! I care for the honor of one whose honor is
more vulnerable through _me_ than through _himself_! Once I was
unconnected, and if society had misunderstood, judged, and condemned me,
I should have fallen alone! and so I had courage to do as I pleased and
defy the fate! _now_ I am closely entwined with others, who, when _I_ am
struck down, fall with me. I am weak, fettered, enslaved through them,
Gusty. I cannot do as I please, and though I esteem and respect you
beyond all other people in the world with one exception, and though your
society would be the greatest solace in my reach, yet I must forego it,
dear Gusty.”
“You have no faith in my honor, in your own purity, or in God! that is
just the amount of it,” growled Gusty, straightening himself up with
tears in his eyes as he buttoned up his greatcoat. “It seems to me you
are not yourself; you are weak.”
“I am weak _through those I love_, Gusty!”
“And do you, Hagar, really _hope_ to propitiate the gossips of —— county
by this course? and do you, a deserted wife!—there it’s out! well! it
has been _in_ both our minds continually, so it had as well come out. I
say, do you expect to be let alone? Do you not know that the old grudge
against your wild girlhood will be remembered, and now that an
opportunity is offered, will be visited with fury on your head. You will
be cast forth from here, Hagar; a ground-swell of slander and
persecution will lift and lift you, Hagar, until you take wing. Did you
think when I brought you to be nursed into health and strength by the
bracing air of your native heath, that I thought that YOU would stay
_here_? No, Hagar! I could prophesy _more_ for you, but I will not now.
I will leave you to the force of circumstances; to the inspirations of
your own genius—to God in fine. But you are wrong to discard me. I have
not deserved it. _I_ say it! But I charge all this weakness of yours
upon bodily ill health. Good morning, Hagar;” and shaking her hand
affectionately, he clapped his hat upon his head and went out.
* * * * *
It happened as Gusty had predicted. Hagar remained weeks, months at
Heath Hall, and no one visited her—not a soul had come to welcome her
back to her native neighborhood except the Buncombes. All sorts of evil
reports got into circulation against her. She was, as Gusty said, a rich
waif for the gossips of —— county. Some were contented with repeating
that her husband had left her, that “of course he had good reason,”
asserting that they “had always expected it.” Others declared that _she_
had eloped from _him_, and averred that they had “said so long ago.”
Some said positively that he had left her upon account of the intimacy
subsisting between herself and Lieutenant May—others had discovered that
Lieutenant May had been cashiered upon her account, &c., &c., &c. Many
other and more fatal rumors got into circulation, and though they never
reached the ears of Hagar, she felt them in the utter abandonment and
solitude into which she was suffered to fall; for even Emily’s visits
became shorter and colder, and “few and far between,” until they ceased
altogether, and Hagar Withers was left _alone_! And it was under these
circumstances, and when her twins were little over a year old, that her
third child was born. It was a little, fair-skinned, blue-eyed,
golden-haired boy—with the very soul of Raymond Withers reposing on his
features; and Hagar, if she could not love the babe more upon that
account, was happier in her love, because the face of the baby gave her
back the features of her absent and lost one.