HAGAR’S RESOLVE.
“Once more alone—and desolate, now, for ever
In truth the heart whose home was once in thine:
Once more alone on life’s terrific river,
All human hope, exulting I resign.
“Alone I brave the tempest and the terror,
Alone I guide my being’s fragile bark,
And bless the past with all its grief and error,
Since Heaven still bends above my pathway dark.
“At last I taste the joy of self-reliance;
At last I reverence calmly my own soul;
At last I glory in serene defiance
Of all the wrong that would my fate control.”
FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
I must remind you that Hagar, after reading her husband’s letter, had
fallen into a reverie that terminated in a resolve. It was inspired by a
reflection upon her position and circumstances. She had three children,
be it remembered, and all under three years old. She had no visible
means of supporting herself and these children, for whom especially she
wished to procure every comfort and every luxury that was desirable. She
had drawn out the little balance left with his banker by Raymond
Withers, and had used the greater part of it in paying her debts
contracted with Gusty May; and what remained went to defray the expenses
attending her last accouchement. She had nothing left. Winter was
approaching, and the winters at Heath Hall, from its remarkably bleak
and exposed situation, as well as from the ruinous state of the
building, were felt very severely. Her own and her children’s wardrobe
was becoming very much the worse for wear, and it was highly necessary
that it should be replenished. In fact, poverty, absolute want, was
staring Hagar in the face. It was proper that something should be done
to supply her necessities before they became importunate. It was too
late in the season now to apply to her husband for relief, even if she
could have bowed her pride to do so. A letter could not reach him and
its reply come to her before the spring. What should she do? To remain
at Heath Hall through the winter was impossible. Little as the place
_looked_ to be changed, every cold and windy day and every rainy day
proved that no room in the house was weather-tight. When it rained the
water streamed down into the very best room, as though it would set the
carpet afloat. In cold weather it was even worse—the air poured in from
all quarters, and no quantity of fire could warm the rooms. Tarquinius
asserted with great truth, that to make a fire in the parlor was like
trying to heat “all out of doors.” I should say, that from the bleakness
of its situation the winter came a month sooner and remained a month
later at the Heath, than at any other place within the same latitude.
On that particular morning, when Hagar sat at the breakfast-table
cogitating, it was cold and frosty everywhere, but it was _very_ cold
and bleak at Heath Hall; and the old lady whom Hagar had engaged as a
companion, leaving the table and seating herself before the immense
blazing hickory fire, declared that while her knees were scorching off,
her back “friz.” Hagar at first thought of disposing of some of her most
salable property—these were her piano and harp; they might be sold in
the neighborhood at about a tenth of their value; but how long would the
money hold out in supplying the necessities of her family? and what was
to be done when it was gone? Hagar next wondered if there were nothing
she could herself do for a living; but she was forced to reject every
plan that presented itself. Was it needle-work? How should _she_ live by
her needle, who had not sufficient knowledge of that branch of industry
to serve her in making and repairing her own wardrobe? Teaching? Ah!
that was even _worse_. If to live by needle-work was difficult, to live
by teaching was impossible. Hagar’s intellect was like her own favorite
forest haunts, strong, vigorous, and brilliant, but wild, tangled, and
uncultivated. She had especially laughed Lindley Murray’s grammar out of
countenance, asserting that she could never comprehend it, and as for
arithmetic, she refused to _try_—so that in these two highly “important
branches of a good English education,” Hagar was wofully deficient, but
far too honest to attempt to teach what she did not know. Still her
thoughts recurred to her piano and harp, and it was while thinking of
their sale that it occurred to her that she was in possession of one
splendid and unemployed talent—and the sudden thought sent a thrill of
joy through her heart, as she blessed God for the gift and for the
present inspiration.
She recollected hearing Raymond often say that her voice was admirably
suited for concert practice—that he had heard all the celebrated singers
of the day, and had never heard a voice or an execution like hers. She
recollected to have heard that professional singers frequently made
large fortunes. She remembered also hearing that several of these
_artistes_ were deeply respected for the virtue and even for the piety
of their private lives. There was nothing in Hagar’s pride to prevent
her from embracing this career—her pride was strictly _personal_. She
could not have been proud of her descent, of wealth, had she possessed
it, of social position, or of any other external circumstance
whatever—but she was proud of herself, that self that came alone into
the world, and would go alone out of it. Hagar quickly decided upon her
course. She was not one to renounce all the comforts, refinements, and
elegances of life that had grown into a habit and a necessity, without
an effort to retain them, and which she must resign without this or some
equally lucrative plan of life. To this career she was drawn by her
peculiar taste and genius; this would give her an opportunity of seeing
that “world” so attractive to her eager and inquiring mind, and hitherto
so completely hidden from her. In five minutes from the first
inspiration of the idea, Hagar had laid out and matured all her plans.
She determined, on her own responsibility, to have a sale and dispose of
all her personal property that could be got rid of at any price, and
with the proceeds to take her children and remove to Washington or
Baltimore, and in one or the other of those cities to employ her musical
talent in the most profitable manner. While thinking over these matters,
and before rising from the table, she was startled by a rap at the door,
apparently given with the butt-end of a riding-whip. To her quick “Come
in!” Gusty May opened the door, looking half savage in his shaggy,
white, box greatcoat, leather leggings, and foraging cap, and carrying
in his hands a brace of canvas-back ducks. This was the first time he
had been at the Hall since his banishment thence. She started up gladly
to welcome him.
“Good morning, Hagar! may I come in?”
“Oh, yes, dear Gusty!—I am so delighted to see you!” exclaimed she, with
brightening eyes, extending both hands to him.
“Humph!—sight of me is good for sore eyes, ain’t it?”
“Yes, indeed, Gusty, my best friend, why have not you been to see me all
this dismal long time?”
“Why have not I been to see you?—come, that will do. What did you tell
me the last time I was over here!”
“True! I recollect—I told you not to come again, unless you came with
your mother, and I was right, Gusty; it was proper, both for _your_ sake
and for mine that this should be so; only just now, Gusty, surprised and
pleased at seeing you, I forgot myself for an instant.”
“Yes! well! I came over here this morning, and took the liberty, Hagar,
of shooting a pair of ducks on your moor. The bishop has come down to
confirm at the church next Sunday, to-morrow, you know, and I thought
that I would like to carry mother a pair of ducks to help out with the
dinner, as the old bishop is very fond of our canvas-back ducks, and so,
Hagar, having bagged my game, I could not pass the Hall like a poacher,
without looking in.”
“I am glad to see you, Gusty, notwithstanding all that I have said—do
not I look so?”
“Oh! yes, dear Hagar,” said Gusty, now for the first time seating
himself in a chair near the fire, and setting his hat upon one side, and
the pair of ducks on the other.
“We caught—at least Tarquinius did—a fine drum yesterday evening; it is
more than we shall use in a week, won’t you take half of it over to the
cottage, Gusty?”
Gusty mused a moment, and then replied—
“No! I be hanged if I do, Hagar! You are very good, and _I_ thank you,
but the inmates of Grove Cottage have used you too badly, Hagar! God
forgive me for remembering and repeating it; but they have not deserved
the slightest favor from your hands, Hagar!—I do not know how you can
forgive them!”
“See here, Gusty!” said she, laying her small hand affectionately on his
arm, “they acted as their nature made it necessary for them to act, and
their conduct does not grieve or anger me in the least; perhaps it
inspires some contempt—but no, I take that back, for your sake, Gusty,
and I assure you that their treatment gives me no pain. It is only those
whom I love that possess any power over me, to torture me! if _you_,
Gusty, had turned rascal on my hands, that circumstance would have
caused me some suffering—but people I care little about! nonsense!”
“It is _my mother_, though!” said Gusty, with a look of deep distress.
“Yes, it is _your mother_, poor boy! Never mind, Gusty, take heart; she
_is_ an excellent woman for all; and not the less so because she cannot
comprehend _me_!”
“Don’t let us talk any more about it, please!” said Gusty, with a look
of deep humiliation.
After a few minutes Gusty arose to go, saying, in an imploring voice, as
he put on his hat and took up his ducks—
“Hagar, if I can _ever_ be of any sort of service to you, for the Lord
in Heaven’s sake, _do_ let me know, will you?”
Hagar mused a moment, and then replied—
“You _can_ be of great service to me, Gusty!”
“Ah! can I? Tell me how? where? when?” exclaimed Gusty, gladly, dropping
his ducks, doffing his hat, and reseating himself.
“Not now, this is Saturday; come over and spend Monday evening with me,
and I will tell you.”
“Thank you, Hagar, thank you for this mark of confidence. I will
certainly come. Good-by, dear Hagar.”
He caught her hand, shook it heartily, and left the house. Even that day
Hagar employed with the preliminaries of her preparations. Gusty May was
faithful to his appointment, and Monday afternoon found him at Heath
Hall. Hagar’s tea-table was waiting, and the old lady, her companion,
was with her. She invited Gusty to take a seat at the board, and
immediately after tea, when they had turned their chairs to the fire,
and the old woman had left the room to put the children to bed, Hagar
imparted her plan of public singing to Gusty. He was surprised, even to
astonishment. Not understanding the nature of Hagar’s pride, he had
deemed her _too_ proud for this career, and even ventured to hint that
such had been his impression. Hagar smilingly disabused him of this
erroneous idea; and then he hastened to say that as far as he himself
was concerned he heartily approved of her plan, and pledged himself to
do everything in his power to promote her object. The assistance she
required from him was very slight, being only to act as her agent in the
sale of several articles of her property. She requested him also not to
reveal to any one her purpose in leaving the neighborhood. “Not that I
care a great deal about it, Gusty, though I do not wish for ever to be
on the lips of the gossips of Churchill’s Point, but, because,” said
she, smiling archly, “it will be such a charity to afford Mrs. Gardiner
Green and her _clique_ a subject of speculation, that will keep their
tongues for some time off some poor unfortunate, who might otherwise
have been their next victim, and also, because this racking and
unsatisfied curiosity will be such a well merited punishment of their
slandering propensities!”
Gusty freely promised that he would not betray her confidence, and soon
after took his leave. In a fortnight from this time, Hagar’s
preparations were all complete. It was a glorious day in October, when,
with her three children, she stepped aboard a packet bound up the bay to
the mouth of the Potomac River and to Washington City. She had left
Heath Hall as she had found it—namely, in the care of Cumbo and
Tarquinius. She had not engaged a nurse or a waiting maid in the
country, because she wished to cut off for the present all trace of her
course, and to sink for at least a year or two to come, her old in her
new existence. After mature deliberation she decided that Washington and
Baltimore were both too near home for the commencement of her
professional labors. An invincible repugnance kept her from the North,
where she had taken her first lessons in suffering. Merely staying long
enough in Washington to procure a nurse and a travelling maid, she
turned her steps southward. It was under a _nom de guerre_ that Hagar
Withers commenced her brilliant professional career at New Orleans in
the year 182-. Every one who lived in that city at that time remembers
the splendid concerts of Mrs. ——, a lady as remarkable for the stern
asceticism of her private manners as for the brilliant success of her
public career. Hagar’s greatest motive in entering upon this profession
had been to achieve by the only means in her power an independence, and
she had made a stern resolution of reserve, self-denial, and solitude,
as the only way of preserving her from falling into her besetting sins
of wildness and reckless gaiety, and towards which everything in her
present life would conspire to draw her.
Once or twice before taking the final step that was to place her so
conspicuously before the world, while doubtful of the light in which her
extremely fastidious husband might look upon this when it came to his
knowledge, and while an instinct of _family_ pride, a rare thing with
Hagar, prompted her, she thought, that she would do better to become a
private teacher of music; but the idea was so repulsive that she quickly
shrank from it. Her _personal_ pride, her independence, would suffer too
much in this latter position. Her prejudices, the very few with which
her mind was trammelled, were all against the profession; and that
circumstance, taken with her unprotected condition, and the experience
she had gained by the gossipping propensities of her old neighbors at
Churchill’s Point, had fixed her firmly in the resolution she had
formed, namely, of isolating herself with her young family during the
hours not devoted to her public professional duties. Her winter at New
Orleans was one chain of splendid successes, each more brilliant than
the last. In the spring of 182-, she, still accompanied by her babies as
a guard of cherubim, sailed from New Orleans for Havre, intending to
make a professional tour of Europe for one year before returning to her
native country.
* * * * *
“Mother!” said Gusty May to Mrs. Buncombe, as they sat together in the
parlor at Grove Cottage, a few days after Hagar’s departure from Heath
Hall, “what do the good folks about here say of Hagar now?”
“All that I have heard speak upon the subject, say that they are very
glad she is gone to her husband—_if he can receive her_. And I am glad
also. It has been a grief to me to absent myself from Hagar; but,
really, you know, Gusty, she had cost me already too much, in your
misfortunes.—I could not risk compromising my own position by her.”
“It was not her fault, mother. But I am thinking of the wonderful
charity of the folks in putting such a kind construction upon Hagar’s
journey; strange they had not thought of accusing her of eloping with
the captain of the packet in which she sailed! ’Pon honor, I shall begin
to have some hope for the people of Churchill’s Point yet!” said Gusty,
really surprised at the explanation they had given of her journey.
“Hagar has given room for talk by getting into an anomalous position;
why _should_ people find themselves in inconceivable situations? _I_
never did, yet I was an unprotected girl.”
Gusty looked at her in grave perplexity, divided between his wish to
defend Hagar and his reverence for her; at last he said, smiling sadly—
“Dear mother, Lewis Stephens, poor fellow! was drowned last summer, in a
gale of wind!—Now, why _should_ people be drowned in a gale of wind? _I_
never was, and _I_ have been in a gale of wind!”
“Gusty, _hush_! you talk like—like a young man.”
“And if I am to talk differently, I hope to God I may never live to be
an old one.”
“I deserve this from you, Gusty!” said his mother, with the tears
welling up to her eyes.
Gusty’s arms were around her neck in a moment.
“Dear mother, forgive me! I meant no disrespect to you, indeed; but it
is _so_ trying to see one of your excellent heart, so uncompromising to
Hagar, for whom I have, God knows, a higher respect, deeper esteem, than
for the whole world besides.”
While they were conversing thus, the door opened, and Mr. Buncombe
entered the parlor, and throwing a letter into his wife’s hand,
exclaimed—
“Well, here is the long-looked-for come at last!”
It was a letter bearing a foreign stamp, and directed in the hand of
Captain Wilde. Emily opened it hastily. Soon as she read, her face grew
pale in consternation.
“What is it, mother?” asked Gusty, approaching her.
“What is it, dear Emily?” inquired her husband, leaning over her chair.
“I hardly know myself; oh, heaven!”
“Read it! tell us!” cried Gusty.
“No one ill, I hope?” whispered the parson.
“Rosalia is lost!”
“LOST!” exclaimed Mr. Buncombe, in astonishment.
Gusty sank upon a chair, his cheek turning white as death.
“Lost! fled!” gasped Emily, still gazing on the sheet before her; “fled
no one knows wherefore or whither!”
“Inexplicable!” cried Mr. Buncombe.
Gusty was devouring his mother’s face with his great eyes.
“_Fled_, did you say—say _fled_, mother?”
“FLED, Gusty!” sobbed Emily, “fled, my poor, dear, unfortunate
boy!—_fled_—fled from the protection of Mr. Withers the very afternoon
of their landing at Genoa!”
Gusty jerked the letter out of his mother’s hand impulsively, and
forgetting to apologize, ran up stairs with it, while Mr. Buncombe set
himself to soothe and comfort Emily, and to win from her an account of
the flight of Rosalia, with which the reader is already acquainted. Both
were thrown into the utmost consternation by the news. To them it was a
mystery of rayless darkness, for so far from having cast any light upon
the subject of the flight it had announced, Captain Wilde’s letter
expressed a faint hope that Emily might possess some clue to the fate of
her adopted daughter.
At last Emily thought of Gusty, and was preparing to go and try to
soothe the anguish she believed he must be suffering, when the door was
suddenly thrown open, and Gusty ran in with his countenance and manner
highly excited as by a strange joy, exclaiming, screaming, as he waved
the letter in circles above his head—
“Hip! hip! hur-ra-a-a-a-a-a, mother! three times three now, mother! and
special thanksgiving next Sunday, for this good, this great, this
glorious news! Hurrah!”
“_Good News!_ oh, my God, he is mad!” exclaimed Emily in extreme terror;
“hold him, Buncombe!”
“Yes, hold him, Buncombe! hold him, Buncombe! lest in his joy he bound
like a cannon ball through the roof of the house! Hold him, Buncombe!”
yelled Gusty, jumping into the arms of the reverend gentleman, seizing
him about the waist, and whirling him round and round the room in a
brisk gallopading waltz! Shriek after shriek burst from Emily’s
terrified bosom, and brought all the household (being Kitty and a
horse-boy) running into the room, just as Gusty had dropped the startled
parson, and was standing panting with exertion, weeping for joy, and
laughing for fun at the same time.
“Take him into custody! secure him! before he hurts himself or somebody
else!” exclaimed Emily, palpitating.
“Take _who_ into custody?” exclaimed Gusty, looking round, “what’s
done?”
“Oh, heaven! will nobody bind him?” sobbed Emily, edging towards her
son, cautiously.
Gusty caught her to his bosom, and kissed her heartily, as he stooped
and whispered breathlessly, his brain sobered a little by the alarm he
had caused, but his heart still wildly throbbing with ecstatic joy—
“_Mother!_ pshaw—_you_ know me! I’ll—I’ll—perhaps I’ll tell you why I’m
overjoyed just presently; send all these gapers and starers away, and go
and reassure his reverence, who, not being a fighting man, is bolstering
himself up against the wall, not knowing what I am going to do next;
there, _do_, mother! my blood is so unmanageable, it is getting up
again! yes, here it comes! it’s going to boil over! I declare it is! I
can’t help it! get out of my way! I won’t hurt anybody! hip! hip!
hurrah!” and with that he bounded forward into the air, cut four or five
capers more extravagant than the others, and ran from the room, leaving
the assembled family dumb with astonishment.
Having reached his own room, Gusty began to empty his drawers, wardrobe,
&c., and to pack his clothing into a sea chest with great haste and
zeal. While he was employed in this manner his mother came in, and
tearfully sat down by him; seeing his occupation, a deeper shade of
perplexity and anxiety came over her countenance, as she inquired:—
“And what are you trying to do now, my poor, deluded boy?”
Gusty took his hand out of his chest, and still resting upon one knee,
assumed a look of profound composure, thinking doubtless that by this
time his character for sanity was in serious danger, and replied,
“Ahem! hem! Mother, as it is now near the opening of the session of
Congress, and many of my own and my uncle’s professional and political
friends are in Washington City, I think of going thither, and while they
are on the spot, getting them to use their influence with the President
to procure my reinstatement. You know, mother, this is the first good
chance, because personal solicitation is so much more powerful than
epistolary application.”
Struck with the rationality of this reply, Emily was a little staggered
in her opinion of his madness: however, she would try him further.
“But this is a very sudden resolution, Gusty!”
“Oh! I had been thinking of it for some days past, and the arrival of
uncle’s letter, and the reminiscences of our naval life that it
awakened, you know, suddenly inspired me with a strong desire to return
to it—wasn’t that natural?”
“Oh, yes! and I am glad! I had feared that you would have held to your
resolution, never to apply for reinstatement.”
“Ah! that resolution was one of my hasty impulses, mother! times and
_motives_ have changed since then!” exclaimed Gusty, and he resumed his
packing with renewed zeal.
“But why pack your sea chest, Gusty?”
“Why, mother, if I am reinstated, as I shall be, for my case is very
strong, and the Hon. Chevy Chase, of New York, who lives near the
Rialto, the scenes of my labors and sorrows, knows all about it, and is
a friend of the President—if I am reinstated, of course, as usual, I
shall immediately be ordered on active service, and shall need to be all
ready.”
“Nonsense, Gusty! take a change of linen in your valise, and go to
Washington. I will prepare and pack your wardrobe and send it to you in
a day or two, or as soon as you want it.”
“Yes! that will be better! thank you, mother!” said Gusty, rising and
seating himself on his trunk.
“And Rosalia!” sighed Emily, looking in his face, “what can have become
of her, and how do you feel about her, Gusty?”
Gusty mused. He felt glad that he had never breathed to his mother a
word of the elopement he had suspected; and now that its object had been
defeated by Rosalia’s flight, he could not bring himself to mention it.
He felt very little fear of Rosalia’s fate _now_. Her unexpected
deliverance from evil at the last moment greatly strengthened his faith
in her guardian angel, and Gusty had a great deal of faith, as we have
seen. That Rosalia was somewhere in safety, and that she would make her
retreat known as soon as she should hear of the arrival of any of her
friends at Genoa, he fully believed; and it was his determination, in
case of his being reinstated, to solicit orders on the Mediterranean
service, and in any other case, to go out privateering in a search for
the lost girl.
“Well, Gusty, what are you thinking of?” asked Emily at last.
“I am thinking, mother, that Rosalia is _safe_, and that we shall soon
_hear_ that she is so!” said he.
The next morning Gusty May set out for Washington City, where he arrived
within the week. After a few weeks’ petitioning, struggling, and
delaying—during which Gusty’s hopes fell and anger rose a dozen times at
least—and during which his friends persevered while his own patience
gave out—at “long last,” Gusty May was duly authorized to mount the
anchor and eagle buttons and epaulette, and empowered to write himself
down, Lieut. Aug. W. May, U. S. N. He ran down to Churchill’s Point to
hug and kiss his mother upon this good news, and to get his chest, for
he was ordered to join his old ship, the Rainbow, about to sail from
Boston for the Mediterranean.
Within the month, Gusty was “Once more upon the waters.”