THE QUEEN OF SONG.
“Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crowned of Fame!—oh!—art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot?—
Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!”
HEMANS.
Two months have passed since the arrival of Gusty May at the “City of
the Sultan,” and Captain Wilde is ordered to take command of the
Rainbow, and carry her home—Gusty May remaining attached to the ship as
third Lieutenant; and they sail from Constantinople, intending to touch
at Genoa, to bring away the American Consul, who is recalled to
Washington. It was on the first of June that the Rainbow cast anchor in
the Gulf of Genoa, before “the City of Palaces.” Gusty’s heart was
throbbing with anxiety to prosecute in that city and neighborhood his
search for Rosalia, of whom they had not as yet received one word of
intelligence. The first man that came on board to greet him on his
arrival, was—who but Lieutenant Murphy, who was attached to the Phœnix,
then at that port.
“Well, my finest fellow in the service, how does the world treat you
nowadays? Got struck from the navy list, for running away with a pretty
widow, hey? You miserable sinner for getting found out! Well, where is
this new Cleopatra, for whom this modern Marc Antony lost the world? And
beyond all the rest, where is the ‘golden girl?‘—aye, where is _she?_
D—l burn me if I don’t court her myself if you have failed. I’ll see if
I can’t wake her up just a little bit—for—
“‘Oh, she is a golden girl,
But a man—a _man_ should woo her;
They who seek her shrink aback,
When they should like storms pursue her!’”
“May I be court-martialed, keel-hauled, and dismissed the service, if I
don’t make her Mrs. Patrick Murphy O’Murphy, and place her at the head
of one of the handsomest establishments in fair Louisiana, if you don’t
prevent me quickly, my boy!—for—
”‘Oh, she is a golden girl!’—
“By the way, talking about beauties, have you seen the St. Cecilia yet?”
“Saint who?”
“‘Saint who,’ just hear him! where have you been all these months that
all Europe has been sung into ecstasies, trances, hallucinations,
heavens, by a new Orpheus—by St. Cecilia—by Hagar, the Egyptian!”
“What?—who—which?—where?—when?”
“Whither?—why?—wherefore?—come, go on, give us the whole list of
interrogatories, and when you get through, I’ll begin to answer. I said,
Hagar, the Egyptian—the Spirit of Music—the Queen of Song—Hagar of the
Lightning, as her admirers call her—Hagar, the Gipsy—Hagar, the
Indian—the Miser—the Prude, as her mortified lovers call her. If you
have not seen her you must go to see her to-day; she has been in the
city only twenty-four hours. I who saw her at Venice and at Paris, and
was introduced to her as a countryman, I have the entrée, and will
present you—but where the devil have you been all this time, never to
have heard of Mrs. ——, for that is her name?”
Gusty was divided between his joy and surprise at finding his old friend
Hagar so near him, and hearing of her success, and his perplexity in
untangling the wisp of illusions with which Mr. Murphy’s perceptions
were fettered. They were now standing on the deck—Gusty being on duty
could not leave the ship; Gusty looked around—sailors were passing
about—this was no spot for a confidential communication, so he remained
silent.
“When I told you that I had the entrée to this lady’s apartments,
Gusty—I mean to say, that I called on her once in Paris, once in Venice,
and that I have left my card at her door to-day; she was out. She sings
this evening, and the Grand Duchess of Parma, now on a visit to this
city, is expected to honor her concert to-night with her presence. I
will take you to her house this afternoon, if you wish it.”
“Can you do so without her permission?”
“Surely—yes. One does not need to ask permission of a lady in a foreign
land to present a respectable countryman of her own to her.”
“A countrywoman of ours,” said Gusty, willing to draw him out without
divulging any truth there; “how is that?—have I ever heard of her?”
“No, I suppose not—this is something like her career though:—last fall
she suddenly appeared in New Orleans, gave a concert which succeeded
brilliantly, and which was followed by a succession of splendid musical
entertainments, each more astonishing than the last; and just as people
began to inquire and ferret out her history, she withdrew herself from
the city, suddenly and quietly, as though she had sunk through the
ground—which she probably did. She arose to the surface again in the
midst of the city of Paris—threw the musical world there into ecstasies,
and passed on to Vienna, Venice, Naples, Genoa, tracking her way with
music, light, and glory. She has avoided England, as she is said to have
avoided the Northern states of her native country. She has tended
southward, towards the sun.”
“You seem to be strongly interested in this lady,” suggested Gusty, with
a view of setting him off again, for he had paused, and fallen into a
reverie.
“Well! yes, and no—that is, I admire her—wonder at her—get absorbed in
her—but it is an emotion of terror, awe, and admiration—such as one may
feel in a grand storm, in the midst of sublime scenery, or, at best,
under the canopy of a splendid starry night—but—as for what _I_ call
being interested in a woman—that is to say, in love with her—I, or, in
fact, anybody else, I suppose, should as soon get in love with Vesuvius
burning.”
“Yet you spoke of the malice of her disappointed lovers.”
“Calling her ‘the miser,’ ‘the prude,’ ‘the Indian,’ &c., &c.,—yes, but
man! they were not lovers of anything else but themselves. The truth is,
this lady’s private life is one of utter _se_clusion and _ex_clusion,
and all the _petits maitres_ in the world are piqued at the _caprice
bizarre_ that shuts up this divine cantatrice with her children, when
she should be giving _petits-soupers_ to their elegancies—and the vanity
of each is interested in constituting himself an exception to this rule,
and he is proportionately wounded and indignant when his overtures of
acquaintanceship are rejected.”
“Then the life of this singular woman is divided between her
professional labors and her children?”
“No—not her whole life—she is, among other extraordinary things, ‘a
mighty hunter before the Lord’—and when she was in Germany last spring,
is said to have achieved wonders in that line. But I am tired of
this—where in thunder is the Captain? and are you to be pinned to the
main-mast all day?”
“Gone on shore to have a conference with Raymond Withers, the American
Consul, who you know, or perhaps you do not know, is a family connexion,
worse luck!”
“No, I did not know that, but I do know that the new administration has
recalled him.”
“Yes, and we are to take him home—d—l fetch me if I think it is
safe—doubt if the ship can reasonably be expected to go safe into port
with such a load of sin and misery aboard!”
“Why, what is the matter!”
“Oh, nothing, only I hate the fellow, and cannot be expected to speak
well of him.”
“Well, about this American nightingale; will you be off duty, and shall
I come to fetch you this afternoon?”
“N-n-o, Murphy, not this afternoon,” said Gusty.
“When, then?”
“I’ll let you know to-morrow.”
And the friends separated—the rattle-pated Murphy returning to his own
ship, the Phœnix, then preparing to sail from the Gulf of Genoa—and
Gusty, remaining where he was left, pacing the deck, chafing and fuming,
and cursing the delay that kept him chained to the spot, when he was
dying to go on shore and seek Hagar. It was late in the afternoon before
the return of Captain Wilde released him from duty, and merely pausing
long enough to hear that Raymond Withers was still suffering from the
effects of his long illness, as well as from severe anxiety to hear
tidings of his lost sister, to whose strange fate no clue had as yet
been obtained—
“Did he mention Hagar?” inquired Gusty.
“Yes—that is, he said that it had been some time since he had heard from
her, and wished particularly to know whether we had received a letter
from her lately; of course I told him that we had not—that in fact we
never heard from her at all—that she seemed to have dropped us—”
“Did he say when he had heard from Hagar last?”
“No—I inquired, but he said, vaguely, that he could not be precise to a
day—that it had been—something over a month.”
“Yes! I should think it had been—_something over a month_!” said Gusty.
“What do you mean by _that_, Gusty?”
“Oh, nothing! only it has been something over a month since mother wrote
to me, and women seem to be lazier with their pens than with their
tongues, that is all.”
The truth is that now Gusty was in the Mediterranean, Emily Buncombe
wrote to him only, making him the medium of her affectionate messages to
the rest of her absent relatives, and Gusty, in “giving her love,”
always suppressed any allusion to Hagar, or merely said “Hagar is well,”
leaving it to be inferred that she was still at the Rialto. Raymond
Withers had, as has been seen, so artfully avoided the subject of his
domestic affairs as to leave Captain Wilde still ignorant of the
estrangement between himself and his family. The streets were bathed in
moonlight, as Gusty May passed through them on his way to that quarter
of the city in which he had ascertained the residence of Hagar to be
situated. She occupied a suite of apartments in an old palazza inhabited
by a venerable Genoese couple. Gusty knocked loudly at the porter’s
lodge before he could make himself heard. At last a grey-haired man
opened the door.
“Can I see Mrs. ——?” inquired he, giving the _nom de guerre_ by which
she was professionally known.
The old man shook his head, and was about to close the door in Gusty’s
face, when he took out his card and placing it in the hands of the aged
servitor, requested him to take it up to the lady. He did so; and in a
few minutes returned and bidding Gusty follow him, led the way up the
paved walk to the main entrance into the hall of the palazza, and
throwing open a door on the right showed him in, and retired. The room
was empty, and Gusty had ample time to notice its lofty ceiling,
spacious extent, and the decayed splendor of its old-fashioned hangings
and furniture before a door at the upper end opened, and a regal looking
woman, that he scarcely recognised for Hagar, entered. She was evidently
arrayed for the evening’s exhibition. Her dress of black velvet was
thickly embroidered with gold; her tresses, grown out rich and beautiful
again, were held back from her brow by a serpent whose scales were
formed of overlapping emeralds, and whose eyes were rubies, and fell in
long, glittering, blue-black ringlets far below her waist; her arms were
bare, but serpent bracelets twined around them. Over her whole figure
and costume, except that it was thrown back from her face, depended a
large, black lace veil wrought with gold. She advanced towards the
middle of the floor, and Gusty, starting up to meet her, held out his
hand.
“I am so happy to see you, Gusty, my dear friend, it is such a joyful
surprise. How long have you been at this port?”
“Only came in this morning.”
“Sit down, Gusty,” said she, taking a seat herself.
Gusty followed her example, and turned to note the change that had
passed over her pale but noble features.
“Gusty, I have been highly successful in my art since I left home, as,
perhaps, you have heard. I have made a professional tour of Europe, and
have only been twenty-four hours in this city. To-night I sing, and the
Grand Duchess of Parma will honor the concert with her presence. I tell
you all this, my dear friend, because I know you will care as much as I
do for my little victories. I was about completing my toilet when you
sent up your card, Gusty, and I had given orders that all persons should
be denied. I would have admitted no soul but yourself, Gusty, and in
very truth I am not pleased that you should see me tricked out in this
way, but to-night I bring out Athenais, a composition of my own, and
have to sustain the principal part, that is it! Come to me to-morrow,
Gusty, and you shall see me, _myself_, you shall see my children, they
are both with me; my little girls,—they are three years old, you
know,—can sing better than they can talk, they are in bed now, and I am
obliged to leave the house in half an hour to go to the music-rooms. I
am usually attended by a matron who is my children’s nurse, and my own
maid, but on this occasion will you make one of the party, Gusty?”
“With great pleasure, dearest Hagar! but it is so strange to meet you
thus; and if one may ask, why do you come to Genoa of all cities in the
world?”
“For the reason for which you would suppose that I would keep away,
Gusty, namely, because—”
“_Mr. Withers is here._”
“Yes.”
Gusty sighed deeply, and Hagar unconsciously echoed the sigh.
“Does he know that you are here, Hagar?”
“I presume not.”
“Will you advise him of your presence?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then what was your object in coming here—but—pardon me, Hagar; the
interest that I feel in you makes me impertinent, I fear.”
“No, dear Gusty, not impertinent. Well! I will tell you,” she said,
turning, and looking away from him, as a shadow overswept her forehead
and her voice choked. “It was—unseen by him—to look upon his face and
form once more, unheard by him, to hear his voice once more, there! that
is it—condemn, despise me if you please—but that was my motive in coming
to Genoa.”
Gusty looked upon her high, pale brow, and remained in silent thought
for the space of several minutes, and then he said,
“I suppose you have heard very little from your friends during your
travels, Hagar?”
“_Friends!_”
“Well! family connexions, then.”
“I have heard _nothing_ from them.”
“Captain Wilde and Sophie are in port here.”
“Ah!”
“Yes—I am attached to Captain Wilde’s ship.”
“Yes.”
“And we are to take the American Consul home.”
“_Indeed!_”
“Certainly—did you not know of his recall?”
“Not one word,” replied Hagar, and she fell into profound thought.
“Now I dare be sworn that you have heard nothing from Ros—”
“Oh! for God’s sake, hush! exclaimed Hagar, as a spasm contracted her
whitening features.
“I must finish if it knocks you down, Hagar! so brace yourself! I say
that you have not heard that Rosalia is the own sister of Raymond
Withers!”
“Oh! my God, _no_!” exclaimed Hagar, growing dreadfully sick.
“_Hush! stop!_ be easy, listen. Rosalia is _innocent_—_do_ keep still,
Hagar! _innocent_. I address myself to your _thought_, not to your word!
Rosalia is pure! she fled the day of her arrival at Genoa, and has
hidden herself ever since!”
“What do you tell me, Gusty? Am I dreaming?”
“I am telling you the truth, and you are not dreaming.”
“And where is she? And what has put it into your head that she is
Raymond’s sister, for _that_ part of the story I cannot believe?”
Gusty looking at his watch and finding that there were at least twenty
minutes to spare, began and told her the whole story, promising to bring
her the documents that would prove it true the next day.
“_Say nothing, however, to Captain Wilde or Sophie of my presence in the
city._”
Gusty promised that he would not, and they soon left the house for the
concert-rooms, which they reached in ten minutes’ drive.
* * * * *
The concert hall was crowded—crammed. It is with only a few of the large
and elegant audience that we have to do. The Grand Duchess of Parma and
her suite occupied a box near the stage, and at her feet sat her
favorite attendant, Rosalia, fanning her with a fan of ostrich feathers.
The blue silk curtains of her box were closely drawn, concealing her
party from the eyes of the audience, while they left a good view of the
stage. Gusty May had a motive of his own for what he did upon arriving
at the Hall, namely: he accompanied Hagar in at the side door, to the
rooms in communication with the stage, and concealing himself behind the
curtain, took a sheltered view of the audience. He wished to see if the
American Consul was in the house. His eye fell upon Raymond Withers,
seated in the most distant part of the house. He was the sole occupant
of the box. With a quick nod of his head, Gusty retired, and meeting
Hagar, who was seating herself before the harp, preparatory to the
rising of the curtain, he said,
“Mr. Withers is in the house, Hagar, but perhaps you anticipated this
contingency?”
Hagar turned very pale, and said,
“I thought of it—where does he sit? for _I must not turn my eyes towards
that quarter of the house_.”
Gusty told her, adding—
“I took pains to ascertain, Hagar, so that I might inform and prepare
you, for I know that with all your strength and self-possession, the
sudden and unexpected sight of Raymond Withers—if it did not overwhelm
you, would at least endanger your success this evening.”
Hagar thanked and dismissed him. He turned at the wing to note Hagar.
The pallor of death was on her brow, and the arm that half embraced the
harp trembled visibly.
“Oh, this will _never_ do,” he said, “Hagar! let me bring you a glass of
wine, or that curtain, now about to rise, will fall upon your
_failure_.”
“No, no, not wine, my heart and lungs are on fire now!—bring me
ice-water—a large glass of ice-water; it is the only sedative for my
feverish temperament.”
Gusty departed, and returned with the desired restorative, and stood by
her while she quaffed it,—stood by her until she was calm.
“I must not fail before him, Gusty. Now leave me, and—_pray_ for me!”
“Now,” thought Gusty, as he left her presence, and took his way around
to the boxes, “I will go and take the vacant place by Mr. Raymond
Withers’s side. It will be interesting to notice how he will look when
that curtain rises, and gives to his view one whom he as little expects
to see—as _I_ expect to see my poor hidden dove, Rosalia.”
As Gusty said this, he passed behind a curtained box, between the
fluttering silken drapery of which, he caught a glimpse of golden
ringlets, flashing down the sweet, low forehead of a quickly averted
Grecian profile, that shocked his heart into stillness an instant, then
muttering to himself—“Why what a fool I am! That is the box of Her Royal
Highness Maria Louisa,” passed on, and entered the box occupied by
Raymond Withers. Gusty had not told Hagar so, but he had observed that
the Consul was fearfully changed—his beautifully fair complexion was now
sallow; his elegantly carved profile was now angular; from weakness or
depression of spirits he had contracted a stoop. His dress was still
elegant—for it was habitually so—of black throughout, relieved only by
wristbands and collar of the most delicate linen, by a very minute but
pure diamond pin, and by a glimpse of a watch chain that crossed his
bosom. He was looking straight before him, towards the curtain, as
though a strange attraction drew his eyes and thoughts there. Gusty
entered without arresting his attention, until he said—
“How do you do, Mr. Withers?”
The Consul turned and greeted him with his habitually elegant
self-possession, as though they had but parted an hour before, and
nothing had occurred in the interval, and then gave his attention again
to the curtain.
“Very well, my prince of self-possession, sustain the character, but if
the rising of that curtain don’t ruffle the down of your serene
highness, I shall be in despair.”
Gusty thought he would try him a little, and, as by way of opening a
conversation with his quiet neighbor, he observed, carelessly—
“You have seen this _chanteuse célèbre_ before?”
“Never,” replied the Consul.
“_No!_—I really thought you had, frequently.”
Raymond Withers did not reply to this observation, and the attention of
both was arrested by the rising of the curtain.
Gusty looked first quickly, anxiously, upon the stage. Hagar was
commencing her song with perfect self-possession; he next covertly
glanced at Raymond Withers. He, with face pale as white ashes, set
teeth, knitted brow, and fiery eye, was gazing at the songstress, who
never turned her eyes towards him. The vast room was filling with music.
The song was rising, swelling into a fierce tempest of grand harmony,
like the rushing of many waters; then receding like the memory of a
murmuring rivulet heard in infancy; now thundering on like the storm of
battle “hurtling on the plains;” then dying away and away, distant, but
yet distinct, like the retiring steps of spirits gliding down the steeps
of space. The song was ended; a dead stillness, a long pause followed.
The audience had forgotten the artist in her art—had forgotten to
applaud until some one, perhaps really the least affected of all,
recollected to break the tranced silence, and an avalanche of applause
falling, shook the house to its foundation. But Gusty May looked at the
Consul. He was sitting still and pale as an image carved in marble.
Silence again fell upon the scene.
The cantatrice had retired. Now a gentleman presenting himself before
the audience bowed and waited to be heard. He announced that the sudden
indisposition of Mrs. —— had for the moment, arrested the progress of
the oratorio, but that she hoped to have the honor of appearing before
them on the next evening—that in the meantime the entertainment would
proceed without her. The gentleman bowed and retired. Many of the
audience arose to leave the house, among the rest the American Consul,
accompanied by Gusty May—whose proximity, whose very existence he seemed
to have forgotten in the absorption of his thoughts. Raymond Withers,
still followed by Gusty May, took his way round towards the stage door.
Passing the box of the Grand Duchess Maria Louisa, he found it empty—and
heard one lounger tell another, that the party had retired _because one
of the ladies of her Royal Highness’ suite_ had fainted. They reached
the saloon at the back of the stage. Raymond Withers, going up to the
gentleman who had announced the illness of the _chanteuse_, inquired for
Mrs. —— (giving her professional name).
“She has just this moment left the house, signore,” replied the
gentleman, courteously.
“Will you furnish me with her address?”
“I regret to say, signore, that it is not in my possession.”
“Does any one here know where the lady lives?”
“I fear not, signore.”
Strongly suspecting some deception, Raymond Withers prosecuted his
inquiries further without success. Beginning to feel ashamed of his
position as a self-constituted spy, Gusty May now withdrew, leaving the
Consul to pursue his investigations alone.
Gusty hurried at once to the Palazzo Marinelli, the temporary abode of
Hagar.
“Where is Mrs. ——?” inquired he of the porter.
“I do not know, signore, but she gave orders that you should be admitted
when you called; will il signore follow me?” said the old man in
Italian, as he preceded him to the palazzo, into the hall, and throwing
open a door that led into a private room, retired.
“Where is Mrs. ——?” again inquired Gusty, of the matron that came to
meet him.
“She was summoned from the concert, in haste, to the hotel of the Grand
Duchess, and has gone thither. She merely stopped here an instant to say
that if you called, I was to ask you to have the goodness to come again
to-morrow morning.”
The room was littered all over with trunks and boxes and disordered
wearing apparel, that seemed to have been hastily thrown out of presses,
bureaus, wardrobes, etc. Gusty thought, “This looks like a sudden
journey, a flight,” but he said nothing, deferring his curiosity until
the next day.
“She told me that you would like to see her children, and that I was to
show them to you,” said the woman.
Gusty assented, and at her request followed her to the upper end of the
room, where, withdrawing a white lace curtain that draped a large crib,
she revealed the three sleeping cherubs. Gusty looked at them with a
tender and growing interest, and then drawing back the curtain with his
own hands, he breathed a sigh and a silent prayer for their welfare, and
left the room and the house.
It was late, very late, when Gusty returned to his ship, so that he
found a difficulty in hiring a boat to take him thither. On his way,
while gliding among the numerous shipping, he saw one small craft so
remarkable for its elegance, that he could not fail to notice it; he saw
the sailors very busy on the deck.
“That is a beautiful little bark,” he said to the boatman.
“Si, signore; she is the Compensation, bound for Baltimore, with the
first tide to-morrow; they say a lady had her built; and that she
carries away a band of German emigrants.”
They were now by the side of the Rainbow, and Gusty, who in his relapse
of abstraction had perhaps missed the latter clause of the boatman’s
speech, paid his fare, and hastily sprang on board.
Very early the next morning Gusty May arose and dressed. He came on
deck, resolved to ask leave to go on shore immediately. The first object
he saw was the Compensation getting under weigh. He stopped and watched
her until, flowing before a fair wind, she was out of sight. Then,
meeting Captain Wilde, he named his wish to go on shore, obtained leave,
and hurried away.
An hour’s hasty walk brought him to the Palazzo Marinelli.
“Will you inform Mrs. —— that I have called, and let me know if she can
receive so early?”
“Mrs. —— has left the city with all her family, signore, and desired me
to hand you this,” replied the porter, placing a thick letter in his
hand.
“Gone?—left the city—when?—where?”
“At the dawn of day, signore.”
Gusty looked at his letter, hastily opened it, and caught two smaller
letters that fell from out of the large one, as he devoured its contents
with his eyes and brain:
“DEAR GUSTY:—Meet me this day two months, at eight o’clock in the
evening, at Heath Hall. Bring with you Captain Wilde and Sophie, and
come prepared to receive from _my_ hand, the hand of Rosalia Withers,
whose best praise is, that she is worthy of _you_—whose best
testimonial of that fact is, that _I_ offer her to you. You bring out
the late Consul: I charge you, Gusty, as you value my friendship, to
make peace with him; nay, Gusty, as you value the blessing of God,
giving a long future of halcyon days, extend to your brother the right
hand of fellowship. I inclose two letters that I request you to
deliver to their respective addresses. _Au revoir_, dearest Gusty. I
shall precede you to Heath Hall only by a very few days.
HAGAR.”
The two inclosed letters were directed, one to F. Raymond Withers, Esq.,
American Consul for the city and port of Genoa—the other simply to
Sophie Wilde.
Divided between astonishment, joy, and regret, Gusty stood rooted to the
spot for the space of five minutes after reading this letter. Then it
flashed upon him like lightning that he had seen the ship that carried
Hagar and her family from the shores of Italy, and such indeed was the
fact, as upon a further investigation he proved. He hurried away to
deliver the letter at the hotel of the American Consul, murmuring to
himself,
“Rosalia safe, found; well, I said so!—I positively _did_, the Lord
knows it, although no one else would believe what a prophet I am!”
Gusty gave the first letter to the porter at the hotel of the Consul,
and carried the other on board the Rainbow.
“F. Raymond Withers, Esq., American Consul for the port and city of
Genoa,” had upon the previous evening returned, disappointed, fevered,
and weary, to his sumptuous lodgings. Hastily divesting himself of his
raiment, he fell exhausted upon his bed, and sank to sleep with a
determination to find Hagar, and take possession of her early in the
morning—a resolution which he carried out—in his dreams. At dawn the
next day Raymond Withers arose, and only paused to arrange his toilet
and to breakfast, because it was impossible to find anybody or any place
one had to look for at such an early hour of the morning. Immediately
after breakfast he hastened to the music-rooms to renew his inquiries;
there he met the same gentleman who had answered his questions in such
an unsatisfactory manner on the previous evening, but who now hastened
to say that he had been so fortunate as to ascertain the address of the
signora—she lived in the Palazzo Marinelli, in the north-western quarter
of the city. The Consul, bowing his thanks, hastened thither. He was met
by the old porter, who, in reply to his inquiries, informed him that the
lady, with her whole family, had that morning sailed for the United
States. Stunned with disappointment, nearly overwhelmed by despair,
Raymond Withers returned to his hotel, there to find a present
consolation and a future hope in the note addressed in the hand of
Hagar, that had been left during his absence by an officer in uniform,
as his page said. He tore the note open; it ran thus:
“DEAREST RAYMOND:—Meet me this day two months, at eight o’clock in the
evening, at Heath Hall. Come prepared to meet a new found
relative—your own and only sister, Rosalia,—and to unite with me in
bestowing her hand on one who loves her and is worthy of her. Measure
my wish to be reconciled with you, by your own anxiety to meet me. If
you ask why I have now fled your presence, and appoint a meeting of
some weeks’ distance—I reply, that under all the circumstances, it is
best. We must all be prepared by anticipation for our general
re-union, and I prefer to receive you in our own home, and under the
happiest auspices.
“HAGAR.”