AN EVENING AT HEATH HALL.
Forgive and forget! why the world would be lonely,
The garden a wilderness left to deform,
If the flowers but remembered the chilling winds only,
And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storm.
CHARLES SWAIN.
“I cannot think of sorrow now; and doubt
If e’er I felt it—’tis so dazzled from
My memory by this oblivious transport.”
BYRON.
For three months previous to the events recorded in our last chapter,
the gossips of Churchill’s Point and its environs were thrown into a
state of feverish conjecture as to the meaning of the new doings at
Heath Hall.
At first those who passed in sight of the old ruin, observed that a part
of it had been pulled down, or had at last, as long predicted, _fallen_
down, and went on their way without giving the circumstance a second
thought. Then, as the season advanced, those who were in the habit of
shooting water fowl on the moor belonging to the estate, or drawing a
net for fish upon its beach, passing very near the Hall, noticed workmen
engaged in pulling down the building. Upon being questioned, these men
replied in a foreign language unintelligible to the inquirers. This news
being carried straight to the village post-office, the country store,
the tavern, and other resorts of male gossips, arrested the discussion
of agricultural, commercial, and political subjects for the space of an
hour. Conveyed thence to the tea-tables at home, it did not tend to
quiet the nerves or incline to sleep the ladies of Churchill’s Point.
There could be no intercommunication among neighbors that evening; but
early the next morning every one went “a-visiting.” The disappointment
was, that everybody having gone abroad in search of everybody _else_,
nobody was at home to receive anybody. They missed each other. There
could be no comparing of notes that day. In their rising excitement,
they tried it next day without much better success, and dodged about the
remainder of the week like two persons getting out of each other’s way
on the pavement, and missing their object. At church, on Sunday,
however, the neighbors assembled. Mrs. Buncombe was beset with questions
that she could not answer. Mrs. Buncombe had a nervous dread of being
supposed to be implicated in anything that might be going on at Heath
Hall; and begged her friends to recollect that the family of that estate
were not her blood relations, though every one seemed to be under the
illusion that such was the case. In very truth the character of Emily
had sadly degenerated since the death of the good and wise old parson,
and since her marriage with a weaker, if not a worse man. But Mrs.
Gardiner Green gave an improvised verbal invitation to “the ladies” to
meet at tea at her house on the next evening. Sewing circles and other
useful and agreeable Yankee inventions, had not then, and have not yet,
travelled down to Maryland and Virginia. The Southern States are far
behind the “Far West” in this respect. But to Mrs. Gardiner Green’s
tea-drinking! par parenthèse, Mrs. Gardiner Green _now_ calls her
evening assemblies “re-unions,” “at homes.” The ladies began to drop in
at an hour that would be considered too early for _dinner_ now a days.
Emily Buncombe went, in mood as nearly approaching the irascible as her
indifferent nature would permit. I am not about to tell you of a
Maryland tea-party with the tea-equipage of chased silver, upon which
the crest and initials of the English ancestry have been religiously or
pretendingly engraved, or of the inconceivable amount of _substantial_
confectionery (none of your vaporish cakes and spiritual ices), all
prepared under the eye of the mistress—no, nor of the baked canvas-back
ducks, devilled crabs, fried oysters as large as the palm of your hand,
or anything else, that made the ladies’ tea-drinking look like a public
dinner given to a board of aldermen. I will not, because the bill of
fare would run to the end of the chapter, and besides, it would make me
hungry and I should have to stop to eat, and then I could not write. But
I will _proceed_ to the _proceedings_ of the party. The “mysteries of
Udolpho,” and Heath Hall were talked over, and it was decided that the
one was as deep as the other. Emily Buncombe’s voice grew loud and sharp
in disclaiming the least knowledge of the subject. Finally, as the
weather was genial, it was agreed that the neighbors should get up a
fishing festival upon the beach, and that being on the spot, they could
take notes. Fish feasts, picnics, etc., at Heath Hall, were liberties
that the neighborhood took without the slightest hesitation or
compunction in the absence of the proprietor.
The last of the week was fixed for the projected festival, and upon the
day appointed the company assembled. They passed, in going to the beach,
immediately through the grounds inclosed around the Hall. So rapid had
been the progress of the work, that they looked upon the once damp
cellars, now no longer damp, but excavated, cleaned, paved, and built
up—and the foundations of the house relaid anew. Some half-dozen foreign
looking men were at work under the direction of one in authority, who
seemed to be an experienced architect. To all inquiries these workmen
replied in a torrent of civil but unintelligible jargon. Tarquinius
Superbus issued from the building covered with plaster and sawdust, and
seeing the company, hastened away, donned his Sunday clothes, and went
down to the beach to render assistance to the visitors that had honored
Heath Hall with their presence. He had always been accustomed to do this
at the command of the ever-hospitable and courteous proprietors of the
Hall. When Tarquinius appeared, bowing and smirking his “obedience” to
the company assembled upon the beach, he presented a fine opportunity to
those in “pursuit of knowledge under difficulties.”
He was inundated with inquiries. Tarquinius stood perplexed, bewildered.
Tarquinius knew as little as any one on the ground; but it did not suit
the self-conceit of Superbus to seem ignorant. Tarquinius mused—he
thought of several lies to tell, but discarded one after the other as
inadmissible. He seriously thought of telling the gaping listeners that
“Mrs. Withers was drowned in the irruption of a whirlwind, and that Mr.
Withers had married the daughter of the Pope of Rome, who had a gold
mine for a dowager, and that they were coming to keep house at Heath
Hall.” But he was afraid _this_ tale might be soon disproved, and
substituted a more credible story—namely, that a large fortune had been
left to Mr. Withers, and that Mr. and Mrs. Withers were about to return
to Heath Hall, and had sent a staff of workmen under a German architect
to rebuild the house. This, divested of its absurdly pompous mistakes of
language, was about the amount of information gleaned by the picnickers.
And this story in fine obtained credence, implicit credence. Everything
confirmed it. Were not the workmen there? and was not the Hall being
rebuilt in more than its pristine magnificence? With every circumstance
that marked the progress of the redemption of the Heath and the
rebuilding of the Hall, the esteem and respect of the neighbors for its
proprietor increased. Every one began now to say what a sin it was to
have slandered Hagar so—Hagar, too, who in her whole life had never been
known to retail an item of scandal. This was not unnatural; calumny is
more frequently the result of thoughtlessness than of malice. It was
singular that each one now forgot that himself or herself had been most
ingenious in his or her suspicions and explanations, and loudest in
condemnation. There was a little “leaven of unrighteousness” in the
“envy, hatred, and malice” of the few whose nature made them jealous of
their friends’ prosperity; but upon the whole, the tide of popular
feeling was setting in strongly in favor of the expected family at Heath
Hall. The work progressed rapidly. At the end of three months you would
not have recognised the place. From the foundation stones to the chimney
summits, the Hall was entirely rebuilt of fine _red sandstone_, a
beautiful dark, purplish red stone found in Maryland and Virginia. The
walls around it were rebuilt, and the walks paved of the same material.
The yards and gardens were cleared up, the trees trimmed, and the grass
shaved down until it looked like velvet. The Heath was metamorphosed
into a beautiful, clean, green sward, upon which children might roll and
play with delight; the tangled thickets crowding here and there among
the rolling hills were converted into beautiful groves; the muddy
brooklets at their roots were changed into clear fountains or limpid
springs, and seats were fixed there for the convenience of the weary or
the contemplative passenger. At the Hall, the out-buildings were of the
neatest and most convenient form, and every minutia of use or elegance
received its due meed of attention. In a word, the ruin, the desolation,
was redeemed, the wilderness reclaimed and “bloomed and blossomed like
the rose.” People came from “far and near” to see the delightful change,
and “Alto Rio,” the new name of the estate, cut in old English
characters and half concealed in the oak foliage carved under the eaves
of the house, became the synonyme for elegance and comfort through the
whole neighborhood.
It was three months from the first appearance of the workmen to the
morning upon which a beautiful little bark was discovered moored under
the shadow of the promontory. Her snowy sails were reefed, and a few
neatly dressed sailors were engaged in removing a portion of the cargo
from her polished deck to the boat that was to carry it to the beach,
where a cart and horse waited to transport it by a circuitous path to
the Hall. The sailors seemed to be foreigners. A great part of the cargo
appeared to consist of elegant furniture, statuary, pictures, and
articles of virtue, for many of the boxes, for convenience, were opened
upon the beach. All day the little crew and the assistants from the Hall
were engaged in unloading the vessel and conveying its freight on shore,
and in conveying and arranging furniture in the Hall. From the moment
that the first sight of these proceedings had been caught, a crowd of
all the idlers and gossips of Churchill’s Point began to gather on the
brow of the cliff to watch the operations of those upon the beach below,
and many “Oh’s” and “Lords!” were ejaculated with gaping wonder as one
splendid article after another was revealed to their view by the
knockings up of the boxes upon the beach. But they were watching, if
perchance Mr. and Mrs. Withers, with their family, were to be seen, or
if they had come, or when they were coming. They watched and waited in
vain. There _was_ a lady down in the luxurious cabin of that little
craft, in which she was as much at home as in her native halls, but this
lady waited patiently an opportunity of landing quietly after the crowd
of gapers and starers should have dispersed. Day declined. The cargo was
all disembarked, and even carried away. The beach was clear—the clean
looking sailors resting on their nice deck. All was silent, still. There
was nothing more to be seen, and the loungers began to think of their
suppers and the marvels they had to relate thereat, and to disperse.
The next morning at dawn, a little boat was brought around to the side
of the vessel, and a lady assisted to descend into it. Then a maiden and
three children were lowered one after the other into the skiff. Two
sailors entered it, and taking the oars, rowed swiftly to the beach. The
lady stepped upon the sand, the children dancing around her for joy to
be released. Sending the youngest child, the little golden haired boy,
before her to insure his safety, and leading the little dark-browed
girls, the lady, followed by the maiden, began to ascend the side of the
promontory by a flight of stone steps recently cut for the convenience
of passengers. As the lady, with her children, reached the top of the
flight of stairs, and stepped upon the highest point of the promontory,
the first rays of the rising sun fell upon the head of Hagar like a
blessing! a salutation! that her countenance flashed back in gratitude,
in joy, as she bowed her head and knee, and reverently returned thanks.
Let no one sneer. It was the overflowing love and worship of a profound
soul deeply grateful for _past sufferings_ as for present happiness. She
arose and led the children on to the Hall.
What a different return was this to her landing in the stormy winter’s
night more than two years before!
All that day was occupied in a delightful review of the house and the
grounds. The arrangements seemed to give Hagar the utmost pleasure. All
the next day was spent in her elegant library, and devoted to business,
looking into the accounts of her workmen, paying their wages, and so on.
She gave up the third day of her arrival to pleasure, or rather to the
preparation and anticipation of it; and while the children were left in
the care of the maiden who loved them, Hagar employed herself in writing
some hundred cards of invitation to all her old neighbors of the three
nearest counties, to a festival to be given at Heath Hall on the evening
of that day week.
All these invitations were written in pale, blue ink, upon silver edged
paper, and sealed with white wax by a seal of two doves. This is the
Maryland fashion of announcing a marriage.
“Now, tell me, dear Rosalia; are you quite satisfied—happy?” inquired
Hagar of the gentle girl, who had looked in upon her occupation a
moment.
“Dearest Hagar! my saviour! I will call you my _sister_, when I dare!
dearest Hagar! I have given myself to you, do with me as you please—make
me your waiting maid—anything! I am in your hands—I am _yours_. I accept
any destiny from you.”
Hagar looked steadily with her calm eyes at the child, then said,
“But, Rose—_Gusty_—do you not love him as he loves, and as he deserves
to be loved?”
“Dearest Hagar, I love _you_, wish to love you _only_, to worship, to
serve you: dearest Hagar, what can I do for you?”
“Be happy, Rose, and tell me about Gusty—do you not love him?”
“Oh, yes! yes! I always _did_, you know—Hagar—” the child paused,
trembled, grew pale; then lowering her voice, whispered, “Hagar, stoop
down; there is something I have been dying to say to you, and never
found courage to say it—” she paused again; Hagar’s brow grew crimson,
and,
“Do not say it then, Rose,” she murmured low.
“But I must, I must; it is a rankling thorn that must be plucked out,”
said the girl, in a suffocating voice, paling and fainting.
Hagar laid down her pen, and drawing the child upon her lap, laid her
head upon her bosom, and whispered, soothingly,
“There! now say what you wish, Rosalia; as though you spoke to your
mother, or—”
“My guardian angel! You give me courage, dear Hagar! Well, listen! I
loved—_everybody and everything_—indeed I did! the poor old negroes
coming from their work, the blind old horses, and the crippled chickens,
just as warmly as I loved you, beautiful Hagar! and Gusty, and
Sophie—and—and—”
“Your brother Raymond.”
“Yes, I loved everybody and everything, because—because—I don’t know
why.”
“You loved the poor, ugly, and wretched, because you _pitied_ them; and
the beautiful and happy because you _admired_ them, my child!”
“May be so—I do not know—I only _love_. Well, I loved Gusty and Raymond
_both_, and both _alike_—God knows I did! until—oh! Hagar, now
listen—everybody seemed to forsake, or to hate me, and then I loved
_him_ only—until—oh, now it comes—_now_ listen!”
The girl buried her burning face in Hagar’s bosom, and lost her voice.
Hagar stooped and caressed her. Rosalia resumed, whispering very low,
“Until one day on the boat, very beautiful and bright he looked, and I
threw myself in his arms, thinking no evil, only loving him dearly,
and—_he kissed me_—it was not a _good_ kiss, like Captain Wilde’s and
Sophie’s; it was a _dreadful_ kiss—it burned down through my cheek to
the very centre of my spirit—it hurt me to the very heart—to the very
quick of my soul! I got away and felt sick and guilty; felt changed and
fallen. I was dizzy, reeling, and kept feeling at my cheek with my
fingers, as if there was a scar there. I seemed to feel it. I was ill,
and possessed with a mysterious fear and aversion of Raymond; yet when I
saw my distance wounded him, I felt remorseful, and conquering my
aversion, forced myself to keep near him. Wretched as I was, I could not
bear to give him pain; and so, Hagar, I remained with him, and he kissed
me so, again and again! and each kiss seemed to sink me lower and lower
in a pit of infamy, until I could not bear the thought of ever facing
any of my friends again. I was already fallen—lost in my own eyes. Oh!
Hagar, listen! listen, my sister Hagar! I might have been insane, but I
do not urge that in extenuation of my weakness. I was drawn in, and
drawn in, like one in the whirl of a maelstrom—feeling the danger, the
fatality—yet unable to stop myself—yet, Hagar, it was _all_
suffering—_all_, Hagar! _all_. I felt already fallen below redemption. I
was in the power of a will stronger than my own—and, oh! worse than all,
I was afraid to pray; afraid to touch the bible, for fear something
dreadful would happen to me as a judgment. I felt so sinful, _so
sinful_. I felt ill on the voyage out. And _then_ I thought of Mary
Magdalen, and I said, ‘If God, the Father, is of too pure eyes to behold
iniquity, Christ will surely pity and deliver me.’”
“But you should not have lost faith in God, dear Rosalia. You are the
work of His hands, and you could not have fallen so low that the
Father’s arm was not long enough to reach you, the Father’s hand strong
enough to lift you, the Father’s love great enough to redeem you! Never,
_never_ doubt it! The FATHER’S LOVE is the greatest reality of my
experience. Oh, Rosalia! to doubt the love of God is to grieve the heart
of God—believe it!”
“Well, I prayed—_I prayed!_—and then it came into my head to run away
when I should get to Genoa—and even if I perished from want indeed,
Hagar, I was _willing_ to perish! But then—now here is a strange thing.
After taking this resolution to leave him secretly, I felt a remorse at
the idea of deceiving him, and giving him pain, and I could not bear to
look on his confiding face. I _knew_ I was doing right in leaving him,
yet _felt_ as if I were doing wrong!—explain this to me, Hagar—was I
crazy?”
“No, dear Rosalia; you were sane—_your_ love for him was pure and
holy—_his_ passion for you was an illusion, an insanity. _Your_ love for
him would have blessed and elevated him to heaven; his passion for you
would have drawn you down to hell. Yours was divine love—his was
fiendish passion. All powers of good and evil were striving in your
bosom, poor Rosalia; but your angel saved you! But, Rose; do you still
love your brother?”
“Oh yes! yes! how can I help it?”
“That is well, Rose—he is your only brother—he does not love you in any
sort just now, I know; because sinful thoughts killed his love—but,
Rose, _you_ must love him back to purity, to health and life, and _then_
he will love you rightly. This will be difficult at first, but it will
grow more easy every day. And Gusty, Rose! that noble man. Just give
your whole heart, soul, and life, up to him, and think the gift—not
enough!”
“Ah, Hagar! Do I not esteem, reverence him for all you have told me of
his goodness and greatness—only I am not worthy of him.”
“He thinks you are, Rose, and you must try not to disappoint him.”
“Well, now, dear Hagar, I have told you all—and you do not reproach me;
alas! if you were to drive me away I could not complain.”
Hagar caressed her fondly but gravely, and remained silent, continuing
to write, fold, and seal her cards. At length they were all finished,
and she requested Rosalia to ring the bell. Tarquinius answered it.
Hagar collected her cards into a packet, and giving them to Tarquinius,
gave orders that he should saddle a horse and ride to deliver to their
address as many as could be forwarded that day—and to resume his circuit
with the morning, until all should be disposed of. Then rising and
calling Rosalia to follow her, she went into her chamber and sat down
with the maiden to work on a beautiful white satin dress.
Tarquinius Superbus mounted the most superb horse in the stable, and sat
forth upon his mission. Never did a highland runner with the
crois-taradh kindle a greater excitement among the rocks and glens of
Scotland, than did Tarquinius with his missives. The first card was
delivered at Mrs. Gardiner Green’s plantation. Mrs. Buncombe was taking
tea with her (Emily had not called on Hagar since her arrival; but then,
be it known, Hagar had given her no intimation of her return). The card
was sent in and the messenger called in. He obeyed the summons, and
stood, hat in hand, bowing and smiling, at the parlor door, where Mrs.
Green and her guests sat at table.
“A wedding at Heath Hall—and who is to be married?” was the question
addressed to him by three or four ladies in a breath.
Tarquinius did not know. He said he believed “that Mr. Withers had been
killed in a duel with the King of Camshatka, and that Mrs. Withers was
going to be married to the Prince of Patagonia;” and seeing several of
the ladies for whom he had cards, present, Tarquinius, in a very
unconventional manner, proceeded to deliver them, to save himself some
miles of travel. Seriously doubting Tarquinius’ report and explanation
of the mystery, the ladies all determined to accept the invitations to
_le mariage inconnu_ to come off at Alto Rio.
The day of the festival arrived.
Rosalia was awakened from her morning’s dream by a soft kiss dropped on
her forehead, and she raised her lids to see Hagar standing by her
bedside, with brilliant eyes, arched brows, and smiling lips.
“Good morning, dear Rosalia! _Good_ morning! Rise! it is a glorious
day—see! the sun is smiling a salutation through your windows.”
Rosalia, putting her two white arms up from the bed, lovingly drew down
Hagar’s head and embraced her.
“Come,” said Hagar, assisting her to rise and leading her to a window.
“Look forth! It is an auspicious morning! All nature smiles upon your
bridal day.”
It was indeed a glad, jubilant morning! The sun had risen in cloudless
splendor, tinting with a golden radiance the gauze-like vapor that
rested as a veil over forest, heath, and Hall, river, cliff, and bay!
The scene was full of freshness, light, and music!
“Oh! look and listen, Rosalia, woods and waters sing and the birds pause
to hear! listen!”
“But, dearest Hagar,” said Rose, gazing forth upon the bay—“after all,
suppose our friends do not come; a meeting appointed two months
beforehand in a foreign country! So many things may have happened!”
“Look, Rosalia!” replied Hagar, holding a letter, “they were in
Baltimore a week ago; this letter is from Gusty, it came late last
night. I did not get it until this morning; it is an _avant-coureur_ of
our party. They will be with us by this evening’s boat.”
Rosalia did not reply in words, but still happiness was beaming on her
face.
“Listen again, Rosalia, my darling—Emily will be over this morning to
breakfast with us. Shame kept _her_ and pride kept _me_ from making any
advances towards a renewal of friendly intercourse—but this morning I
arose in a better mood. I could not feel resentment (that, however, I
_never_ felt), but I could not feel indifference towards the mother of
my dear, noble Gusty, and the future mother-in-law of my Rosalia. So,
love, I wrote her a kind letter, explaining the whole affair. I told her
that Gusty would be here this evening to fulfil an appointment, and
begged her to come over this morning. Could we cherish a cold feeling
towards any one to-day, love! She wrote me a line back to say that she
would come with pleasure, and to say—what do you think, Rosalia?—that
she would have been to see us before—wished to come, but doubted if her
visit would be welcome? Come! I sent Tarquin immediately back with the
carriage to bring her over to breakfast, for you know, love, that Emily
has no conveyance but her horse—I expect her every minute—so dress
yourself quickly, Rose, for breakfast.”
Rosalia threw her arms around Hagar’s neck and thanked her. She was soon
ready, and left her chamber accompanied by Hagar, and descended the
stairs in time to see through the front door, Emily Buncombe alight from
the carriage. Rosalia went timidly to meet her. Emily folded her to her
bosom in a warm embrace, and then turned to receive Hagar’s offered
hand. They went in to breakfast; but when Emily would have pushed a
thousand questions as to Rosalia’s flight or abduction, and Hagar’s
absence, the latter gravely replied that Rosalia had passed the whole of
her time, from her landing at Genoa, first in the service of the Grand
Duchess Maria Louisa, and afterwards with herself, and ended with the
announcement that Rosalia was the sister of Raymond. In the stupor of
astonishment into which this news threw Emily, she forgot to push her
investigations about the flight any further; but made many inquiries
concerning Rosalia’s newly discovered relationship. Hagar gave her all
the information in her possession, and ended with announcing the fact,
that Rosalia’s fortune, left to accumulate at compound interest as it
had been, now amounted to the snug little sum of twenty-five thousand
dollars; no plum, certainly, but still enough, taken with his income, to
give Gusty a fair start in the world, at least to purchase that small
estate, and build, ornament, and furnish that beautiful little home
Emily was so anxious to secure for her son. These matters Hagar freely
discussed with her, because she admitted that Emily had a personal
interest in them. But when Mrs. Buncombe would have pried into her own
private matters, Hagar gravely waived all interrogation, and Emily, in
default of better information, was forced to take Tarquin’s account of
matters and things—namely, the great fortune left to Mr. Withers in
England. Notwithstanding this, the day was spent pleasantly, very
pleasantly, in preparing for the evening; and Hagar, our Hagar! how can
I describe her waiting for the evening! and how, as the hours passed,
her brow became more and more arched and expanded, until it was open as
the brow of hope! and how her steps became lighter and more light, until
the spring of her little foot seemed to impel the earth upon its orbit!
Day declined. Twilight was falling cool and purple over the forest,
heath, and bay, as a packet boat wended its way down the Chesapeake,
drawing near to Churchill’s Point. A party of passengers were collected
on the deck—a party consisting of Captain and Mrs. Wilde, Lieutenant May
and Raymond Withers. They were conversing gaily. The boat neared
Churchill’s Point. The village was nearly dark and deserted; doubling
Churchill’s Point they came in sight of Alto Rio, the new Heath Hall. It
was brilliantly illuminated from attic to cellar. The lights streamed
from its many windows—streamed across its lawn, revealing scores of
carriages filling up the space between it and the water’s edge,—and
streamed across the bay, throwing a flood of light upon the spot where
the boat at last anchored, close by the side of another beautiful little
craft, the Compensation, moored under the promontory. The travellers
landed, and taking their way up the new stone steps that led up the
ascent of the promontory, proceeded on their way towards the house,
struck with admiration and astonishment at the marvellous changes they
everywhere witnessed. It is true that Raymond Withers and Gusty May knew
perfectly well the source of this sudden wealth, and even Captain Wilde
and Sophie, since Hagar’s letter to the latter, divined it. The emotions
of Raymond Withers were soon all merged in one strong feeling—a
heart-burning impatience to clasp Hagar to his bosom. He thought that
were he about to meet her in poverty, ill health, and humiliation, he
should embrace her with as _much_ affection and with _more_
self-respect—upon the whole, however, he was not anxious to have his
disinterestedness submitted to this test. He had, before leaving the
boat, bestowed the utmost attention upon his toilet, and his dress was
now the very ideal of taste and elegance, as his person was of manly
beauty. In the grand diapason of the reconciliation was trilling this
one little absurd note.
We will precede the party to the Hall.
The lights from the Hall streamed from every window over the scene; the
grounds in front of the Hall were blocked up with carriages. The
verandas running around the Hall were crowded with coachmen and footmen,
the attendants of the guests; the lower rooms of the Hall superbly
furnished, beautifully ornamented, and brilliantly lighted, were filled
with splendidly dressed company. An upper chamber of the house was
occupied by three ladies; one, a young maiden, sat upon a dressing stool
in front of a full length mirror, and two stood, one on each side,
adorning her for the altar. Emily Buncombe looked very fine—in a
straw-colored satin, with a pretty lace cap, trimmed with white
snowdrops; our Hagar looked the princess that she was, in her delicate
white lace, over a rich white satin, with her brilliant black ringlets
collected at the back of her head by a diamond-set comb, and dropping
gracefully upon her crimson cheeks, undulating neck and bosom. Diamond
bracelets flashed upon her rounded arms, and a diamond necklace
encircled her throat. It was Hagar who looked like a royal bride. But
she was decking a bride. Not a jewel would Hagar permit to desecrate the
maiden’s beauty. A chaste and simple dress of white silk, trimmed with
narrow lace, leaving the full, rounded, and snowy neck and arms bare,
and a very slight wreath of young orange blossom buds crowning her
golden ringlets, completed her beautifully simple toilet.
Two young girls from the neighborhood—young girls of twelve years old,
selected that evening from the company below, were waiting to attend
her. Her toilet was only just completed when a rap was heard at the
chamber-door, and Hagar’s housekeeper entering said—
“Mrs. Withers—Captain Wilde, Lieutenant May, Mr. Withers, and their
party, have arrived.”
Hagar had supposed that she would be prepared for this meeting,
anticipated for two months past, and momentarily expected now. She had
thought to have received him there, in her beauty, glory, and pride,
with her regal self-possession,—but when the words “Mr. Withers has
arrived” fell on her ear, her heart _sank down—stopped—the hand of death
seemed on her_! Intense frost burns like fire in contact—extreme joy is
so like pain as to be undistinguishable.
“Ask him to come up,” said Hagar in a dying voice, as she stood leaning
upon the shoulder of Rosalia for support—Rosalia still sitting on her
dressing stool.
Hagar felt that life and death were striving in her bosom—nay, she
thought that death had come—and only prayed that her last breath might
flow past Raymond’s cheek and hair, with her head upon his breast—as
she leaned more heavily upon Rosalia, until her long black ringlets
overswept and half concealed her form. Now she thought to receive him
there! dying there! But lo! a light, quick footstep is on the
stairs!—each footfall strikes a chord that vibrates to the centre of
her heart! shocking all her nerves into electric life!—she
started—sprang—color flowed richly back to her cheeks—light radiantly
to her eyes! Like lightning she flashed from the room out into the
dark passage.
He was coming up the stairs, wondering how he should present himself
before her, when, as he reached the landing, he saw a brilliant
white-clad spirit gleam out across the darkness, and the next instant
the angel was in his arms—_her_ arms about his neck—pressed to his
bosom—her heart throbbing warmly, humanly against his own.
No word was spoken yet. They had met unpremeditatedly—in silence and
darkness—in that _pure_, though passionate embrace!
What to them was all the wrong and woe of the last two dreadful years?
Forgotten! as it had ever been. A dark background, only throwing out
into stronger light the rapture of the present meeting—_for an
instant_—but ah! when recollection came to one! He stooped over her and
whispered—
“Hagar! I have not one word to say for myself! not one excuse to offer
for my weakness! not one syllable to breathe in palliation of my fault!
Hagar, I am bankrupt!”
But she drew him to a seat, for emotion was overpowering her, dropped
upon his lap, her arms around his neck, her head upon his shoulder, her
ringlets sweeping over him, and wept! wept!—she, from whose proud eyes
of fiery light, bitterest _grief_ had never wrung one tear—_wept!_—as
though the fountains of her life were broken up and gushing through her
eyes! For _joy_, reader?—Not altogether; was not her king—_her_ king,
discrowned before her? and though she loved him! loved him! as only high
hearts like hers _can_ love—no _worship_ mingled with that love!
But a bride was waiting to be led before the bishop. Rising, Hagar took
his hand, and conducted him silently into the room, led him silently to
Rosalia’s side, and laying her hand upon her shoulder, said softly,
“Turn and greet your brother, Rosalia!”
She arose, blushing, trembling, and Raymond Withers opening his arms,
folded in one embrace his wife and sister to his bosom.
Ten minutes after this a bridal party stood up in the middle of the
gorgeous drawing-rooms below. Bishop Otterback performed the ceremony.
Raymond Withers gave away the bride. Sophie Wilde removed the veil from
the maiden’s head at the conclusion of the rites.
The wedding was the most splendid festival ever given in —— county. Many
of the guests from a distance remained all night. It was near the dawn
of day before the visitors, those who left the house at all, dispersed,
and those who remained had retired to rest.
The sun was rising when Hagar, followed by her husband, entered the
nursery. She led him to one little bed where the twin girls were still
sleeping in loveliness. He stooped and kissed each brow without waking
either. And then she drew him off to a crib, where slumbered the boy he
had never seen. She stepped ahead of him, and lifting this child up from
his morning sleep, stood him upon the floor in the sunlight to waken up
in his beauty! And how sparklingly beautiful he looked with his pink
feet on the rich carpet, and his golden curls falling in rippling,
glittering disorder about his temples and throat, and flashing in the
sunlight, as he stood there waking up, with his graceful head stooped
sideways like a bird’s looking archly, shily, and half loving, half
afraid at the handsome stranger standing near his mother. Raymond
stooped and lifted him in his arms, and then the child, with a shout of
clear, sweet laughter, recognised the father he had never seen before,
expressing his delight in these words,
“Oh! _you_ are beauty—like mamma!”
With infants _love_ and _beauty_ are synonyms—everything they love is
beautiful, and everything that is beautiful they love.
“And what is his name, mine own Hagar?”
“_Raymond!_ but for distinction sake, as well as that because he is a
sunbeam, we will call him Ray!”
The little girls now waking, and hearing their mother’s voice, arose and
ran to greet her, and they too shared the caresses bestowed upon their
infant brother.
The beautiful family were all now united in love and joy.
* * * * *
Later in the day, Hagar gave her husband an explanation that the reader
must also have—she said,
“You have not asked me, Raymond, about the foreigners around us; yet you
must have wondered why I employed a dozen foreigners rather than my own
country people—I will tell you in a very few words. All the money we
possess was made in _Europe_, from ministering to the luxury of the
wealthy aristocrats. But I saw numerous wretchedly poor and suffering
peasants—many of them I found upon inquiry to be excellent artisans and
agriculturists, who would work if they could obtain employment, and I
said to myself, I am about to spend the money I have made here in
rebuilding a ruin, and in reclaiming a wilderness. It will be a great
labor, and it will only be justice to give this work to a few of the
people among whom I made this money. I thought that if I could bring a
dozen workmen over to this country, and give them employment for a while
as a start, it would be but right. I had a little vessel built out
there—I called it the ‘Compensation.’ I got a skipper and one or two
experienced seamen—the rest of the crew consisted of the artisan
emigrants I was to bring out. I paid them some money in advance to leave
with their families, until they got settled in this country, and rich
enough to send for them. I had previously sent out half-a-dozen
mechanics under an architect, to rebuild the Hall; and in three months
from the day of their sailing, and only one week ago, I arrived with my
emigrant agriculturists. They are at work. I know this was right,
Raymond, and I hope you think so.”
“My noble Hagar!”
* * * * *
Alto Rio is now the most fertile and productive plantation in Maryland.
The Hall is the seat of elegant hospitality. Hagar is now in the
meridian of her life, and of her well preserved beauty. Her daughters,
Agnes and Agatha, are grown up; they are called the twin beauties; her
son is a noble boy, he is a cadet at ——; they have no other children.
Not very far from Alto Rio is another handsome villa, it is the
residence of Captain Augustus W. May, U. S. N., and is presided over by
a lady who would be thought surpassingly beautiful and elegant in any
neighborhood not adorned by the presence of Hagar Withers. They have a
numerous family of girls and boys.
Sophie is again in the Mediterranean, with Captain Wilde. They have no
family, and assert that they are contented that such is their lot, and I
thoroughly believe them, for they love each other devotedly, and are
never separated, Sophie going with him on all his voyages.
Our old friend, Blanche Rogers—have you forgotten her?—is now at last
the Right Rev. Mrs. Otterback; she got the bishop at last. It was at
Gusty and Rosalia May’s wedding that the final blow that brought him to
her feet was struck.
Emily Buncombe is still mistress of Grove Cottage, and Mr. Buncombe is
still pastor of the Church of the Ascension.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page Changed from Changed to
6 Tidarsi è bene, e non fidarse Fidarsi è bene, e non fidarse
e meglio e meglio
19 But Sophie only gazed at him But Sophie only gazed at him
with a started with a startled
45 found the gentle and timorous found the gentle and timorous
child still shrink child still shrank
55 or rather became of her or rather because of her
reluctance, and reluctance, and
73 Raymond, standing at the Raymond, were standing at the
window that overlooked window that overlooked
79 their slovenly habits of their slovenly habits of
cultivatic.—do you not cultivation—do you not
84 brother; yet never did only brother; yet never did any
child returning to child returning to
97 on her sheek, leaving her on her cheek, leaving her
contracted brow and contracted brow and
139 Nessum maggior dolore, Nessun maggior dolore,
151 idea repulsed, revolted idea repulsed, revolted
him—he would nothing him—he would do nothing
152 does find the means? I know does she find the means? I
that she travels know that she travels
163 and yon see the upshot! Why, and you see the upshot! Why,
I’m reinstated I’m reinstated
unchanged protegé protegé
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.