CHAPTER XI.

HAGAR.

“The wild sparkle of her eye seemed caught From high—and lightened with electric thought— And pleased not her the sports that please her age.” BYRON.

Let me pass briefly over the events of the next few years. Four or five weeks of solemn merry-making, dull dinners, and duller evening parties, completed the wedding festivities of the minister. An agreeable change had passed over the appearance of the minister—his countenance had lost somewhat of its gloom—his manners of their austerity, and his tones their hard curtness. Sophie’s demeanor revealed the sober cheerfulness befitting a clergyman’s bride. Raymond accompanied them everywhere, and everywhere was the delicate beauty, and gentle grace, and pensive air of the boy admired. Little Hagar also accompanied them. Sophie and Hagar had been so united—her care and attention had been so exclusively devoted to Hagar, that now that another claimed a larger share of her time and thoughts, and now that she felt the keen eyes of the sprite-like child jealously following her every motion closely, she loved Hagar with a remorseful tenderness—strange but natural. Mothers sometimes feel the same for the children to whom they have given even a good and beloved step-father. This is an illusion, and grows out of the false idea that our love is like any material and mortal thing, limited in quantity, and that what is given to one is necessarily withdrawn from another. Sophie took Hagar with her wherever they went, even to evening parties, where the child, with the obstinacy of spoiled children in general and her own nature in particular, refused to go to bed as long as Sophie sat up.

There she would sit—the only child in a room crowded with grown people—alone, in a corner, quite neglected, her glittering eyes glancing around the room, and springing off in aversion when they fell upon the figure of Mr. Withers. She was beginning to hate him intensely, merely because he occupied so much of the time and attention of Sophie, whom she passionately loved. Her first interview with Raymond Withers is worthy of relation as characteristic of both. It was the night after the wedding, and a large party were crowded in the sober-hued parlor of Emily May. Hagar had been staying at the cottage for the last few days—and this night she first rejoined Sophie after her marriage. Here she was sitting, as I have described, neglected and apparently forgotten in a corner. Sophie could not well approach her, and Emily, ever thoughtful as she was, this evening had overlooked her, in her attention to her guests. The child’s wild eyes were gleaming brightly, fiercely, under her sharply projecting brows; her preternaturally developed perceptive faculties were at work. Refreshments had been carried around twice or thrice by the servants, and they had overlooked her. At last she saw, it was the first time she had seen him, a delicate, golden-haired youth, in deep mourning, enter the room. He went directly up to Sophie and remained by her side. The keen eyes of the child were immediately riveted upon him. There was a pensiveness, a thoughtfulness upon his fair young brow that seemed to isolate him even among the crowd. He stood by the side and a little behind Sophie’s chair, and except when he stooped to catch an occasional word from her, he stood unmoved and almost unobservant in the room. Once his eyes were raised, and their sad gaze chanced to meet the wild eyes of the little girl fixed with interest on his face. He bent down, and pointing to Hagar spoke to Sophie. Sophie’s glance followed the indication of his finger, then raising her countenance to his she answered him. He immediately separated himself from the party, passed into the supper room, and returning, walked up to the child, spread her handkerchief over her lap, poured into it a plateful of cakes and sweetmeats, and took a seat by her side.

“Did Sophie send me these?” inquired the child.

“No.”

“Why did you bring them, then?”

“You looked lonesome, and dull, and I thought it would amuse you.”

“Ah! I thought Sophie did not send them—she never thinks of me now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it is true; she used to keep me always by her side, or on her lap; now for two or three days she has left me here with Mrs. May, and now that she has come, she scarcely speaks to me!” exclaimed the child, and her black eyes flashed under her sharp brows, and her white teeth gleamed under her upturned lip as she spoke.

A soft smile hovered an instant around the beautiful lips and under the golden eye-lashes of the youth, as he said—

“You look so like a little playful, spiteful, black kitten, that I am almost afraid of your teeth and claws—however—” and stooping down he daintily lifted the child and set her on his lap. Then he said, “I think you are a jealous little girl.”

“I don’t know what ‘jealous’ is, but I don’t like to be robbed of what is mine.”

“You are selfish, I am afraid, little one—who has robbed you?”

“Mr. Withers has got Sophie, and now he may have her, for I don’t care.”

“You are a proud little lady.”

He caressed her straight black hair, adjusted her somewhat disordered dress, and began to crack nuts for her, but her eyes were fixed upon the group at the opposite end of the room, and suddenly she said—

“I wish Mr. Withers was dead—I do so!”

“Oh! horror!” said the young man, now really shocked. “Revengeful, too, Hagar! Mr. Withers is my father.”

“Is he? I did not know that—I am so sorry—but, oh! he has taken Sophie away from me, and now I am _so_ lonesome,” and the child burst out crying.

“And where have you been, my pretty lad, Where have you been all day?”

sang little Miss Rogers, dancing up to them—“Come, Raymond! or I beg your pardon—_Mr._ Raymond Withers—for you hobble-de-hoys are awful punctilious about your dignity—are you going to stay here nursing that spoiled brat all night? We are forming a round game at forfeits in the other room, and we want you.”

“Don’t go,” whispered the child.

Raymond set her off his lap, arose, and apologizing to Miss Rogers, gracefully declined her invitation. The maiden pouted, smiled, threw up her head, and tripped away.

“Ain’t you good, to stay with me, instead of going with her? take me up again,” and she held out both her arms to him.

He smiled gently, and raised her, and how beautifully broke the glad smile over her dark, wild countenance, as she looked up in his face. From that hour the youth and infant were companions, confidants, and friends.

At this time it was that the germ of a passion, fraught with much evil to the whole of Hagar’s life, took root in her heart—a passion destined by mal-cultivation to be fostered into monstrous growth—JEALOUSY; and this grew out of Sophie’s thoughtless concentration of mind upon her new duty, just at this juncture; it is true that this mood of mind lasted but a few days, but in these days the seed of evil was sown.

* * * * *

They were settled at Heath Hall. The time occupied by them in the wedding festivities while they were inmates of the Glade—the guests of Mrs. Gardiner Green—was also improved at the Heath. Workmen had been sent thither, and the house put in some repair. The negroes had been called home from hire, and set to work in clearing up the grounds—piling the weeds, briers, and rubbish up—drying and burning them for manure—in repairing old and putting up new fences, &c. The brick wall inclosing the garden, and running round the very edge of the promontory, had been mended, the garden put in order, and the wild and desolate aspect of the whole place somewhat ameliorated. On the day of their return to Heath Hall, a dinner and an evening party of course, had been given, and that was the last. The next day they were left quietly in possession of their own home.

There, reader! Northern reader, and city reader, you have now some idea of country weddings in middle life in Maryland and Virginia,—very different, you will admit, from city weddings. Raymond remained with them until the first of September, when his college term commencing, he returned to the North. Hagar grieved wildly after him, and threw herself upon her face when the packet in which he sailed disappeared up the river. His return to college had been doubtful, but was decided by an event that had occurred about two weeks after their return to the Heath. Up to the day of their return, the health and spirits of Mr. Withers had continued to improve. In a few days after their arrival, however—after the new moon, and as it increased to its full, the sleep of Withers became disturbed, his nights were uneasy, and his days gloomy—a deadly pallor settled on his face—his features became haggard, his cheeks hollow, and his eyes sunken and glowing in their deep sockets. Now Sophie’s heart trembled with uneasiness, now palpitated with alarm. Raymond was now ever at her side with words of gentle affection and cheerful encouragement—the boy seemed old and wise beyond his years, by the preternatural development by suffering;—he requested Sophie not to permit his father to perceive her knowledge that the terrible crisis of his malady was at hand, and they both redoubled their attentions to him. Daily his manner became more eccentric and alarming; he would sit at the table gloomy and glowering without uttering a word during the meal—then rising up he would walk off to the forest, or the beach—Raymond following him at a safe distance. Sometimes he would look back before leaving the house, remorsefully at Sophie, would return, take her hand, and then with a sudden change of mood—his green eyes scintillating sparks of fire—fling it from him with violence, and hurry off. Raymond grew hourly more wretchedly anxious on Sophie’s account. Day and night she was exposed, alone, to the danger of his violence. One morning when Sophie had come down to prepare breakfast, she found Raymond already in the breakfast-room—he advanced to meet her.

“Where is my father, Sophie?”

“In his chamber—he has not slept the whole night.”

“Sophie! I wish to say this to you—there is a malignity in his madness now that I have never seen before—it is a new feature, and it excites my fears for you. Sophie, leave him here in my care, and go and visit your friend, Mrs. May, for a few days—_do_, Sophie.”

“How, Raymond! was my pledge given, my mission undertaken only for easy and safe duty—was there any proviso made that as soon as it became onerous, or dangerous, it should be abandoned? No, Raymond, I will be firm through these dark days—they will soon be past, and I shall feel repaid.”

“But your life—your _life_ may be endangered.”

“‘Life’—why, Raymond, of what great value is _my_ life, that it should not be risked in a good cause?”

“I do believe, Sophie, that it was your being brought up in that room papered with the martyrs, that has given this singular bias to your character—why, Sophie, the world knowing your history in connexion with my father, would consider _you_ the most insane of the two.”

They were standing side by side at the window, looking out upon the bay—its rippling waves glittering in the morning sun, its dark green bosom relieved by the white sails of a packet moving up the river. They had not heard the entrance of Withers, who approached and stood behind them—his face pale, his livid lips compressed, his eyes drawn in and glowing in their deep sockets.

“But, dear Sophie,” continued the youth, “we must think of some place for securing your safety.”

In an instant the hands of Withers fell heavily upon his neck.

“Perfidious son of a perfidious mother!” he exclaimed, shaking him violently, “her image in heart and mind, as well as in person—traitor and reprobate! would you wile the love of my bride away from me? would you teach her your vile mother’s sin?”

The delicate youth was but as a reed in his grasp. Sophie sank pale and helpless into a chair. Now another figure appeared upon the scene—little Hagar stamping and screaming, upon the floor.

“Let Raymond! let my brother alone! Let him go, I say! you old Satan, you. I—I’ll _kill_ you—I’ll scratch your eyes out,” and clambering upon a chair, and then upon a table, she sprang cat-like upon the back of his neck. Now he was obliged to drop his hold of Raymond a moment to shake off the little wild-cat—he seized her, and pulling her off, hurled her flying through the open window! With a cry of anguish, Raymond sprang from the spot—from the room, and hurried around into the yard. The fall was not deep—the turf was soft—and the lithe, agile child had lighted on her feet and hands. She sprang up as Raymond came, and running to meet him asked anxiously,

“Are you hurt? did he hurt you, Raymond?”

He lifted her in his arms, and hurrying around the back way, ran up stairs with her.

“Oh, your poor neck—only see the marks of his wicked claws on your pretty white neck!” exclaimed the child, and she kissed and closely clasped him, and wept as if her heart were broken up and gushing through her tears. Then raising her head with eyes flashing through her tears, as the lightning gleams through the rain, she said,

“Oh! the bad—bad—_bad_ man! I wonder what God lets him stay here for?”

“Hush—you must not ask such sinful questions.”

“But I _do_ wonder—I’m sure I wouldn’t let him stay here if I could help it.”

“You must not think such wicked thoughts,” said the youth; but he himself was excited and anxious, and setting Hagar down on the foot of her little bed said,

“Now, Hagar, you must stay here—you must not come near him again to-day—”

“I’m not afraid of him,” interrupted the child.

“No, you have the fire and courage of a young tigress; but you would not make him angry, and so endanger Sophie’s peace, would you?”

“No—he shan’t hurt Sophie; if he tries, the next time I’ll get my claws in his eyes and scratch them out—_right_ out! and _then_ see who he can hurt!”

“But you are talking of my father, Hagar,” said the young man, reproachfully.

“Oh! so I am; _that_ is the worst of it.”

“Now, Hagar, promise me to stay here till I come and fetch you, will you?”

“Yes—I will do anything in the world _you_ want me to do, Raymond, just see if I don’t!”

“Well, then, I am going to look after Sophie, and I will be back as soon as I can.”

He found Sophie extended in a swoon upon the floor. Withers was gone. He raised her and bathed her face—she revived—he set her in the deep arm-chair.

“Hagar?” inquired she, as soon as she could speak.

“Is not hurt—has neither scratch nor bruise; she is in my chamber; I thought it best that she should keep out of sight of my father for the present.”

“What is to be done—where is Mr. Withers?”

“I do not know where he is gone, but _you_ must seek a place of safety.”

“No—no—no—I will stay here; I think I understand now why his lunacy takes this malignant character towards you; you remind him of—but no matter—but _you_, poor bereft boy, you must return immediately to your college—I can deal with him better alone, I am sure.”

“But, Sophie, you are nervous, _unfit_ for this; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh, the _flesh_ is weak; you swooned just now—you have not even the firmness and courage of little Hagar.”

“No, not the firmness, or the _fierceness_; but I have the courage. It must be as I say; you must leave here; you are too much like—poor boy, I did not mean to wound you, indeed I did not—you must return to your college, and by the time you have finished your course there, the absence of exciting causes, tranquillity, and sympathy will have restored your unfortunate father to health; then you will return and we shall all be happy together—courage, Raymond! God is at the helm! we must not forget that. He will yet guide us safely through this rough sea and starless night; now, Raymond, go and seek him, watch him, but keep out of his sight.” He left her to do her bidding.

By a natural reaction the madness of Withers now assumed another aspect. Late in the afternoon he returned and entered not _his own_, but Raymond’s chamber. Sophie was in their room, and heard him come slowly up the stairs, enter the adjoining chamber, and throw himself upon Raymond’s bed. She determined to go to him, though her every nerve from heart to extremities was trembling and quivering. She arose and entered the room; the white wrapper that she wore was not whiter than her cheek, as she sat down by the bedside, where his long thin figure, in its black suit, lay extended upon the white counterpane. But what a change had come over him! never even in his most rational moments had she seen him in such a mood; his manner was subdued, the expression of his countenance pensive, his tones gentle. No one that had seen him in his ordinary manner, hard, stern, harsh, and bitter, would have recognised him now—alas! this mood was as unnatural to him and as much a feature in his lunacy as was the other of the morning; it was but the reaction of his phrensy. He held his hand out to her, she took it and pressed it between her own.

“I would not go into your room, Sophie, for fear of disturbing you, and you come to me. Alas! and you are so pale, you tremble so much, poor girl, I have nearly killed you, you will give me up now!” and an expression of anguish convulsed his countenance.

“No, no, I will not; my paleness, trembling, swooning, is a matter of nerves, not of will; I cannot help it, but I will not upon that account leave you; my flesh shrinks, but my reason does not convince me of any personal risk.”

“And there is none to _you_, none to _you_, Sophie, believe it: in my maddest moments I could not hurt _you_.”

At this moment, Raymond, not knowing who was in the room, entered, started slightly on seeing his father on the bed with Sophie sitting by him, but quickly recovering himself, walked up to the bed, and inquired, as though nothing had happened,

“How are you now, sir?”

“Better, calmer, my boy—but oh! Raymond, my son, why had you not kept out of my way? You know, you _know_ the risk you run; think if in my phrensy I were to do you a fatal injury, what would my after life be? Sophie, you see how fair and wan he is: he was more robust once, but in my first fit of phrensy while he was trying to save me from rushing into the street and exposing my madness, I dealt him a heavy blow upon the chest, injured his lungs, and he has never been well since.”

“But he will be well,” said Sophie, as, with her eyes full of tears, she turned and laid her hand caressingly on Raymond’s shoulder, “he will get well when he has finished his studies and returns home and finds his father restored to health.”

“But will that ever be, Sophie?” sadly inquired the unhappy man.

“Oh, yes, I am sure of it,” she said. “Why, though I do not know much about such things, yet it appears to me so reasonable that a malady concealed as yours was, should increase and strengthen, instead of subside, and that it should darken your mind, I am not at all surprised; and I believe that now, relieved by communication and sympathy, it will gradually leave you.”

* * * * *

This mood also changed in a few hours. As the moon waned he relapsed into the gloom and reserve of his habitual manner. By the vigilance of Sophie and Raymond, little Hagar had been kept carefully out of his sight for some days, and now when she came into his presence, in his abstraction he scarcely observed her. Sophie felt uneasy as the Sabbath approached. From the relaxed nerves of the lately overstrained brain, Sophie knew that he could not prepare a sermon, and knew not what excuse could be made, and wondered what had been his course in former emergencies of this kind. She knew _not_, that during the very fervor and exaltation of insanity he had prepared a sermon, which when delivered on the next Sabbath would electrify the whole congregation with its soul-thrilling eloquence. That sermon was the talk of the whole county for weeks. This, the reader knows, is not an uncommon feature in the exalted stages of mania. The “Song of David,” written during a fit of insanity by Christopher Smart, a poet of the last century, with a rusty nail on the walls of his cell in the madhouse, is one of the most elevated and sublime strains of sacred poetry I ever read.

The first of September arrived. Raymond was gone, and the disbanded school of Sophie Churchill, or as we must now call her Mrs. Withers, re-assembled. It was continued for a few months until the end of the year, when Sophie found that she would have to give it up. In one respect a healthful change had passed over Mr. Withers. The violence of his periodical attacks of lunacy gradually subsided, but with this change grew another feature—an exclusive, absorbing, and constantly increasing affection for his gentle young wife. This, from his idiosyncrasy, became daily more jealous and exacting; he could not endure to have her out of his sight; he grew jealous, not only of the child who occupied a portion of her time, but of the very _business_ by which at least half their income was provided.

At the commencement of the Christmas holidays, Sophie broke up her school. Soon after this she received a severe shock in the news of the sudden death of her sister Rosalia and her husband, both of whom were carried off by a prevailing epidemic. This news was communicated by a letter from a lawyer of Baltimore, which letter also informed her that Mr. Withers and herself had been appointed guardians of the person and property of Rosalia Aguilar. This letter happened to come when the mind of Mr. Withers was in its least disturbed state, and therefore in a few days from its reception, Sophie left the Hall for Baltimore, with the purpose of bringing home the little Rosalia Aguilar, the second orphan niece committed to her charge.