CHAPTER XXI.

HAGAR’S BRIDAL.

‘Bride, upon thy marriage day, Did the fluttering of thy breath Speak of joy or woe beneath? And the hue that went and came O’er thy cheek like wavering flame, Flowed that crimson from the unrest Or the gladness of thy breast?’ HEMANS.

Poor Gusty had walked about several days in a stupor, “stunned by a sockdologer,” he said, into a stupor from which nothing could arouse him; he longed for the time when he should be ordered to sea, but alas! that time was very distant yet, he feared. He had never been at the Hall since what he called “that fatal evening.” Emily was happy that an end was put to his hopes of Hagar at any cost of present pain to him.

“Gusty,” said she one morning, “do you know Hagar is to be married week after next?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Do you know that Sophie wants very much to get Rosalia home to the wedding?”

“Does she?”

“Yes—but unluckily no one seems to be travelling down in this direction from the neighborhood of her school, so that she cannot get an escort; Sophie cannot leave home to go after her, and she has no one she can send.”

“Let me go! I carried her to school, you know; let me go and bring her home!” exclaimed Gusty, jumping up, very glad of a job that would stir his blood into a little circulation.

“Then as soon as dinner, which is just ready, is over, go to Heath Hall, and offer your services to Mrs. Withers, Mr. May. God bless this poor boy!” said she, taking his head between her hands, “he thinks his sun has set, and left his world in darkness, and he thinks that his life is made a ‘howling wilderness,’ and he thinks a great many horrible poetical things besides, and he has a slight suspicion that if he could put all that he feels upon paper, he would make a great poet. Well, now, let me advise you to improve the time, master poet; it will be short—write while the fire is blazing in the heart, and the brain boiling over it like a pot—do, Gusty, for presently the fire will all be out, and the brain quiet, and the clouds will clear away from your sky, and the sun will rise upon your stormy night and convert it into a very humdrum forenoon, unsuggestive of anything but dinner.”

* * * * *

Sophie and Hagar were in conversation together in the chamber of the former, as Gusty rode into the yard. Sophie was trimming the white satin boddice of a beautiful dress that lay over the bed.

“And now I shall not wear that!” said Hagar. “I do not like it, it does not suit me. I shall feel in borrowed plumes if I wear that; it no more suits me than the white feathers of the dove would suit the kite.”

“But, Hagar, my love, you would not wear anything else than white, would you? I never heard of a bride, a young bride, wearing colors in her bride dress.”

“But _I_ shall—I shall wear a black lace dress.”

“Black! mercy, Hagar, you would make yourself so conspicuous, you would shock the whole neighborhood!”

Hagar laughed wildly, “You know very well that _that_ is my besetting sin, Sophie; when this inane neighborhood is falling into an apathy, I feel a propensity to shock it into a little life!”

“Oh! you will think more rationally of this, I know it, for I know you would not willingly shock Raymond—but tell me, does he seriously intend writing to Dr. Otterback to come down?”

“Very seriously, for he _has_ gone to his room for that purpose now. You see, dear Sophie, that I wished it myself. I am like that poor fellow who was hanged at Churchill Point a year ago; who, you recollect, would not receive the services of a Jack Ketch in the arrangement of his toilet, but insisted that the high sheriff should officiate, exclaiming, with an expiring flash of self-respect, ‘If I _am_ to be hanged, I’ll be hanged by a gentleman!’[4] Now if a halter must be tied about my neck it shall be tied by a bishop!”

Footnote 4:

A fact.

The girl’s manner was full of wild gaiety. Sophie gently rebuked her for speaking of sad and grave subjects with wanton lightness. But the girl’s eyes flashed more mirth and fire than before, as she said—

“Dear Sophie, how can you expect of me pity for others who have now none at all for myself—when I have made up my mind to be hanged or married I can do it; if hanging were the dish, I should not think of the horror, the agony, the death—my mind would leap straight through that dark, quick passage to the light! the joy! the immortality!”

“Oh, Hagar! and you say that not reverently, but triumphantly! oh, Hagar! what a heart you have to break down. A young bit of a maiden, yet with no gentleness, no tenderness, no sympathy—a little, slight, dark creature, yet with the fire, courage, and fierceness of a young panther. Oh! Hagar, how much I fear for you!”

Just at this moment a light rap was heard at the door; Sophie arose and opened it. It was a servant come to say that Mr. May was below stairs and requested to see Mrs. Withers. Sophie followed the messenger. She found Gusty waiting in the parlor. Sophie was not unacquainted with the secret that the poor fellow’s despair had betrayed to all his friends, but this was the first time, be it remembered, that he had visited the Hall since the destruction of his hopes. Sophie’s manner was unusually gentle and affectionate to him, so much so that poor Gusty whose heart was sadly suffering for sympathy, said to her suddenly at the close of their interview, and after all the arrangements relative to his mission had been agreed upon,

“How much older are you than I, Sophie?”

“Eight years,” answered Sophie, opening her large eyes. “Why?”

“Nothing—it is too much, I suppose! but may be it is not, as I am sure I am a great deal taller and twice as broad shouldered, and sun-burnt and all that, so that I am sure I must look as old as you?”

“What are you thinking of, Gusty?”

“Be hanged if you do look more than a very gentle little girl after all, not half so self-sustained and womanly as Hagar!”

“Why, Gusty?”

“I mean, Sophie, will you marry me? I am very steady of my years—all to taking care of mother—and I shall behave myself better than you think for, indeed I shall.”

“Why, Gusty!”

“Sophie, you’ll think it strange after all that phrensy of mine for Hagar, that I now offer you my hand, a boy’s hand; but, Sophie, I always _did_ love you and like to stay with you, and now that Hagar has thrown me away, I feel weak, suffering, as if I wanted some one to love me protectingly, to nurse me, to pet me—you are the very one, Sophie! I am so lonesome, so miserable, feel so unnecessary in the world. I am first person singular, nominative case to nothing under the sun just now! I want some one to love so much! some dear gentle girl that will love me with all her heart and soul, and not feel jealous of this anguish I must suffer for the loss of Hagar. Come, Sophie, pity me—my manhood, strength, spirit, impetuosity is all melting out of me. I feel like a poor dog that has no owner!”

“Your mother, Gusty.”

“Oh! mother, has not she a husband, as well as Hagar a lover? Come, Sophie, you spent the first years of your youth in nursing a sick brain—spend the rest in nursing a sick heart—love me, Sophie. Oh, if you knew how I suffered, you would love me,” and Gusty fairly dropped his head down upon Sophie’s shoulder and _almost_ wept. She let it lie there—nay she caressed that young grief-bowed head, as she said,

“I always have loved you, Gusty, and always shall, and will do anything in the world I can to make you happy.”

“Thank you, dear Sophie. I thought you were too good to be proud because you happened to be the eldest; now, Sophie, how long will it be first, for I want to live with you, and lay my head upon your little shoulder, just so, while I talk to you of my troubles and you soothe me—when shall it be, Sophie?”

“What be, Gusty?”

“Our wedding!”

“Nonsense, dear Gusty, _never_. You are mad to think of such a thing, Gusty!”

“Then you won’t.”

“Certainly not—-you were never surely serious in such a strange proposition! no, of course you were not! I was silly to give you a serious reply!”

“As the Lord in Heaven hears me, I am serious—I must be loved—love me, Sophie.”

“I _do_ love you, and _will_ love you, how can I help it? but as to marrying you, Gusty! nonsense! Why, see here, when I was a little girl of eight years old, you were a babe of a few weeks, and I used to carry you in my arms all over the house, and have helped to nurse and educate you from infancy up, at least you knew I did until of late years,” said Sophie, correcting herself; “now do you feel as if you still would like to marry your nurse, your little mother?”

Gusty was silent.

“No, Gusty, you will get over this in a few days, you will see some one else. I know by your professions to me that it is not _love_, but the _want_ of love, that makes you miserable—your journey will help your cheerfulness, too. You must set out to-morrow.”

He took his hat and riding-whip to go.

“Sophie, won’t you come over to mother’s and spend the evening this evening?—do, Sophie, it is lonesome over there, and mother and yourself can talk over the hundred thousand subjects of interest you have in hand.”

“Yes, I will come, Gusty.”

“Don’t bring Hagar!”

“No.”

“And, Sophie, mind, don’t let mother know what a fool I have been making myself.”

“Oh, no!” smiled Sophie, and the interview closed.

Gusty had to call at Churchill’s Point, it was mail-day; and Gusty, though his correspondence was far from extensive, always made a point of being present at the opening of the mail.

“Here is a letter for your ma, Mr. May,” said the little old widow, who was post-mistress for Churchill Point.

“From my Uncle Augustus,” exclaimed Gusty, as he received it, “postmarked Boston—ha! his ship is in port—wonder when he is coming down.” So musing, Gusty quickened his horse’s pace, and rode on towards the cottage.

“A letter from uncle, mother,” said he, as he laid it on the stand by her side, “and Sophie has accepted my escort for her niece, and I am to set off in the morning. Sophie will be here with us to tea.”

Emily nodded and nodded assent to everything he said, though she heard not half while devouring her brother’s letter.

“How is he—what does he say, mother?” exclaimed Gusty, when she had finished reading.

“He will visit us soon—he is going to be married.”

“Mar—married!”

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“To a young lady, he says, whom he has known for a long time, and who has his warmest affections and his highest respect.”

“He married, too! well everybody gets married but me—lend me the letter, mother, let me see all about it,” and she handed him the letter. While he was reading the letter, Emily looked out, and exclaimed:—

“There is Sophie now! go and help her from her saddle, Gusty!” and Gusty went. Emily followed more at leisure, and received her friend with her accustomed affection, whispering in confidence, “I have made a cream cake for your tea, darling,” and led her in, took off her bonnet, and seated her near the pleasantest window. When she had carried away her things, and returned, sitting by her, she said suddenly, in the midst of a gossipping conversation:—

“But, Sophie, you never ask me after my brother Augustus!”

“Don’t I?” said Sophie, faintly.

“Why, _no_, you know you don’t—what ever can be the reason?”

“How is he—have you a letter?”

“Ah! exactly—‘how is he,’ when I have reminded you to ask.”

“Forgive my forgetfulness, Emily.”

“His ship has returned, did you know it?”

“No,” said Sophie softly.

“Well, it _has_. Came in port nine days since—he is coming down to visit us very soon—how long has it been since you saw him, Sophie?”

“I don’t know,” answered Sophie reservedly.

“Let’s see, I can tell, he has only been here three times since, and that was while you were so taken up, that you never came near us—let’s see, it will be exactly eight years next Tuesday week since you met, and next Tuesday week I am to give a party to our bride, Hagar. He will be here on that day, and I fancy there will be another bride. Why, Sophie, what a color you have this evening—he is going to be married, and will probably bring his wife down—no, Sophie, it must have been the reflection of the sunset, for now I see you are quite pale, paler than usual—are you sick?”

“Oh! no, no.”

“A little fatigued, I suppose. (Gusty rang for tea.) Yes! a young lady to whom he has long been attached—she’s fainted. I wonder when Sophie will ever have any nerves?”

“How easily she swoons! Sophie never _was_ strong,” exclaimed Emily, as she raised and set her back, reached a tumbler of water, and bathed her temples. As Sophie opened her eyes she met those of Emily, looking kindly, sweetly, and with a new expression, into hers. “How do you feel, love?” was Emily’s first question.

“Better.”

“What made you faint? was it fatigue?”

I once told you, reader, of Sophie’s deep veneration for truth, that would never permit her even to prevaricate. She was silent, and Emily looking again into her eyes, refrained from asking her any more questions, but smiled to herself, as in a few minutes she said to Sophie:—

“Now, my love, I have got to answer my brother’s letter by return mail; will you excuse me? I will not leave your side, but draw the stand to me, and write it here; it will not occupy me more than fifteen minutes.” She drew her writing-desk before her, and, selecting her paper, commenced writing, while Kitty brought in the tea-things. At last, looking up from her work, she said:—

“I have told Augustus that you are sitting by my side while I write; now what shall I tell him from _you_?” Sophie was still silent. “Come, Sophie!”

“Give him my respects.”

“Fiddle-sticks! why did you not send your _duty_ at once, like a school-girl to her papa? your respects!” but then she looked at Sophie and saw her still so pale, so tremulous, that she turned and quietly resumed her writing.

If you had been looking over her shoulder, you might have read the following lines:

“Dearest brother—dearest Augustus—welcome! first to your native shores, and then soon, very soon, I hope, to your sister’s home and bosom. Now concerning the subject of your letter, I must write cautiously, as I perceive that _you_ recollected to do—because our worthy old post-mistress takes the liberty of peeping in at the ends of all private and confidential letters that pass and repass through her hands.[5] She will get something indigestible if she pries into this; no matter for her! About this other affair—yes, come! I have no _doubt_ of it, _never_ have had from first to last, though nothing in her manner, no look, word, or gesture, ever revealed the fact to me until this afternoon; nay, I believe the poor thing was unconscious herself, for you know I think she is one of the excellent of the earth, one of God’s peculiar favorites; and through all these dark days I always had a faith in her eventual happiness even in this world, for the promise, Augustus, is both for _this_ world and the next; hear it, ‘Godliness is profitable unto _all things_, having the promise of _the life that now is_, and of that which is to come;’ and listen again! for I don’t think that you attend to these things as much as you ought to: ‘No man hath left house, or parents, or brethren, or wife, or children, for the kingdom of God’s sake, that shall not receive manifold more in this _present time_, and in the world to come life everlasting;’ and _her_ martyrdom, poor girl, was so sincere, however mistaken—so sincere and complete, for she thought it for life! It was all rayless darkness to her; the future illumined only by her Christian love and faith. And she is so beautiful, Augustus; so much more beautiful now at twenty-five, than she was at seventeen, when you saw her last; her health and spirits have suffered somewhat, but that has only lent the inexpressible charm of delicacy and pensiveness to her beauty. I rejoice in you both, Augustus! I rejoice in you both, and I bless you from my full heart! I rejoice in the ‘more than Roman virtue’ with which you died to each other, fully believing it eternal separation—with which you ever sternly wrested your thoughts from the other. I, the friend of both, have never once been made the medium of the slightest communication, the slightest inquiry or message such as acquaintances might interchange. You _died_ to each other, believing it for ever, and that was right. But _this_ is not right; it is not right that you should bind me to secresy about the subject of this letter, upon the ground that you do not know the state of her mind, or how she might receive it. Come and see for yourself—and even now she is looking up at me with her patient brown eyes, and believing—Heaven forgive me!—no matter. Come soon

Footnote 5:

Fact of a good old post-mistress in —— county, Maryland, to my own serious discomfiture.

“EMILY.”

“Please, madam! the tea will get cold,” exclaimed Kitty, and Emily hastily sealed and directed her letter, and they sat down to the table.

* * * * *

The wedding-day of Hagar and Raymond dawned. They were anxiously awaiting the packet, which they expected would bring Rosalia and Gusty, and perhaps, also, Dr. Otterback, who was to come down from Baltimore. Afternoon came, and Hagar, trying girl! instead of secluding herself in the mystery of her own room until it was time to dress, Hagar was down on the beach with a telescope, watching the approach of a distant vessel. While she was intently gazing, she felt her arm twitched, and looking back saw Blanche Rogers, who had been domesticated for several days at the Hall, employed in assisting Sophie with the bridal millinery and confectionery.

“Come, you torment! Come, you trial! it is time to dress! _time!_—high time! both rooms are full of company; and now I shall have to steal you into the house through the back way! Come!”

Blanche Rogers was fully her equal in social position, besides being several years older than Hagar, yet not for this would the wild, proud girl, permit the familiarity of her address—lowering her telescope, she said with spirit,—

“The evening dews are chill, Miss Rogers; perhaps you had better not expose yourself to their influence, as you are not so well accustomed to them as myself. _I_ watch the approach of yonder packet, and must see whether it contain passengers for the Hall, before I leave the beach.”

“Yes, but my little self-willed, headstrong bride, it is _late_; the company are assembled; we have determined not to await the arrival of the bishop, or of the laggards, Rose and Gusty; we have settled that the ceremony shall proceed; we cannot wait much longer for anybody.”

“I rather think you will have to wait some time longer for the bride!” said the girl, “unless, indeed, you could fancy the ‘tragedy of Hamlet, with the part of the Prince of Denmark omitted.’”

“But, oh! Hagar, this is shocking!”

“Is it? So much the better; you need to be shocked!”

While they spoke, the vessel bore down rapidly towards the point—stopped—a boat was put out and rowed towards the beach, and old Dr. Otterback alone stepped upon the sand. The old man came smilingly forward, rubbing his hands and holding them out. Blanche stepped forward to welcome him.

“Hey, Miss—Miss ——, I remember you, you monkey, though I don’t remember your name, or know if you have changed it.”

“Miss Rogers!”

“Miss—_what!_ not married yet?”

“La! no, Dr. Otterback, I was waiting for _you_! Ain’t you a single man? You looked so much at your ease, I really thought you were, anyhow?”

“And you would put me out of my ease, hey? No, I’ll tell you the reason you are not married; the young men are afraid of you, that is it.”

“Not so, Dr. Otterback; I have twelve beaux, but I should be afraid to marry one of them for fear that eleven of them would hang themselves.”

“_Twelve_ would hang themselves, my lady, you may be sure of that! But, this is Miss Churchill, if I am not mistaken,” said he, going up to Hagar.

Hagar curtsied, blushed with all her spirit; she was embarrassed, abashed, as well as much disappointed. This meeting Dr. Otterback alone, under such circumstances, was not what she had anticipated; not what it would have been, covered with the shower of welcomes that would have attended the reception of the _whole party_, had Gusty and Rosalia been with him. One thing, however, if Dr. Otterback recognised her as the bride of the evening, he did not appear to do so. They reached the Hall. The whole yard and surrounding grounds of the Hall were filled with carriages tied to the trees. Hagar reached her room without encountering any of the guests—though as she passed up the long wide staircase, and through the passages, she could hear the half-suppressed hum of voices in the bed-rooms; the hushed voices of ladies who had arrived late and were re-arranging their toilet after their ride.

Hagar did _not_ wear the threatened black lace dress; she wore just what she should have worn, just what, with little variety, _all_ brides wear; viz. a white Mechlin lace over white satin; pearls on her arms and neck, and a wreath of orange blossom buds twined irregularly in and out among her glittering blue-black tresses. But she was the most fidgety little bride you ever saw; her bosom rose and fell convulsively, and her little dark fingers twirled and twitched spasmodically, as the party stood before the bishop, in the midst of the assembled company; and more than once Raymond’s soft hand pressure and reassuring whisper were needed.

It was over. Sophie lifted the veil from her head and whispered very softly,

“God bless you, my own dear child, my foster child, my nursling. God make you happy.”

And then Hagar’s wild eyes flew off from Sophie’s face to light on Raymond’s countenance, to meet his eyes; and then her expression changed—tragedy and comedy, deep joy, foreboding fear, comic humor and earnest affection were blended in the blushing and sparkling face she raised to meet his self-possessed and loving smile. It was strange, queer—a few words had been pattered over by a fat old gentleman in a gown; and, lo! all their relations were changed. It was curious; her very name and title were gone, and the girl, two minutes since a wild, free maiden, was now little better than a bondwoman; and the gentle youth who two minutes since might have sued humbly to raise the tips of her little dark fingers to his lips, was now invested with a lifelong authority over her. Yes, it _was so_ curious! and the spirited girl was in doubt whether to laugh or cry; and the expression of mingled emotions on her face blended into one of intense interest and inquiry as she met his gaze and smile, which she could not help fancying _patronizing and condescending_, as well as protective and loving! A new, extremely provoking feature in his smile! but perhaps she only fancied it. But this new relation, this new position, this new owning and being owned—it was very unique! very piquant! and Hagar felt it so! and her wild dark face gleamed and sparkled more and more all the evening; and every once in a while she would furtively look at Raymond as though he had been suddenly metamorphosed into something very awful; and if Raymond caught her stolen glance at such a time, her face and neck would be dyed with crimson.

I do not mean to weary you with a description of this wedding, nor tell you how the chambers of Heath Hall were crowded with guests that night, nor how old Cumbo fretted and fumed over the preparation of the state dinner the next day; nor how the dancing party came off in the evening; nor how disappointed Sophie was at the still prolonged absence of Rosalia and Gusty; nor how her thoughts occasionally wandered—but I will not even hint at _that_. None of these things will I trouble you with—but come to the Tuesday upon which Mrs. Buncombe was to give her sober, clerical-like evening party to the newly married pair—premising that Rosalia and Gusty had not yet arrived. It was a beautiful evening, and our party from Heath Hall rode over to Grove Cottage by moonlight. Emily’s rooms were well lighted and well filled—and Emily herself, with her quiet gaiety moving about, diffusing cheerfulness around. The bridal party, as usual there, sat at the extremity of the room opposite the entrance. Sophie sat with them; her small soft hands folded lovingly together on the lap of her brown satin dress, and her large eyes bent in reverie upon them. Very far from the scene must her thoughts have wandered, as she did not hear the slight agitation around the front door of the room, or see the entrance of an officer in the full dress uniform of a captain in the United States Navy, who, conducted by Emily, approached, bowing and smiling recognition on either side; she did not even look up until a light finger dropped softly on her hand, and she raised her large eyes to behold Emily, and—

“My brother, Captain Wilde, United States Navy—Mrs. Withers!” said Emily, presenting him with mock gravity. And Sophie mechanically arose, curtsied, and sank into her seat again, as though she had never set eyes upon him before. She did so involuntarily, and without again raising her eyes; a weight like destiny seemed to weigh down the eyelids. Captain Wilde looked right and left in search of a seat, but found none, until a youth, one of Raymond’s groomsmen, who was sitting by Sophie, politely relinquished his seat, which was as politely accepted by Captain Wilde. Emily moved off, leaning on the arm of the boy. Captain Wilde glanced all around the room—no! no one was minding him—old men were talking politics and agriculture, and old women gossipping scandal and housewifery, and young men were courting seriously or flirting flippantly, and young women were being courted; no one was minding him—no one seemed at all interested in the sayings and doings of Captain Augustus Wilde, United States Navy, in full dress uniform though he was. He turned to look at Sophie; _she_ was looking straight down at a ring upon the third finger of her left hand—_he_ followed her eyes and looked at it, too; and now, losing her presence of mind, growing very much confused, and blushing deeply, she began unconsciously to twist it round and round—while he watched the operation. At last, while apparently in doubt how to address her, he made a remark, startling in its profundity—

“There is quite an assembly here this evening, madam.”

Her reply, given in a very low tone, was equally original:

“Yes, sir, a large company for so sparse a neighborhood.”

“Yes, the neighborhood _is_ sparse and not increasing in population, I think; no new settlers coming in, while a considerable number of the old families are moving off. Is it not so?” said he, stooping forward, and looking intently upon Sophie’s varying cheek, as though life and death were in the answer.

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you suppose to be the reason?”

“I really do not know.”

“One thing I know to be, the deterioration of land here, owing to their dreadfully destructive system of agriculture—the contrast between New England and the Southern States is so striking in this feature of agriculture; don’t you think so?”

“Indeed, I never think about it.”

“Oh, you are not at all a _fermière_. Yes, the contrast is very striking; the New Englanders have raised, by the labor of their own hands, a naturally ungenial soil to a high state of productiveness, while your Maryland planters have, even with the aid of their troops of negroes, exhausted the fertility of a soil naturally very productive. Why, Mrs. Withers, I am informed that your planters, instead of manuring their ground, plant one third of their land in rotation every year, leaving two thirds to recover itself. This must exhaust land very soon.”

Sophie was silent.

“Warm climates and rich soils, where little labor is required to gain a subsistence, engender habits of indolence; now, though your climate is not very warm, yet I think that the original richness of your soil and the convenience of your gangs of negroes, first seduced your planters into their slovenly habits of cultivation—do you not think so?”

Sophie burst into tears. Her soft heart had been filling for the last half hour, and it ran over in tears! First a start of surprise, then a bright smile, then a quick glance around the room, and a bowed head and a low whisper in Sophie’s ear.

“_Sophie!_ the rooms are close and crowded, come, walk in the grapery with me!” and drawing her arm through his own, he led her forth into the yard, down that long shaded grape walk that led from the cottage porch through the yard to the cottage gate. They paused at the gate, separated, turned and looked at each other; the moon was shining full upon their faces, they could see each other serenely and distinctly. It was no longer Captain Augustus Wilde, bristling in his new uniform, and with a long string of U. S. N.’s at the end of his name, and it was no longer Mrs. Withers; but no—_she_ had _never_ changed, or even _seemed_ to change. It was the Sophie and Gusty Wilde of eight years before! and as he gazed at her, the light kept leaping in his eyes, and,

“_Oh, Sophie! my Sophie!_” and opening his arms he caught her to his bosom and kissed! oh! he kissed her forehead, eyes, and lips, as though his lips would have grown there! and then holding her head a little off upon his arm, the better to gaze upon her, he looked down delightedly into her happy, smiling face, for it _was_ a happy, smiling face now, and he said,

“Oh, my dear Sophie! this is _deep joy_, this is _charming comicality_, too! It _is_, you little brown-eyed witch! To think that scarcely five minutes ago, you and I were sitting in yonder crowded drawing-room, talking of _farming_ and _agriculture_, and calling each other ‘sir’ and ‘madam,’ ‘Mrs. Withers’ and ‘Captain Wilde,’ with our bursting hearts covered over with conventional trivialities, as people might cover a mine with straw and stubble, with a paper wall between us, which your flood of tears washed down. God _bless_ those tears! God _bless_ those eyes that had no single glance—those lips that had no single tone for pride or deception, my own dear Sophie! You are more affectionate, more tender, more gentle, more natural than I am, my own sweet-lipped, gentle-eyed Sophie!” and he drew her closely and kissed her again, but there was less ardor, more tenderness, and less passion and more affection in this caress.

“Oh, this is sweet, it is sweet, _Sophie! Sophie!_ Why, her very name is something to breathe one’s soul away upon; let us sit down, my Sophie—this meeting, this fast-flooding joy overpowers me!” and he sank down upon one of the long benches that ran on either side of the whole length of the walk, and he opened his arms again and said,

“Come, gentle Sophie, come sit beside me; lay your dear head under my arm, against my bosom, and let me talk to you. I am growing dizzier every moment; I thought I was prepared for this meeting, but, oh! my Sophie, I am as much stunned as though the thunder cloud of joy had but just broken over me! Say something rational to me, Sophie—_do_, dear child! You cannot? No, you cannot; you are as silly this moment, my gentle dove, as I am myself. But why do not you talk to me, darling? Your soft eyes are shining with love and joy, but you have not a word for me—why?”

“I am thinking of you so much,” said Sophie, softly; “I am thinking, dearest friend, of the long, long years you have passed in desolation of heart, without a home, except your ship and quarters, without a fireside of your own, without a family circle, without affection; coming in and going out of port, alike unblessed, unwelcomed, and unwept, and all for me! for me! I am thinking of that, and wondering if life and soul could repay such love!”

“Understand me, dearest; it was _not_ all for you—it was not, God knows, in the hope of ever possessing you! that would have been criminal, Sophie. No, dearest, when I parted with you at the carriage door upon that memorable evening, I carried with me, it is true, a desperate hope! but what am I talking of? I beg your pardon, Sophie; I said I was dizzy! yet this one thing permit me to say, dear Sophie; when I received a letter from my somewhat coolheaded sister, telling me that your marriage was over, and all about it, I as completely, as unreservedly, resigned you, as ever martyr at the stake resigned the life that was forced from him, without the least expectation of ever seeing you again, far less of this, of this!” and Captain Wilde went off into raptures again, kissing her again at “this” and “this.”—“No, Sophie, I made up my mind to turn you out of my heart. I found it hard work; though I resolved to banish the thought of you, I struggled with it in vain! Struggling with a subject of thought—banishing a subject of thought, is a contradiction in terms; for while you have it by the head and shoulders, trying to put it out, you are more intertwined with it than ever, and it holds you fast. And I found, Sophie, that the only way to be rid of an inconvenient and intrusive image, was to fly from it, and I wrenched my attention off and riveted it upon another subject. It is a great thing, this free will of ours; I just had resolved to consider you as dead. I never inquired after you; and Emily, soon guessing my wish, never mentioned you in one of her letters. I studied the ancient languages, and soon, in the intervals of professional duty, I became quite absorbed in digging out Greek roots. It is an important duty, this government of the thoughts; they are the avenues by which good or evil approaches the soul. Only three weeks since, Sophie, it was that I learned that you had been free for nearly eighteen months. Only three weeks since, when coming into Boston harbor, I found a letter in the Post Office, long waiting from Emily.” He fell into a reverie for a few minutes, from which he started, exclaiming:—

“Eight years! just think of it, Sophie! Eight years! and you are so much more beautiful and lovable—though once I did not think that could possibly be—but you are _so_ beautiful, Sophie! Ah! indeed, I think that sorrow and thought and time are sometimes great beautifiers. You are _so_ lovely—and I, Sophie! Sophie, I am thirty years old, how do you find me?”

_She replied with her eyes!_ Her head was on his bosom, and her face upturned to his. His arm was around her waist, and his hand fondly nestling over both of hers. How long they sat thus, and into what deep silence they would fall while their spirits mingled! At last he said slowly, gently breaking the holy silence, reverentially:—

“My Sophie, I have but two or three days to remain in this neighborhood. My leave of absence was for three weeks. I was nine days in coming from Boston. I have twelve days left for my visit and voyage back. I must allow myself ten days for my return to insure punctuality. Now, it is demonstrated that I have but two days, to-morrow and the next day, to remain here.”

“But why?” inquired Sophie, tearfully, “why? I always thought officers in returning from a voyage had a long leisure before them?”

“Yes, but, my dear, I have just been appointed to take command of a store-ship lying in Boston Harbor.”

“Oh!”

“Yes. So that I must leave. Let us see—this is Tuesday—I must leave Friday morning. You are not attending to me, Sophie?”

“Oh, yes, I am indeed.”

She had fallen into deep thought.

“It may be six months before I can come again.”

“Oh no, not so long as that!”

“Most probably _longer_, Sophie!”

She turned her face down upon his bosom, quietly weeping.

“_Will you leave here with me Friday morning, Sophie?_”

She did not answer.

“Perhaps you think it an unlucky day. Will you go with me _Thursday_ morning?”

She raised her head, but did not reply. He drew it back upon his bosom, and looking down upon her blushing face, where the tear-drops lay like dew on the red rose, he said gently:—

“I know where the trouble is, my Sophie; you are thinking what your neighbors will be likely to say if you marry so suddenly, to them so strangely—is not that it? But, Sophie, you will surely never weigh my affection and comfort against the gossip of a set of thoughtless neighbors? you will never do so,” said he earnestly, alarmed at her continued silence, and pressing her closely to his bosom,—“You will not weigh our happiness with etiquette!”

“No,” she said, quietly, “not with etiquette will I weigh it, for I wish to go with you, Augustus; nor with duty _must_ I weigh it.”

“What do you mean, dearest Sophie?” exclaimed he, anxiously.

“Only this—there are some preliminaries to be arranged, that cannot be settled without you.”

“Then, whatever they may be, they _are_ settled—just consider them settled, Sophie,” said he, earnestly.

“But hear them; these are not things that can be despatched and forgotten; they may attend us some time. I would have you make no rash vows about them, Augustus.”

“They are _settled_, I tell you, Sophie! _settled!_ Your will, your wishes, are enough—are paramount! Have I not confidence in you, dearest Sophie? More, far more, than I have in myself; they are _settled_!” exclaimed he, impetuously.

“But you must know them to assist me.”

“Very well; upon _that_ account, I will listen, darling; but first, mind you, Sophie, I am to understand, am I not, that when I have settled all these preliminaries, we are to be united, and leave _together_ on Thursday morning—ha! say, Sophie?”

“Yes,” whispered Sophie, with a dying cadence.

“Say! speak louder, Sophie. I mistrust my ears—did you say ‘yes’?”

“Yes, yes!” said Sophie, blushing scarlet, with the tears in her eyes, “I said ‘yes.’”

“Yes! Ah! stop, let me take time to take in all this idea of ‘yes.’ Thursday morning, Sophie my wife! There is a point at which joy stuns one! Speak to me, Sophie!”

“I think that you forget I have not told you my preliminaries.”

“Oh, the preliminaries! any that _I_ have anything to do with? Never mind them, Sophie; but you are sure that you will not disappoint me Thursday morning? are you sure you will not put me off—tell me about dresses to be made, or a wedding party to be got up, or at least make a delay about breaking up housekeeping at Heath Hall? Ah, yes! certainly, I see now; these are the very preliminaries of which you speak; and how, alas! can we settle them in two days!”

“Dear Augustus!” said Sophie, “do you think me so unconscious of the worth of your regard, and so ungrateful for it, as to think of trifling with it, or deferring our”—

“Marriage?”

“Yes; upon any but grounds of _duty_”—

“Oh, dear, dear, dear! _what_ is it, then, Sophie; let us hear it quick! I listen, darling, punctilious little brown-eyed darling!”

“Well, then, our Rosalia”—

“Rosalia!”

“Yes, Rosalia Aguilar—_our_ Rose, our beauty, our moonbeam, our love!”

“You are enthusiastic, my Sophie!”

“I am when I think of _her_! Oh, she is the very soul of love! My life became brighter, warmer, richer, when she came to me. That beautiful and loving child! her love bathes everything she looks upon in light and heat, as the sunbeams flood the landscapes! You will love her so much! She, the sweet child, loves all things—pities, spares, or ministers to all things, from the broken rose-tree that wants binding up, to the old negro toiling home at noon from his hard day’s work. I have seen the sweet child run and dip up a gourd of water from the bucket at the well, and carry to such a one, looking up so reverentially in his face, as though old age, toil, and suffering in any form, awoke her veneration. She is delicate and sensitive, too; she cannot bear the least unkind word or look; nor the least excess of cold or heat. This susceptible temperament, I think it is, that gives her such warm sympathies.”

Captain Wilde was looking up with ardent admiration into the eloquent face of Sophie.

“Ah, I see,” she continued, “that you admire her; and you will love her, oh! so much; your soul will go forth and bathe her with love as mine does. Oh, your soul will warm over her, glow over her, live around her. Your life will brighten into refulgence for loving Rosalia. Ah, yes! I see you will love her—you do love her. I see it in your speaking face.”

“My own dear Sophie! I love you—_you_—my life brightens into refulgence in the light of _your_ love—_yours_, my Sophie, of the loving heart and eloquent lip.”

“People have blamed me for loving Rosalia, but how can I help it? You will see how impossible it will be.”

“Well, my beautiful Sophie (how radiant your face becomes in the praise of one you love), my beautiful Sophie! what has this little Rosalia to do with the postponement of our union?”

“Merely this—Rosalia is my ward. She is now daily expected. If she should not arrive to-day, or to-morrow, I could not leave the neighborhood finally, of course, without seeing her—being assured of her safety—indeed, I should not like to leave her with Hagar?”

“Why?”

“Hagar is dangerous to one so tender as Rosalia. Would you put a dove in the guardianship of a young eagle? Hagar has a fine, high spirit—she would go through fire or flood to serve one she loved—but, mark you! she would cast that one she loved back into fire or flood if they should offend her. Therefore, with your consent, dear Augustus, I should wish to await Rosalia here, and take her with us to Boston.”

Captain Wilde left her side and walked up and down the grapery for awhile. Then coming to her, he said,

“I will write to the Department to-night for an extension of my leave of absence, Sophie.”

“Will you? Oh! will you? I shall be so glad! Of course you will get it?”

“Probably—yes; still these favors should be charily solicited, Sophie.”

“I suppose so—well, if you do—I was about to say that we shall have the company of Hagar and Raymond, as well as that of Rosalia, on our journey. Raymond is appointed assistant professor at —— College, and they leave here in ten days.”

“Oh!”

“Will not that be very agreeable?”

“I do not know, my dearest; I think I prefer your undivided company. So, Hagar and Raymond are going North?”

“Yes.”

“And what is to be done with Heath Hall?”

“It _was_ to have been the residence of Rosalia and myself; now, I suppose, it is to be shut up and left so. We do not like to sell it. Indeed, it would bring but little; and some of us may like to come back some time to live in it. However! you know it will depend entirely upon the will of Raymond, for the property is now his, in right of his wife.”

They had arisen now from their seats, and were sauntering slowly towards the house. The evening was beautiful, and the house was crowded, and spilling its company all over the piazza and yards. They separated and mingled with the guests. Once in her meandering about, Sophie felt herself enfolded by a pair of gentle arms and pressed to a soft, warm bosom. She was in Emily’s embrace—who stooped and murmured in her ear, “My sister! my sweet sister at last!” and let her go. Next she met Hagar’s wildly glancing eyes with a “Who’d have thought it?” sort of smile on her crimson lip, and then her hand was raised by Raymond and softly pressed to his lips, while his gentle eyes revealed the heartfelt congratulations it was yet premature to speak. And at last she rejoined Captain Wilde just as Hagar was giving him a pressing invitation to breakfast and dine at Heath Hall the next day, and just as he smiled and bowed acceptance.