CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BRIDE’S PARTING.

“From the home of childhood’s glee, From the days of laughter free, From the love of many years, Thou art gone to cares and fears; To another path and guide, To a bosom yet untried! Bright one, oh! there well may be Trembling ’midst our joy for thee.” MRS. HEMANS.

“Mother! is not Rosalia to stay with you?” asked Gusty May, as he lingered over a late breakfast with his mother.

“Why, _no_, Gusty, certainly not! what put such a thing in your head?”

“Why, mother, it came there naturally enough, as Rose lived with us many years before she went to school, and as you always seemed so fond of her, and she also seemed so necessary to you, I thought, of course, you would like to have her again.”

“But you know, my dear, _why_ Rose lived with us; that reason no longer exists, and Rose goes with her natural guardians.”

“And, mother, who _are_ her natural guardians? Two new brides, quite lost in the glory of their bridehood; have _they_ thought or care for Rosalia?”

“Sophie has.”

“Yes, but Sophie! Sophie is so innocent. Sophie is going to live—didn’t you know it? on board the store-ship.”

“Ship!”

“Lord bless you, _yes_, mother! aboard the store-ship uncle commands. There is an elegant cabin, furnished luxuriously as any city drawing-room, and far beyond anything you see down in this neighborhood. Well, as I was saying, Sophie will live there—now is that a desirable home for a young girl like Rosalia, among all those gay, young officers, with a chaperone no wider awake than Sophie is, with a guardian merry and wild as Uncle Gusty?—and I tell you, mother, those young officers are devils of fellows—you know I know them.”

Emily fell into thought a moment, and then she said,

“Sophie is indeed very abstracted, and my brother, as you say, is wild; but then there is Hagar; I think that it were better she resided with Hagar.”

“What, mother, with Hagar! don’t you know that Raymond proposes to board the first year? and with the narrow salary of an under professor, will Raymond be able to take her? Besides, a girl dependent, as she is, should be made to feel that she has quite a choice of homes, that many hearts and doors are ready to fly open to her.”

“You know that I should love to have her with me, Gusty. I will invite her, press her to come. I do not think, however, that either Sophie or my brother will be willing to resign her.”

“Thank you, dear mother! thank you!” exclaimed Gusty, jumping up and kissing her, “oh! thank you—‘willing!’ no, I don’t indeed suppose they will be willing to resign her—who _could_, in fact? nevertheless, we must try to overrule them.”

“You run quite enthusiastic upon the subject, Master Gusty!” exclaimed Emily, looking at him attentively.

“Enthusiastic, mother! Gracious Heavens, mother! one must be cold, dead, yes, a _corpse_—a corpse! I mean a _statue_—one must never have _had_ life—a statue! I should rather have said a _block of marble_—one must never have had _form_ not to be inspired with enthusiasm by that girl—that seraph!”

“Hey! Master Gusty! have you fallen in love with Rosalia?”

“Speak low, mother! Oh! breathe her name in flute-like tones—for, mother! when I speak of enthusiasm, I mean the rapt enthusiasm of the adoring saint for his guardian angel! the silent enthusiasm with bended knees, clasped hands, and upraised eyes, mother!”

“Humph! not the enthusiasm for instance that Hagar inspired some weeks ago—a passion that was going to compel you to send the planets whirling against each other!” archly smiled Emily.

“Mother, no more of that ‘an you love me.’”

“So you have got over your phrensy for Hagar?”

“Why, mother,—_of course_,” said Gusty, assuming a look of shocked propriety, “_of course_—you did not suppose I was going to keep on loving her _now_, did you?”

“I should hope not, certainly; and I am glad your lips confirm my hope.”

“I am a man of honor, mother!” said Gusty, dilating.

“Certainly you are, my love! I am very sure of that—nevertheless, Master Gusty, I cannot really give you credit for the exertion of any great moral power in this affair. I think that your passion has been conquered as the Indians conquer danger when pursued by the flames of a burning prairie—fire by fire—love by love.”

“Stop, mother! be just—despair and conscience did much for me even before I left her.”

“And yet that was a great infatuation of yours, and now here is another quite as great—I am afraid you are fickle, Gusty! Have you really quite ceased to regret Hagar?”

“Quite, mother.”

“And care nothing at all about her?”

“Oh! stop—_yes_, I care a great deal about her in—in a brotherly way, you understand! in fact, just as I always _did_, until I had to go mad about her, you know. Care about Hagar? yes! I guess I do! Let any fellow crook his finger at Hagar, and see if he don’t get his neck twisted, that’s all? It is singular that I should have got into such a delirium, is it not, though? and more singular that I should have got out of it—don’t you think so, mother?”

“No, indeed—it is perfectly natural—the ‘harder it storms the sooner it is over’ is an acknowledged atmospherical fact, and by all that ever I have seen, it is as true of passionate as it is of atmospheric storms. I hope that you will never marry during the raging of any phrensy of passion—for, if you do, you will be very apt to make yourself and another miserable for the rest of your lives.”

“You may well call it a phrensy—a storm, mother! Gracious Heavens! yes! That intoxicating Hagar! I used to reel away from her whirling, spinning, tipsy! That electric Hagar! she would flash into my soul blaze after blaze, like the lightning of a dark, tempestuous night, dazzling, blinding, stunning me!”

“And this other?”

“_And this other_—oh! stop, mother; put a long pause between _that_ and—‘this other,’ and sink your voice low, like you were whispering in a church—this other dawns on my soul like a soft, rosy morn, faintly, gently, sweetly, and bright and brightening! Hagar broke the silence of my heart as with a laugh, a shout, a whoop, a halloa! ‘This other’ _steals_ upon the ear like a soft note of music, rising and swelling into harmony and volume!”

“My poet!”

“No, mother, not your _poet_; I feel more like your _apostle_—I feel when I think of her more like saying my prayers—I feel while sitting by her as if I were doing a meritorious thing; my heart is hushed into a holy content and calm, such as one feels when taking a seat in the church while the organ is pealing ‘gloria in excelsis,’ or the preacher is reading ‘The Lord is in His holy temple—let all the earth keep silence before Him.’”

“Do not be irreverent, Gusty.”

“Oh, I am not, mother; indeed, so far from it, that I never thought of the Lord so much, worshipped the Lord so much, felt the Lord’s presence in all the beautiful sights and sounds of nature so much, as during that heavenly journey with Rosalia. Let me tell you about it, mother—good, best mother, you know I tell you everything—always did ever since I was a boy.”

“Everything, Gusty?”

“Well, yes—that is—_almost_ everything. Well, you know after I set out from here, I tried not to think of Hagar, but the more I struggled with the image, the more intensely I thought of her.”

“Of course; you should have _fled_ from the subject, fixed your attention on something else—never let your thoughts struggle with a sinful subject—fly from it.”

“Yes. Well, I was a little shy of meeting Rose—she always _was_ delicate, sensitive, and refined—and I thought two years in a boarding-school had educated and refined her tastes and manners up to the highest fine lady standard. Well, when I got to Boston, and when I reached the outskirts of the town, and when I passed the gate in front of Mrs. Tresham’s marble and stuccoed mansion, I felt embarrassed. I had to recollect that I was an officer in the United States Navy, mother! I had to turn all the way back to my hotel, wait half a day to get a card engraved, put on my best new uniform, get a pair of lavender-colored gloves, and a cambric handkerchief—throw myself into a carriage and ride there (I had walked before), and all for fear Miss Aguilar should think me rough, countryfied. Well, I made coachee get down and ring the bell, take in my card, ‘Augustus W. May, U. S. N.’ Come, I thought, that would do—that was going it _en grand seignior_. Presently I alighted, and was shown into the parlor. Magnificent, mother! precisely like a wealthy merchant’s drawing-room; and while I was waiting there—sitting on a fine crimson velvet seat, lolling back with one arm grandly thrown over the back of the chair, throwing back my shoulders, expanding my chest; in fact, enlarging and dilating generally and sublimely! telling myself all the time that I was Aug. W. May, U. S. N.,—the door swung noiselessly open, and a tall lady, in stiff black satin and a turban, entered, followed by a lovely girl, with golden ringlets flashing down upon her light blue silk dress. While I arose and was flourishing my grandest bow, and the lady elaborating her profoundest curtsey, Rosalia, the dear girl! floated towards me, holding out her dear white arms, and warbling, ‘Gusty, Gusty!’ just as when she was a baby, and I a lad. I forgot that I was Aug. W. May, U. S. N. I forgot Madam Tresham—and Gusty Wilde started—sprang—clasped Rosy in his arms, to his bosom, and kissed her eyes, and nose, and mouth, while the room spun round for joy! and he was just about to whirl Rosy all around the room in a reel, when he was arrested by the sight of her Royal Highness, Madam Tresham, sinking superbly into a chair, elevating her double chin with slow haughtiness; then he dropped Rose, and blushed, and bowed and sat down.

“‘Your _brother_, of course, I presume, Miss Aguilar?’ she said, elevating her chin sublimely.

“Now, she _knew_ better, of course she did; she said that out of an air.”

“In rebuke, Gusty, and she was right; you behaved indecorously.”

“See here, mother, can I help it? When my blood gives one jump from my heart to the top of my head and the tips of my fingers!”

“Well, what did Rosalia reply?”

“She said, ‘Oh, no, dear madam, he is not my brother; but we were brought up together,’ and the old lady said ‘Ah!’ and then I handed my credentials, Sophie’s letter requesting the presence of Miss Aguilar. I swear madam did not seem inclined to comply! however, next day we set off by stage for New York, because Rose was afraid of water, and we travelled by coach as far as Baltimore, and then, as no stage runs this route, we were obliged to take a chaise, and oh! was not that a delightful journey,—a glimpse of Heaven, mother! a specimen of life in Paradise, those three days’ journey in the chaise! I and Rose alone; the dear girl, how many times she would get out to rest the horse and walk by my side while I led him up the hill! Now, mother, don’t forget; you’ll invite Rose, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“You love Rose, don’t you?”

“Yes, as a daughter.”

“And you would take her for a daughter, wouldn’t you?”

“Most willingly.”

“That’s you, mother.”

* * * * *

Rosalia was in demand. That same morning Raymond Withers stood by the mantel-piece, his elbow resting upon the top, his head leaned upon his hand, his eyes bent down upon the slight figure of Hagar, whom he held in a half embrace with the other arm.

“Hagar, love,” he said, in his flute-like tones.

“Well, Raymond!”

“What disposition is to be made of your cousin?”

“Rosalia?”

“Of course, Rosalia.”

“She is to reside with Captain Wilde and Sophie.”

“I want you to invite her to accompany us—to live with us, in fact,—to make one of our family.”

Hagar was silent.

“Well, Hagar?”

She did not reply.

“Will you invite her to-day, Hagar? we have but a few days left, and the child should know where she is going. Invite her to-day, Hagar—now!”

Hagar’s eyes were rooted to the rug.

“You do not reply, Hagar: perhaps you would rather _I_ should speak to her myself, and yet methinks it would beseem _you_ more; shall I invite Rosalia, or you?”

“Just as you please.”

“Then you speak to her, and let me know her decision, will you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“At the first opportunity.”

“You speak coldly, I had almost said sullenly, Hagar. Do you not like this plan?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Do not press me for a reason, Raymond; why should _you_ be so anxious for Rosalia to become an inmate of our family?”

“First, because it is only common kindness to a young relative who is depending upon some of us to offer her a home; and secondly, because I am very much pleased with Rosalia, and think that she will be quite an acquisition to our fireside.”

Her hand was in his as she stood by his side; but her forehead was bent forward against the lower part of the chimney-piece, so that her long, extremely long blue-black ringlets hung down below her stomacher, like a veil concealing her face, hiding the corrugating brow, gleaming eyes, flushed cheek, and quivering lips.

“Miss Aguilar is not dependent for a home—her father left her a small property.”

“I do not say and did not mean that she was dependent for a roof to shelter her fair head, or a board to sit at, but if she has ever such a fortune she is a young, delicate, sensitive girl, and she _is_ dependent on some of us for a _home_, for kindness, tenderness, affection.”

“She has all that, or will have all that with Sophie and Captain Wilde.”

“Nevertheless let her feel that she is encompassed with affection—poor girl, she has no _parents_, let her feel that she has _friends_.”

Hagar was again silent. Then he spoke.

“What is your objection to our plan?”

“We are going to board, as I understand, and so we have after all no home of our own to offer her.”

“But we are _not_ going to board—I have changed my plan.”

“Since when?” inquired Hagar, with a slightly sarcastic tone.

“Since my tenant moved out of my house on the Hudson!” replied Raymond, coldly.

“Oh! I did not know you owned a house anywhere.”

“Probably _not_! you have no _means_ of knowing—you have just learned _that_ fact for the first time, as you will soon learn _others_, my love!”

“What others?” sneered Hagar.

“No matter now—invite Rosalia to come with us as I requested you, my dear, will you?”

“Yes, I will—Raymond.”

“Well, love?”

“You seem very much charmed with Rosalia!”

“I am—I could not tell you _how_ much charmed with her—she is a seraph!”

“Raymond!” she spoke huskily now, “suppose you had met Rosalia before our marriage, even before our engagement?”

“Well!”

“Do you not think that you would have rather loved and wooed _her_ than _me_—that you, even now, were we free, would prefer her?”

“Prefer her!”

“Prefer her to _me_—could you not love Rosalia better than Hagar?” said she, speaking with great rapidity. “She is fair, full formed. I am small, thin, and dark. She is soft, gentle, sensitive. I am wild, fierce, and proud, proud to every one but _you_, Raymond. She is tender. I am hard. She is graceful. I am rude. She is all that is lovely, fascinating in form, features, temper, and manners. I am all that is repellent in person, character, and deportment—every one loves her—all dislike me.”

“Hagar.”

“Tell me, Raymond, have you not followed the stream in this general, this inevitable admiration and love?”

“Hagar!”

“Have you not claimed my hand too hastily? Do you not now regret it, wishing that you had waited longer and looked further—lamenting that you had not seen Rosalia while you were yet disengaged?”

“_Hagar!_”

“You do not deny it! You only echo and re-echo, ‘Hagar!’ ‘Hagar.’ Yes, _Hagar_! that is my name, my fit name—what strange prophetic inspiration was it that made them drop my proper name of Agatha and call me ‘Hagar?’ Alas! I might have known it, Raymond! Oh! did I not _beg_ you to defer our marriage? Alas! what forebodings were mine! Truly coming events cast their shadows before! Oh! Raymond, I might have known—Rosalia has won in succession every heart from me—first Sophie’s, then Mr. Withers’s, the servants’, the neighbors’, Mrs. May’s, and lately, think of it! I _was_ really glad of _that_, not knowing what an omen it was! lately, _Gusty’s_. A month ago Gusty was perfectly infatuated with my poor face, raved, talked of blowing his brains out. Well! two weeks ago he set out for Rosalia, met her again, brought her home, and now he raves more about Rosalia’s shoe or glove than he ever did about my whole being! And then! and then! oh! God, you, Raymond, _you_! If you could have seen yourself when I first pointed her out to you, as _I_ saw you, drunk with her beauty!”

Her blood was kindling in her veins, while her bosom heaved and set with the motion of the hidden fire that blazed and died and blazed upon her cheeks, as you have seen a red flame in the night rise and fall waved by the wind—while her eyes scintillated sparks.

“I wish,” she said, “that as I am so much smaller, I were soft and weak like other women! that I had more lymph, and so could easily melt! could weep! I can _not_—I am _hard_—my muscles are like tempered _steel_—they imprison a strong grief that rages, burns, and rends, finding no escape, no vent, no expression! I wish that I could weep! could die! like other women.”

During all this rhapsody, Raymond had been looking down on her with the greatest calmness of attitude and expression—his head still supported by the arm that rested on the mantel-piece—his eyes quietly observing her. Now he took her hot and quivering hand and led her to the window—there were two chairs facing each other at this open window. He motioned her into one, dropping into the other himself—he took both of her hands into his own and gazed into her agonized countenance a minute, and then said:

“Hagar! look me in the face, look me straight in the eyes, come!” and as she raised her eyes piercing with anguish to _his_ eyes, there was a sedative influence emanating from his manner that acted upon her nerves, reducing her to quiet, she knew not how or wherefore. He held her hands thus, looking straight into her fascinated eyes thus for a few moments, and then his flute-like tones gently stole on the silence as he said,

“Hagar! I love peace, quietude, repose, benign repose. I love low tones, soft footsteps, gentle manners, sweet smiles, and complying tempers around me, and I must have them—look straight in my eyes and see if you do not feel that I _will_ have them? So, Hagar, no more of this tragic acting, if you please, my love.”

Her eyes were fixed full on his, in a vague but painful surprise; she did not attempt yet to reply.

“It is this harmonious repose that charms me so in Rosalia.”

“Then why,” she murmured at last, “why were you ever attracted to one so every way opposite as myself?”

“Because you can be made every way better; one don’t want a character _all_ cotton wool; a good steel spring that rebounds from pressure is not unpleasant in your organization. I like to know that there is a strength, force, energy in you when required, but I like it—_latent_—under perfect _command_—do you mark! and you are not, because you happen to have a whole magazine of artillery and ammunition, to fire and flame and blaze away at such a rate! _or in the least degree_; you must grow tame, my wild love.”

“My peculiarities, then, are not altogether repulsive to you; you love me, despite of them all!”

“I love you _because_ of them all, my Hagar; and—but _mind_!” and here his voice sank to a lower key and deeper tone than she had ever heard, and his gaze was steadily fixed on hers, “_You must place confidence in me_; that I demand! without that your love is worthless to me; mine to you. I love Rosalia, but not in the way you imagine, foolish girl. I would not marry her if I could. You spoke of my admiration of her last evening. I was ‘drunk’ with gazing on her beauty—a delicate word for a lady, by the way—never let me hear it from your lips again, Hagar! I was ‘entranced,’ &c.—now observe, I will illustrate—last week you and I rode out together; it was a beautiful evening, and the sun was sinking like a world in flames, lighting up into flashing splendor half a hemisphere of crimson purple and gold sky, of blue water, and green hills and vales; and you, drawing rein upon the brink of a lofty cliff, gazed rapt upon the scene until your face was as a small mirror reflecting all the glow of the sunset—your soul seemed pouring from your eyes, until the sun sank behind a bank of clouds that lay like a low range of blue mountains immediately on the horizon, and then the spell that bound your revery was dissolved.” Oh! how intensely her eyes burned into _his_ eyes while he spoke; he continued speaking slowly. “As you, upon the brow of the cliff gazed, gazed on the sun-set’s glory; so _I_ gazed upon the young girl’s beauty!”

“Ah! ah!” said she, with wild energy, “but I was upon _the brow of the cliff_! the brink of destruction, where a single mis-step would have precipitated me into ruin; and I was pouring my soul out through my eyes, I was entranced until the glory was lost in clouds, the light in darkness. Alas! _wail_ for your illustration, Raymond!” and suddenly springing from him she fled up the stairs to her eyrie. He stood looking after her a moment, and then followed her leisurely. He found her in an excited stillness, gazing “too earnestly for seeing” out upon the bay. He went up to the window, and leaning his arm upon the flap of the escritoire, looked down at her, looked steadily at her—and spoke:

“Hagar.”

She started, turned, impatiently exclaiming, “Can I not escape your eye and voice anywhere, _anywhere_?”

“Why _no_, love, of course not!”

She was turning away—“Nay, pause. Hagar, how long have we been married?”

“I do not exactly know, and I do not want to calculate now; it seems to me much longer than it really is—a long, long time!”

“Something less than six weeks? Is not this a promising beginning?” Hagar suppressed a groan. He drew her away to a lounge, and they sat down. “Hagar, do you remember the night of our first meeting? when I was a youth and you an infant?”

“_Do I not?_”

“Your first words to me—it was at Sophie’s wedding party, you recollect—your first words to me formed a _jealous question_, and I knew that you were strong and fierce and jealous, though so little even for your years; and your first question was a _jealous_ question.”

“You have a good memory.”

“I _have_! therefore do not store it with facts that will be likely to injure you in my estimation. Well, to go back to that evening—I loved the little, fierce child—it was piquant to see so much intense fire concentrated in so small a space. I felt that it would be interesting to subdue this fierceness into gentleness. I was called away from home; but I never forgot the interest she gave me. I returned, and the little girl had become a little woman—and was wilder, fiercer, more piquant than ever; she interested me, attracted me more than ever—and I wished to possess her—I do possess her. I wanted her for interest, amusement, occupation, use—not for _torture_! I wish her _esprit malin_ to stop just when and where it ceases to be _agreeable_—do you hear, love? For, Hagar, I have extremely keen nerves and senses; as most people of my complexion enjoy a moderate degree of any sort of pleasure thrillingly, but do not like to be shocked and stunned; things that would scarcely act upon a lower organization put me in pain. And now another picture, Hagar. Do you remember the monkey Augustus May brought you from sea, when you were a little girl? You kept it years until my return; you had educated it almost up to human intelligence; and showed it to me with so much pride and pleasure. I was so amused with its antics—not so much with what you had _taught_ it as with its _own primal_ nature, breaking through all. _Yes, look at me, Hagar!_ keep your eye _so_—for I want you to read all in my _soul_ that you find upon my _tongue_. You remember the day we stood upon the point of rocks between the river and bay, on the other side; you remember you had your monkey in your arms; you set it down, and I made it bound and bound for a chestnut, while we both laughed at its antics, until the thing, exasperated to anger, sprang upon my chest and set its teeth and claws into my flesh, and then! Ah! you grow pale, proud one! _what then, Hagar?_”

She answered, and spoke low and slowly, as though the words were drawn from her involuntarily. “You tore it from my bosom by the heels, and dashed its brains out on the rocks.”

“It was an involuntary impulse, Hagar, deplored, perhaps, the moment after; nevertheless, Hagar, you monkey!” and here he smiled a strange smile,—“be as spirited, fiery, and piquant as you please, but never set your teeth and nails into my flesh _again_—and Hagar!”

“Well?”

“I want a mark of confidence from you. Invite Miss Aguilar to stay with us—do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“‘Yes,’ what is that? Yes you hear, or yes you will do it?”

“Yes, I hear, and I will do it.”

“This day?”

“Yes.”

He kissed her forehead, arose, and sauntered out of the room. And Hagar sprang upon her feet with a snap of her teeth, exclaiming, “Powers and principalities of darkness! is this I? is this I? What is this? am I bewitched, enslaved? I—_I_—_I_! pale, and tremble, and obey—_I_! Come, Hagar!” said she, to herself, “let us go to the glass and see if we have changed as much in person as we have in manner during the last ten minutes!” and she went to the glass and glared at herself. “Would I submit to this, if I did not love him, if I did not want him to love _me_? Raymond! oh! you who looked _so_ gentle, so fair—who could think that under those golden lashes, in those soft eyes, lurked such spring lancets! And Rosalia! Was he sincere? or was he self-deceived? or perchance am I mistaken?”

The dinner bell rang, and hastily arranging her dress, she descended the stairs and entered the dining-room. Raymond came forward to meet her, and led her to her seat at the table, whispering as he went,

“Your cheek is flushed, love, and your ringlets a little dishevelled. I am sorry to see that; take time in future, love, even though you should keep people waiting a few minutes; take time to compose yourself and arrange your toilet.”

That afternoon Rosalia Aguilar had three distinct invitations to make her home under the room of three distinct friends. She gratefully declined two—that is Emily’s and Hagar’s, in favor of Captain Wilde and Sophie.

The next Sabbath, the whole family from Heath Hall attended divine service at the parish Church of the Ascension—Rev. Mr. Buncombe in the pulpit. It was to be the last Sunday of their stay. Mrs. Withers’s pew, in which sat Hagar, Raymond, Rosalia, Sophie, and Captain Wilde; and Mrs. Buncombe’s pew, occupied by herself and Gusty, were the two front pews of the middle aisle, immediately under the pulpit. After the morning service was over, the benediction pronounced, and the congregation had retired, the occupants of these front pews filed out, and placed themselves before the altar in the following order: Captain Wilde, with Sophie on his left hand, and next to her Rosalia; on his right hand, Gusty, while Emily, Hagar, and Raymond were grouped near. The preacher opened his book, and in the holy stillness of the empty church, commenced the marriage rites that were to unite for life Sophie and Augustus; he went on, finished them, the names of bride, bridegroom, and attendants and witnesses were affixed to the register; kisses were given and received; heartfelt, low-toned congratulations breathed, and the little party slowly left the church, got into their saddles, and rode over to Heath Hall, where a small party were assembled to dinner.

Dear girls, have I given you love, courtship, and marriage enough in this and the last? Whatever you may think, there is “more truth than poetry” in the story I am telling you, and more sadness than either.

Gusty rode by the side of Rosalia Aguilar—Rosalia was in one of her softest moods, and tears and smiles and blushes chased each other over her cheeks. She was thinking of “dearest Sophie,” and sympathizing with her happiness. Gusty was sighing like the wind in the main-sail. His mother’s invitation, backed by his own eloquence, had been inefficient in persuading Rosalia to remain in the neighborhood.

“No, dearest Gusty,” she had said, “I should love so much to have you all with me; it grieves me to part with any of you, but you know, Gusty, that I must mind what Sophie says, and Sophie says that I must go with _her_; besides, as I cannot stay with all, I prefer to stay with Sophie and with Captain Wilde, who loves me also.”

“See here, Rosalia, I—I—I—”

“Don’t cry, Gusty, don’t cry—I will write to you every week, and can’t you come and see me?”

“_Cry!_ am _I_ crying?—it’s—it’s the wind blowing in my eyes that makes them water—pshaw! fiddle-de-dee! _me_ cry, indeed!—but, Rosalia—stop—don’t ride so fast; let the folks get along before.”

“Why?”

“Oh! because—because—because it will tire the _horse_, you know, poor fellow.”

“Oh, will it?” said Rosalia, reining up, and falling into a walk.

“Yes, to be sure it will, walk him slow,—there!” and then he rode up close to the side of Rosalia, and said, “Rose, stop, little darling,” and she stopped, and turned her gentle face towards him. “Rose, look at me, darling,” and she looked straight in his face, with her large innocent eyes. “How do you like me, altogether, Rose?”

“Oh! so much, so dearly, you _know_ I do, Gusty!”

“Ah, my seraph!—but, Rose, could you _love_ me?”

“Could I, Gusty? Why, I _do_ love you dearly.”

Then he sank his voice to a low whisper, and said,

“But, loving darling! you love _everybody_!—Raymond and Augustus included.”

“But I love you better than them, Gusty—oh, ever so much better. You know I have known you all my life, and never knew them until last week; so good as they are, dear Gusty, and much as I love them, I love _you_ the most!”

“Love! love! love! Ah, my little angel, I am afraid you do not love me as I would have you. Do you love me well enough to _marry_ me—now—soon? My pay is enough to support us, and mother has consented. Sophie has a good opinion of me, and—and—well! what do you say, my Rosalia?”

She was smiling and blushing.

“Well, Rosalia?”

“Why, it would be too curious! too queer! so funny. Sophie would laugh at us, and all the girls would make fun of us. You know I am nothing but a child yet—but oh! I know you are only joking.”

“As the Lord in heaven hears me speak, I never was more in earnest in my life.”

“Oh! no, Gusty! not in earnest! I do hope not in earnest.”

“As the Lord lives I am, Rosalia—come, Rosalia! I see you will not drive me to despair—you will give me your hand, and instead of going North, you will just cosily settle down here, with mother. Come, put your hand in mine, and I will take that for yes!”

“Oh, I am sorry to vex you, Gusty; indeed I am, dear Gusty, but I can’t get married, it is too funny!”

“Do you not love me, then?”

“Yes, indeed I do, Gusty.”

“You _love_ me, dearest Rose?”

“Yes, indeed I do, Gusty, the angels know I do!”

“Then why not marry me, my sweet love?”

“So! Gusty, I had just as soon marry you as any one else, only I do not like to marry one—”

“Good heavens!—oh, gracious Providence, _hear her_!—she had as lief have me as _anybody else_!” roared Gusty, striking spurs to his horse and making him bound in the air.

The girl grew pale, and hastily exclaimed,

“Well, well! maybe if I was obliged to marry, I would _rather_ have you than anybody. Oh! don’t scare me so, Gusty! you make me weak all over, and—and—I feel like falling from my saddle!”

And he saw, indeed, that his violence had nearly overwhelmed the delicate girl, who was trembling very much. He rode to her saddlebow, and said gently,

“Rosalia, I beg your forgiveness; I have startled you by my rudeness; the fact is, Rosalia, I have been accustomed to Hagar, who, with reverence be it said, is as rough as an unripe persimmon, as sour as a lime, and as bitter as an aloe, and she has spoiled me for such gentle society as yours; now compose yourself, Rosalia, and hear me, and believe me when I say that if you refuse my hand—if you leave me here and go to the North—I—well! perhaps I shall not go mad, or blow my brains out, or break my heart, and die, but I shall be utterly wretched, and make every one miserable around me, I _know_ I shall! I begin to feel it now. So, Rosalia, I have to propose to you to break this matter to Sophie, or let me do it, and to beg you, if she shall see no improper haste in the project of our marriage, that you will accept me; Rosalia, you make me talk _so_ much, darling!—now, Rosalia, what do you say?”

The girl paused, not in reflection, but in hesitation.

“Dearest Rose, you give me so much pain. Rose! Rose!”

“Do I? I did not mean to.”

“Will you give a reply, Rose?”

“Wait, Gusty, till I talk to Sophie; but, oh! no, I do not like to, either—it is too queer. You, Gusty, you may talk to her.”

“Do you, do you say that, Rose! Tell me! tell me over again, Rose! I may ask your hand of Sophie and Wilde?”

“Yes,” whispered Rose, the blood rising to the edges of her hair.

“Oh, glory, hallelujah! God bless you, Rose! God Almighty bless you, Rose. Hey! stop, Lightning!” said he, suddenly jerking the bit, though in fact it was not the horse but Master Gusty that was bounding. “There, I am frightening you again, Rose! Be easy, Lightning!”

“Won’t you ride on? Sophie will be waiting for us.”

“Yes! yes! my angel Rose,” and they cantered on through the forest-path. It was the same forest-path leading from the village to the church so often mentioned in this story. They overtook Sophie Wilde and their party. Sophie was buried in thought; she was in fact just passing the spot where she had, eight years before, seen the apparition of the wanderer, and now passing the road for the last time, and under her peculiar circumstances, the fact was forcibly recalled to her mind. Rosalia paced up lovingly to her side, and kept there during her ride home.

Soon after dinner Gusty May found an opportunity of taking Sophie aside and making known his wishes. His embarrassment under _all_ the circumstances of which _we_ are cognisant, you know, was very natural and amusing. Sophie Wilde (I love to call her Sophie Wilde) was not perhaps the person of all others to consult in such a case; it did, however, vaguely dawn upon her mind that a little delay might not be unadvisable in the proposed marriage of a youth of nineteen with a girl of fifteen and a half; so she said dreamily that she would “Talk with Captain Wilde.”

Up shot Gusty, exclaiming,

“‘_Talk with Captain Wilde!_’ ‘talk with Captain Wilde;’ yes! that’s it! that’s the tune! ‘talk with Captain Wilde.’ What’s Captain Wilde to do with it? I asked _you_, because she insisted you should be consulted, and you are her little mamma. Seems to me that you have quite unnecessarily elevated him to the throne. ‘Captain Wilde!’ he’s a great fellow, isn’t he? Captain Fiddlestick’s end! I should just like to hear _him_ object—I just _should_. Shouldn’t be surprised though if he didn’t. ‘Talk to Captain Wilde!’ oh! _de_-cidedly. _She_ said ‘Talk to Sophie,’ you say, ‘Talk to Captain Wilde,’ _he’ll_ ‘talk’ to Parson Buncombe; and while you are all ‘talk’-ing, my prospect of getting a pair of white kid gloves grows

“‘Small by degrees and beautifully less!’”

exclaimed Gusty, ranting up and down the piazza, and flinging his coat-tails about. “I was born under the lost pleiad! I _know_ I was! to be always crossed in love! to be hammered into a poet or something by hard blows! I be hanged if I will. I’m to be put in the still as roses are, and the essence of soul, the double extract of soul distilled from me by fire, while flesh and muscle, life and health shrivel up like rose leaves in the heat! No, I be hanged if I will. Cast me into the furnace and see if I don’t turn out to be gunpowder, and blow somebody up! or spirit-gas, and set some one on fire! _that’s_ all!” and blowing, he sat down.

“Look here, my dear Gusty,” said our bride, “don’t talk nonsense. You have a long leave of absence; come! go with us North. You indeed have the best excuse; you may be said to be in duty bound to go, as our groomsman, and in that capacity you must constantly attend Rosalia, and who knows, you may be appointed to our ship; the set of officers is not yet complete.”

“So I may! oh, God bless you, Sophie, it took just _you_ to think of that! though you may not be as sensible as mother, or as brilliant as Hagar—yet you are better. I wish the comparative had been _good_er than _either_ of them! anything that is to make anybody happy, dear Sophie! I shall not leave it to ‘who knows’ and ‘perhaps,’ I shall beg uncle to get me appointed to his ship, if he can—where is he? I am going to him! in the meantime consider me enlisted for this Northern bridal cruise,” and off he went to seek Captain Wilde.

I leave it to any gentleman or lady present whether it was in Captain Wilde’s power just that day to look rationally, sensibly, coldly, upon a young lover’s passion.

“Why, Gusty, my boy,” he said, “you know very well that I have very little influence; however, I will exert that in procuring your appointment to my ship, and Gusty, in the meantime come on with us and remain until you receive orders somewhere. Rosalia is a treasure, and if I had the power of bestowing her, I do not know to whom I could give her with so much pleasure as yourself. But you must wait, Gusty, for a year or two—you are both somewhat too young to think of this marriage yet a while.”

“Why, uncle, this ‘wait’-ing might be endurable if the time were passed with you all, and in daily company of Rosalia, to be sure.”

This arrangement was finally concluded. And Emily, who loved Rosalia, and preferred her above all others as a future daughter-in-law, readily consented to forego the society of her son for the present, merely saying—

“_When_ you marry, if you ever marry Rosalia, you must bring her home here and leave her with me while you are at sea, Gusty, and that is the only condition upon which I can consent to part with you, Gusty, for this term.”

Of course Gusty consented and promised.

* * * * *

“And so, my little dove-eyed darling is scarcely out of school, before she is betrothed—do you know the meaning of your vows, my little love?” asked Sophie, very seriously, the same afternoon as Rosalia nestled on a stool at her feet. And Rose dropped her blushing face in the lap of Sophie, and was silent. “Do you?—tell me, Rose?”

“Dear Sophie, I had rather not get married—only, you know, poor Gusty, it would be a pity to hurt his feelings!”

“You child!”

“But, Sophie, I am not—not betrothed, as you suppose—no indeed, I gave no positive answer until I could hear what you would have to say.”

“You did not!” said Sophie, suddenly. “Oh, then, my dear Rose, I beg—I entreat that you will bind yourself by no rash vows now—wait—you are heart-whole yet—wait—Gusty is going on with us—you will see more of him—he of you—and you will both find out whether you are fitted for each other. Will you promise me not to engage your hand ever without my consent, Rose?”

“Dear Sophie, to be sure I will—I never once thought of doing otherwise.”

This was perfectly easy for Rose, for her own inclinations were uninterested in the matter.

Breaking up an old home, the home of many years—I had nearly said centuries, is not like a modern city May day flitting. A home like old Heath Hall, with its accumulations, its secretions of many years and many hearts, with its innumerable old closets, cupboards, wardrobes, escritoires, and “old oak chests,” with their inexhaustible treasures, relics, and curiosities—from the doublet and hose that the founder of the American branch of the family wore—with his point and ruffles and bonnet and plume—to the cocked hat and rusty sword of great-great-grandfather, and the hooped petticoat and high heeled shoes of his wife—from the first baby cap that the first American Churchill baby wore, to the lock of grey hair that was cut from his coffined head just before the lid was screwed down—from the veil that fell around the maiden at her bridal to the cap the grandmother died in—from the bullet extracted from the fiery-hearted son who had perished in battle, to the clerical black silk gown his gentle bosomed brother had worn in his ministry when he married, christened or blessed. Truly the organ of veneration must be largely developed in these old Maryland and Virginian families—all things linked with family associations are relics it would be little short of sacrilege to destroy. The cast off bridal wreath and veil that a northern or a city belle would generously and properly bestow upon some young sister or cousin, is gently lifted from her daughter’s brow by a Maryland mother—reverentially lifted as you have seen a minister raise the cloth from a communion table, and laid away a sacred treasure, a relic to be handled with awe and love by the children in future ages. The wardrobe of the dead that many northern and city families send to the proper destination, the backs of the ragged living, in Maryland and Virginia is carefully collected and packed away in chests and locked, and hermetically sealed as it were to moulder away to dust in long years. These old houses—how the very smell of their musty mysterious old closets and closely shaded rooms, for dreaming carries us back to the days when people did not understand that ventilation was necessary to health, to the days when we lay across grandmother’s soft lap, watching through our winking eyes grandmother’s dear good face, and, vibrating between angel dream land and her capped and spectacled face, dimly wondered what we were, and slipped from this vague feeling into sleep. These old houses have no antiquities carrying us back to the very ancient feudal times, it is true; but they have that which comes more warmly, _so_ warmly! home to the heart, all the signs of _long inhabitedness_. The old windows may creak in the wintry blast, and the wind whistle up from crevices at the very foot of the old mantel-pieces beside the blazing hickory fire, yet the heart is all the warmer for its old age, because grandfather and grandmother lived there and _their_ grandparents before them. These old houses scattered at wide intervals up and down the shores of the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries, and under the Easterly shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and in and out among the hills and through the forests between them—these old houses, spotting the verdure of new settlements like iron-mould—these old houses, many of them still inhabited by the old families, while both decay together, still blossoming out occasionally with young life, young children, remind me strongly of old mouldering tombs from which fresh blooming flowers are springing.

“Let’s leave all things just _so_, Hagar, love,” said Sophie, as the two were making a tour of the old Hall, opening and examining old closets and chests with a view of determining what should be taken, what left, what burnt and what given away. “We will lock up all the rest without examination. I have not nerves for it, Hagar. It is like dissecting a heart, to explore the treasures and memorials and relics of the long ago dead. Let us leave them so.”

“Let’s make a general bonfire of them,” said Hagar, “I never like these relics, they come across me unpleasantly, very—why should people accumulate them—storing up pangs against some day of pangs. ‘Let the dead past bury its dead;’ _en avant_ is my motto.

Sophie looked at her with her brown eyes dilating in reverie.

“Perhaps you are right after all—these relics awaken mournful, not to say maudlin feelings that might sleep but for their sight; nevertheless, _I_ could not destroy these things, neither can I consent to their destruction.”

It was finally agreed in consultation that all things should remain just as they were, that the Hall should be closed, and left in charge of old Cumbo and Tarquinius.

* * * * *

“Where are you going, Hagar?” said Raymond, as she sauntered from the breakfast-room off into the yard.

“To see Starlight. I have not seen him since our marriage, and I was accustomed to go to his stall every morning when Tarquinius carried his oats.”

“Why did you not ask me to attend you?” inquired Raymond, as he drew her hand under his arm.

“Because, Mr. Raymond,” flashed Hagar’s eyes and teeth, “I love to shake you _off_ some time! when you set like a trammel—besides you do not like Starlight.”

Raymond replied by drawing her arm closer and holding her hand tighter, while her pointers, Remus and Romulus, seeing her, sprang to her, bounded around her, and she stopped to caress them with her free hand. Raymond an instant looked annoyed, then raising the loaded end of his riding-whip, struck them away. Hagar snatched her hand from his arm, and all the fire of her race and nation was burning in the indignant gaze she flashed upon his brow that still remained unfurrowed by a frown in its superb calmness.

“Well, Hagar, I am not scathed, blasted by that lightning stroke, am I? Nonsense, Hagar, do you suppose I am going to permit a hand I love to kiss to be licked over by those two curs?—pooh! go wash it.”

“They are _not_ curs, they are fine splendid pointers! Look at their shining black coats and eyes like coals! and their _love_ has more generous disinterestedness than—” And here she paused, her expiring flash of spirit died out beneath the steady inquiring gaze of the soft, deep blue eyes, striking up through which came a will, a purpose, the strength of which was dimly guessed from the depths from which it seemed to come.

“Than _what_, Hagar?”

“Nothing!” said Hagar, as her high heart-throbbing subsided. He drew her arm again within his own, and they proceeded to the stables. At the sight of his mistress, Starlight neighed loud for joy, and breaking away, cantered up to meet her, pawed the ground, stretched out his head, and couched it in the open palms she held to receive it. Hagar smiled in his eyes, full of the earnestness she could not speak, and stroking his jet black neck, let him lay his chin upon her shoulders alternately, and rub his mouth upon her neck and cheek, snorting with joy between times.

“See, Raymond! see,” she said, with her momentary anger all conjured away. “See how the very _want_ of the gift of speech makes his eyes and motions so eloquent! See how glad he is to see me! don’t I understand you, Starlight? and don’t you know every word I am saying?” said she, caressing him.

But now her eyes fell upon Raymond, who was standing with folded arms, curling lip, and scornful eyes, regarding her.

“Why do you look at me in that way, Raymond?”

“You have no refinement, no delicacy. Your dress pawed over and soiled by your canine pets—your ringlets snuffed at, and your neck rubbed by the nose of your pony. I am glad that in a few days I shall be able to remove you from all these things.”

“But I wish to take Starlight and Remus and Romulus with me,” said Hagar, as she turned away from the stable, and they sauntered on.

“You cannot do so.”

“Why?” she asked, anxiously.

“I do not like dogs and horses myself, and I very much _dis_like your attachment to them, and I utterly disapprove of your use of them; when you cannot walk there are carriages to be had!”

“You never told me that you disapproved of my habits before!”

“I had no right to _express_ it before, and yet you learned it from my silence, and now I say it explicitly, and expect that my tastes be consulted in the matter.”

“And you have no right to express it _now_! sir,” exclaimed the mad girl, with the fire flaming in her eyes. “No right to express it _now_! _what_ right have you _now_, more than you ever had over me? None that I acknowledge! None that I will bear to have you assume! None, Raymond! _none!_ All love! all compliance that I yield you now I would have yielded you before! and you know it! you know it! of my own free will! of my own glorious free will!—not from constraint! God in Heaven! you exasperate—you madden me—by attempts at constraint! Raymond! what do you mean by this? I do not like it. No! I will turn away, I will not look at your cold, spirit-killing eyes. I will not let your cold, damping, implacable will extinguish my life and soul as the rain puts out the fire. _I_ have a will! and tastes, and habits, and propensities! and loves and hates! yes, and conscience! that all go to make up the sum total of a separate individuality! a distinct life! for which _I alone_ am accountable, and _only_ to God! How weak and worthless would my obedience to God be if it were fettered through a submission to _any_ lower will. No, I will _not_ bear to have you assume any right over my freedom of action, and I shall take my favorites with me to the North.”

A sarcastic smile fluttered around the beautiful lips and gleamed under the golden eye-lashes of Raymond Withers as he slightly raised his hat from his head with a mock bow, and sauntered away from her side, quoting for her benefit the very last clause of Genesis iii. and 16. It only needed his sarcasm to exasperate the girl to phrensy. She snapped and ground her teeth together, and stamped with both little feet, springing to the ground as though they would take root there—while anger rocked and flamed to and fro in her bosom like a sea of fire lashing its shores. Suddenly—veiling her flashing eyes and setting her gleaming teeth with a look of resolution, she went to the stables and calling Tarquinius, bade him saddle Starlight.

“We will have another day together, my old friends,” said she, as the horse neighed joyously, and the dogs bounded around her each in intelligent anticipation; and in ten minutes from this Hagar was flying over the heath towards the forest attended by her favorites.

The sun was setting in golden glory as Hagar rode into the yard at Heath Hall, sprang from her horse, and throwing the reins to Tarquinius walked leisurely towards the house, smiled and bowed salutation to the company assembled to enjoy the evening air in the piazza, and passed on into the Hall—Sophie followed her, and with the tears welling up to her eyes exclaimed,

“Oh! Hagar, what have you done?”

Hagar threw up her little glittering head of ringlets and replied with laughing defiance,

“I have been taking one of my old days among the hills! I wished to feel my freedom a little, that is all! I have been galled by the too close pressure of my chains lately, and have broken them through for once, that’s all.”

“How will you meet Raymond after this escapade?” said she, sadly.

“Nonsense, Sophie, how will he meet _me_?” and she ran up stairs.

“Be quick, dear, trying Hagar, tea is nearly ready,” said Sophie, gazing earnestly after her—then with a second thought, inspired by this second and closer glance, Sophie went up stairs to her room, found her standing leaning her elbow on her dressing-table, while her forehead rested upon the palm of her hand, and her long glittering ringlets fell half way to her girdle—her little figure was visibly throbbing with emotion. Sophie went and took the hand that was hanging down; it was burning, hot, and dry.

“Hagar!”

“Well?”

“You are wretched, poor child, and indeed I do not wonder. Hagar, will you take my advice?”

“What is it?”

“_Tell_ your husband when you meet him that you are so—_you_ have sinned, Hagar, and _you_ must atone for your sin; lay your small hand gently on his arm, and look into his face, catch his eyes, and ask him to forgive you.”

“WHAT!” snapped the proud girl, bounding like a little bombshell; “hold out my wrists humbly for the gyves, and ask my master please to fasten them on again! No! may I die if I do!”

“Oh! don’t look at it in that light, Hagar; you have wronged, outraged, insulted Raymond.”

“Did he tell you so?” sneered Hagar.

“Can I not see it, Hagar? No, he did not tell me so—do you not know enough of Raymond’s proud and fastidious nature to see that he _could_ not tell me so, Hagar? No, poor misguided child, your day’s absence was enough. Come, Hagar, seek a reconciliation with him—you _have_ been wrong—say so to him at once. You will have not a moment’s peace until you are reconciled to your husband—seek that reconciliation at any price of your own sinful pride.”

“I will not! cannot!”

“But, Hagar, you _do_ regret this, you suffer torture.”

“I can _bear_ torture! but not humiliation! degradation!”

“Alas! look at you, the very flame of mental fever flickering through your cheeks and eyes—the freshness of your lips scorched by the dry heat of your breath. What a day you have had to-day, Hagar! how much your defiance has cost you! Come, come, bathe your eyes; after tea I will, if I can, talk with you again. You will be wise.”

The supper bell rang, and Sophie, with a hasty charge to Hagar to make her toilet quickly, arose and left the room. And Hagar sprang to her feet with a determination to look very regal, happy, and defiant. She bathed her burning eyes and brow, but without cooling their fever. She smoothed her long glittering ringlets, and collected them under a jewelled comb. She changed her black riding-dress for a crimson satin, with full and falling sleeves, fastened a ruby bracelet on her slender but rounded arm, and descended the stairs, trying to draw her heart up blithe and high; she entered the drawing-room with head erect, expanded brow, and elastic step, and was passing on proudly alone, behind the company, who were going to the supper room, when quickly and softly at her side was Raymond, his graceful head, with its wavy golden hair, bending forward, smiling up into her face; his soft eyes radiant under their golden lashes, and his delicate hand seeking hers, to draw it through his arm, just as if nothing had happened. Her own Raymond!—her pride was disarmed in a moment. Sunbright was the smile of surprise, joy, love, and gratitude she flashed up in his gentle face, and suddenly it softened into tenderness; how could she have defied a gentle soul like his?—in truth, she would have given everything she possessed on earth, except Remus, Romulus, and Starlight, to have blotted out for ever the offence of the day. She had not expected this; she had prepared herself to defy the storm, not the sunshine, and her defences were all melted off. She was subdued, and quietly and generously resolved in her own mind not to shock and wound his fastidious delicacy again, and so they sat down to supper. The neighborhood gossip of a tea-table occupied the company. But Hagar continued to watch Raymond with a new feeling, new interest; it seemed his character was now constantly unfolding itself to her; new leaf after leaf was turned; she watched him covertly but closely. His manner was just precisely as usual; and, though she often caught his full eyes, not the slightest consciousness of remembering that anything unpleasant had occurred was to be detected in their glance. His countenance and manner wore their usual air of graceful self-possession and elegant repose, and she would have thought that, indeed, the occurrence of the day had dropped from his memory, but that once, quickly, under his breath, he had said, “Your restlessness of manner, your anxiety of expression, will draw attention—be at ease.”

“Be at ease”—these words, though spoken in the softest key, and with the sweetest smile, somehow did not set her at ease; and “You will draw attention,” raised an anxiety that she had not felt before. Was it the dislike of drawing attention?—but she would wait. Oh, how she longed for the stupid evening to be over; it is so hard to bear calmly, cheerfully, a toothache or a heart-ache in company. It was long before they left the tea-table, and then it was long before they got ready to go home, and after they were all in their saddles and in their carriages on the road, it was long before Sophie’s smiling good night broke up the family circle for the evening. Sophie left the room with a congratulatory smile to Hagar, happy in the thought that their quarrel was made up. Raymond followed her, smiling, to the door, opened it, bowed her out, closed it, and returned; then with a sudden impulse went back, re-opened it, and passed out.

Hagar awaited his return half an hour, and then sought her chamber. She expected him joyously, yet with a little undefinable anxiety. At last she heard his steps ascending the stairs, he opened the door, and came in; she turned quickly, and going to meet him, holding out both hands, exclaimed,

“Dearest Raymond, I am so glad that we are alone, together at last, my heart has been ready to burst all the—” She stopped short, and gazed in surprise at him. How changed his aspect! was it the same Raymond that an hour ago was smiling, bowing, glancing, gliding through the lighted drawing-rooms? He stood with folded arms and curling lip; his cold eye crawling over her from head to foot, yet so fascinating in his beautiful scorn, that she could have uttered a death-cry of anguish, as love and pride tugged at her heart-strings. He passed her and threw himself upon a lounge. She had been prepared for this scorn and anger three hours before, but she was not now—not after having been subdued by soft smiles, sweet words, and gentle tones, that she had received in all trust—no, not now—the touch of the soft fingers that had sought and pressed her hand in drawing it through his arm; the touch of those soft fingers was yet quivering on _her_ fingers; the rays of those gentle eyes were yet beaming in _her_ eyes; the tones of that low, love-pitched voice yet breathing in her ear—no, she could not believe in this harshness, at _least_ she could not bear it. He was now sitting on the lounge, making entries in a note-book, with his usual air of elegant ease. She looked at him an instant, and then going up to him she stood before him; he continued his writing, without looking up; the flame flickered in and out upon her dark cheek; soon she dropped both hands upon his shoulders, and dropped her proud head until the long glittering ringlets fell each side of his cheeks, and sitting down beside him and dropping her face upon his bosom, she whispered softly,

“Raymond, make friends with me! I will do anything in the world you wish me to do—come! I will leave undone all you wish me so to leave, if you will make friends with me again;” and a tearless heart-sob breaking from her lips showed how great had been the pang of her vanquished pride.

He lifted her head from its resting-place, smoothed back the ringlets of her hair, and holding her face between the palms of his hands, gazed smilingly into her eyes, with a look, half of love, half triumph, and said,

“You will? but then your ‘separate soul—will—individuality’—what are you to do with it all? Answer me—I want a literal reply, in words—”

“I don’t know!—how do _I_ know?—don’t seek to humble me, dear Raymond—I am tortured!—tortured!—tortured!”

“Tortured?”

“Yes!—yes!” exclaimed she, wildly,—“_tortured!_”

“Who tortures you, my piquant little love, my little vial of sal-volatile?” said he, condescendingly, caressing her.

“You do, Raymond!—and myself!—myself tortures me!”

“Why, so it seems.”

“Yes, Raymond, understand me, and help me to understand myself. I only lately began to know myself. I am a strange blending of pride and aspiration!—and of love, and through love, fear!—the eagle and the dove!—alas, bear with me!—hold my throbbing temples between your cool hands, Raymond—_your_ hands are _always_ cool—so!—now calmly, I do not know that there is anything to make me wild, or angry, just now—yet these clashing and conflicting elements do so war in my nature—listen, Raymond! when you angered me this morning, and left me, the aroused passion of my soul heaved and set like the sea in a storm, leaping from its bed and lashing the shores! I could not have believed it possible that you _could_ have angered me so—or being angered so, that I could have got over it so; and now that is gone, and—never wound my poor dove because my eagle has stuck her beak and claws into you—”

“No, love, the dove shall never be wounded, but _the claws and wings of the eagle shall be clipped_,” said he, looking steadily in her anguished eyes. “Don’t reply to me yet, Hagar, you are about to say something that will make more trouble between us.”

Then with a dry sob and gasp, Hagar’s heart shrank into silence, and he smiled to see it, and all this while he was lightly caressing her—running his fair fingers through her glossy hair, and kissing her lips from time to time. At last she said—

“I have been thinking what to do with my favorites, Starlight and the pointers.”

“And has your unassisted wisdom arrived at any conclusion, my love?”

“Yes, I will leave them here, in the care of Tarquinius, for a while; then, perhaps, after a while, when we get settled, you will not object to have them.”

“I am sorry, love, that our thoughts did not happen to run in the same channel, very sorry. I made a sale of the horse and dogs to Gardiner Green, this morning, while you were taking your last ride with them, and to-night, after you came home, I sent them over to his farm by Tarquinius.”

“NO!” exclaimed Hagar, starting violently.

He held her tightly, gently compressing his arm about her waist, and replied, softly,

“Yes, love—nay, do not start and struggle, I cannot spare you, yet—yes, love, they are sold.”

“_My_ horse!—_mine?_—_my own!_—my dear Starlight!—and my dogs—and without my leave!”

“Come, come!—come, come! be still, Hagar, no phrensy,” said he, smilingly, tauntingly caressing her, while a gentle, cruel strength struck out from the pressure of the soft arms that held her in a fast embrace; “if your eagle flaps its wings and beats its cage so violently, I am afraid clipping its pinions and claws will not be enough—I am afraid I shall have to crush it altogether,” said he, looking down into her eyes.

She ceased to struggle, and dropped her hands clasped upon her lap—dropped her head upon her chest, while the color all faded from her cheeks, and the light from her eyes.

“Hagar!”

“Well!”

“What is the matter, love?”

“_What you please_ shall be the matter!” exclaimed she, laughing bitterly, while light and color suddenly flashed back into her sparkling face.

“Come, love, you are a spirited little thing, but you will be docile by and by, and then—”

“I wish you joy of your automaton!”