CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FORSAKEN HOUSE.
“Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth, Oh, silent house! once filled with mirth, Sorrow is in the breezy sound Of thy tall poplars whispering round.” HEMANS.
The family met at breakfast the morning succeeding the events of the last chapter. The family—that is, with the exception of Rosalia, who had been spending a week at Grove Cottage, consoling Emily for the disappointment of losing her company for the winter, by remaining with her as long as possible, and indeed up to the day of the proposed departure. Hagar entered the breakfast-room, escorted, as usual, with the gentle and assiduous attention always given her, in public, by her husband. He led her to her place, and seated her with a graceful bow and sweet smile, and then assumed his own chair—smiling the morning salutation to Captain Wilde, who just entered the room. But Sophie looked at Hagar,—looked at her in astonishment. The spirited, springy little figure was almost languid, though she sat erect; the healthy crimson glow of her dark complexion had concentrated in a circumscribed purple spot on her cheek, leaving her contracted brow and quivering lip pallid; her strained glance expressed a mingled anguish and defiance. And then Sophie’s glance turned off from Hagar to Raymond; but his fine brow was perfectly smooth, his eyes smiling and his lips composed as he received the cup of coffee from the waiter held by Tarquinius. Sophie was so disturbed, upon the whole, that she could not eat her breakfast. This was the last day of their stay at Heath Hall. The packet that was to convey them to Baltimore was moored under the shadow of the promontory. Immediately after breakfast, both gentlemen left the house to superintend the removal of their baggage. Hagar arose from the table and went into the large old drawing-room, Sophie’s whilom school-room. Sophie, leaving her table in charge of the servants, followed her. She was walking uneasily about the floor, and seeing Sophie enter, she paused before the window. Sophie stole gently to her side, and passing her soft arms over the girl’s shoulder, stooped forward and looked seriously and lovingly into her anguished face, as she murmured in her low, sweet voice,
“I must not ask you _now_, Hagar, my former question of ‘What is the matter between you and Raymond?’ but let me comfort you in some way. Oh, it is dreadful, indeed, my love, that you, a wife of scarcely two months—but I will say nothing of that—only I see,” said she, dropping her voice very low, “it is your _pride_, Hagar—don’t start, love, or repulse me, for you know we shall be separated very soon—it is your _pride_, love, that rebels against a rule every way gentle, just, and reasonable. Subdue it, Hagar. Your husband has been educated among the refinements of cultivated city society. He, himself, perhaps, among the most fastidious of that class. His taste is offended, his delicacy shocked by your wildness.”
“He knew all this before. Why did he mar—”
“Hush! hush! Hagar! Never think such thoughts—ask such questions. He loves you, Hagar—has loved you long with a constancy I have never seen equalled but in one instance. He loved you—let me speak plainly, Hagar, for your sake and his—he loved you when you were a very _un_lovely child—at least to every one but me.—Well, he loved you, and sought and gained your love. You gave yourself away to him, and now he very naturally expects you to conform your manners to his tastes. Hagar, if liberty were dearer to you than love, you should never have given yourself to a husband. But that is not so—you know it—it is only your struggle, now—and, Hagar, this struggle, this resistance of your pride, _must cease_. Listen! Oh, Hagar!” said she, with unaccustomed energy, “listen to me—to _me_. I love you, and have no possible interest except your own welfare, in what I say to you. Your pride must be subdued—it must!—_must!_ If you do not subdue it _yourself_, _he_ will, with cruel pain to you. Raymond’s demands are all reasonable; such requirements are usual—in your case any man would make them—but in one thing Raymond differs from most men that I know—in the possession of an indomitable WILL. In my long acquaintance with him, when my faculties were mature, and yours in the green bud, I have had an opportunity of seeing and knowing this. I am afraid _you_ have mistaken him—with all his fair complexion and golden hair; in that beautiful form lives calmly an immensity of force, an eternity of purpose, almost omnipotent in its repose, and that it would be vain to look for in more impetuous, seemingly stronger natures; a power that is calmly, silently surrounding you. You feel it—do not struggle against it—you cannot overcome it, cannot escape from it, and it will never be withdrawn—it will close around you.—Yield gracefully to it! To your submission it will be a loving embrace—to your proud resistance it will be a galling chain; cease the struggle, Hagar, and be still.”
“Never! never! never!” exclaimed the proud girl, while her brow flushed to crimson as by the smite of shame.
“But you have a traitor in your bosom that continually betrays you; or rather, I should say, your husband holds your heart-strings in his hand. You love him—yes, Hagar, _him_ only, of all the world! You do not love me, or anybody else. From infancy the stream of your affections has run in one deep and narrow channel. Let that be checked, and the waves, turned to flame, will roll back upon your heart consuming it. Why, see, Hagar, see! when your wills clash, your pride is in arms—you oppose him, defy him, and he meets such defiance with a calm, quiet strength, not yielding an inch, and you suffer, as you are suffering now. Why suffer, Hagar? Tame that wild heart of yours. Hagar, the great secret of the power he possesses over you is this: he is calm, while you are impetuous—he can control _himself_, and thereby _you_—he can stifle, as you can not, that ‘mighty hunger of the heart,’ that craves a return of love—he can look coldly, sternly on you for days, weeks, while his very soul wails for your love. You cannot do this yourself, or bear it from him long; in a word, dear Hagar, you have neither might nor right on your side.”
During all this speech Hagar had been standing with her face to the window, with her eyes burning and burning through the glass, and Sophie had been standing by her side with her arm around her waist caressingly.
“Come, Hagar!” she whispered low, “let me confide to you some of my own feelings,” and while she spoke she slightly smiled, her voice slightly quivered as with bashfulness or happiness, and the rose clouds rolled up over her cheeks, and even flushed her brow,—“I love my husband so much, so much, so much, with a fulness of tenderness that it seems to me could not be expressed, except by suffering something—sacrificing something for his sake. I am sure sometimes I wish he would ask me to do something naturally repugnant to my feelings, that I might have one opportunity of showing him how much I do love; to give up my very dearest wish for his pleasure would give me exquisite joy—a joy that I crave. I do not comprehend this, dear, but so it is.”
“Oh, _I_ comprehend it, Sophie, perfectly; it is the very same principle that led the saints ages ago to scourge and starve themselves to testify their love to God—God forgive them the blasphemy! You, Sophie, have a propensity to worship, and a very decided vocation for martyrdom, which, unfortunately, under existing circumstances, _I_ have not!” sneered the scornful girl.
Sophie’s brow was crimson now, and the tears swam in her eyes an instant, and she remained silent. At last she said,
“Hagar, I must go away now; I have some arrangements to make for old Cumbo before we go. But before I leave you, Hagar, let me say again, you love your husband, and he loves you; he can stifle his affection, you cannot yours; his will is strong and fixed, yours impulsive and erratic. Your tastes and habits are in some respects opposed, and he requires you to conform yours to his; and, Hagar, you will have to yield—to love now, or to force, without love, hereafter. Yield now, dear, yield. There is no degradation in making a sacrifice to love.”
The high-spirited girl turned flashing around upon her—pride and scorn seemed sparkling, scintillating from face and figure, by glance and gesture.
“Yes, there is degradation in sacrificing _freedom_ to love—freedom to _anything_ but God’s law!”
Sophie paused, as if in doubt whether to go on, or to return and speak again. Finally she went out.
* * * * *
Rosalia returned that evening, accompanied by Gusty and the Buncombes. The family expected to leave Heath Hall the next morning, after an early breakfast. The Buncombes were to remain all night to see them off, and to shut up the house after their departure. Rosalia happened soon to perceive the cloud upon Hagar’s brow, and watching her attentively, saw that there was something wrong between her and Raymond; and the simple girl, remarking that _her_ brow was angry and _his_ serene, assumed immediately that he was the injured party, and so, through her benevolence, it happened quite naturally that her voice and smile softened into more than kindliness, into sisterly affection as she frequently addressed him. What a contrast to Hagar’s dark brow, curled lip, and bitter tones! It was morning and midnight, sunshine and storm, discord and harmony, fierceness and gentleness, scorn and reverence, hate and love—I had nearly said Heaven and Hell contrasted.
That evening! To Hagar it was an evening to remember, to date from. While she sat there watching the innocent, the childlike maiden, with her gentle beauty and winning grace, smiling so sweetly, kindly, in Raymond’s face, lighting his countenance up with _real_ and not conventional smiles, her mind flew back to the past, and all her childhood came before her; she recalled the day of Rosalia’s arrival at the Hall, and recollected how, from that day, she had drawn away all the love of the household from herself; she remembered that lately Augustus May had well nigh adored her, until the beauty and tenderness of Rosalia stole his heart away—and now! now! now!—oh “_that_ way madness lay”—she watched them covertly through her tortured eyes, and with a gnawing pain at the heart—distinct as any physical pain, sharp as though a scorpion living there stung it to agony. Thus the seeds of evil, sown in her heart ten years before, were springing up into a thorn tree, that, lacerating her own bosom, should wound all near her. And Rosalia, too, with all her sweet, endearing qualities, she was vain, and often selfish. It was difficult to perceive this in the dear girl whose caressing hands and tender eyes seemed always pleading for your love.
* * * * *
The next morning early the family assembled at the breakfast-table for the last time at Heath Hall. And that last breakfast was over, and they arose and went down to the beach under the promontory, where the packet lay already laden with their personal effects. They reached the water’s edge, took an affectionate leave of Emily and Mr. Buncombe, entered the boat that lay waiting to receive them, and were rowed to the packet. As soon as she had seen them safely embarked, and the vessel on her way, Emily took her husband’s arm, saying,
“Come, let us return; we have enough to do to close up everything at the Hall, for one day.”
The packet wended on her way, in time reaching Baltimore, where another vessel, bound for New York, received them.
At the end of a week from leaving Churchill’s Point, they arrived safely in New York harbor, where the U. S. store-ship Rainbow waited to receive Captain Wilde and his party.
* * * * *
Before entering upon the new scenes and deeper life of our story, let me recall distinctly the facts of history, and daguerreotype a set of pictures upon which the sun shone on Saturday, the 28th of September, 18—. First:
CHURCHILL’S POINT—HEATH HALL.
On Saturday, the 28th of September, the sun shone down on the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, as they washed sleepily up towards the shore; on the lazy and shabby little village of Churchill’s Point, with its steep-roofed old houses, with its small interests and dead-alive look; upon the burnished surface of the heath bronzing under the dry heat; upon the changing foliage of the distant forest dropping its leaves—and the sun shone down warm and still upon the dark red crumbling walls, the closed doors and boarded windows of the old Hall, and the tall dark poplar trees that waved like funeral plumes around it. Old Cumbo sat in the kitchen door, with the accustomed red handkerchief tied over her white and woolly hair, while her face, black, hard, and seamed with wrinkles, like an Indian walnut, was bent over her work, the tying up of dried herbs—fit guardian of such a desolation. It was a still, deserted scene, filled with low sad music—the waters moaned as they washed the shore—the wind sighed in the distant forest, and rushing over the heath, wailed through the poplar trees that rocked to and fro round the deserted house. Nature seemed to mourn the loss of the joyous worshipper, the exultant young life that had vanished from the scene. Keep this picture in your mind for a while, for years passed and brought no change, but change of seasons, to it.
GROVE COTTAGE.
The same morning the sun shone upon the Grove, refulgent in its still autumn glory, and falling upon the dry leaves and red berries of the rose trees, stole into the quiet parlor of the Cottage, still glittering in its sober, polished steel-like splendor, and smiled a morning smile upon the parson and his calm wife, sitting within. They were seated at opposite sides of a round table. The parson with his manuscript upon a small portable writing-desk, busy in correcting his sermons for the next day, while he carried on a desultory chat with his wife. Emily with her work-box before her, embroidering a very minute cap, and sustaining at her leisure her part in the quiet conversation. There they sat with no children to bind them together, yet loving and contented as a pair of partridges. They could not work apart, and the parson had abandoned his well appointed study and handsome writing-table, and Emily had forsaken her elegant workstand, and he had brought his manuscript, and she had brought her sewing to the small, round table, large enough, though, for the convenience of loving partners. And every day as soon as he arose, the sun looked full through the front window and laughed good morning, and every evening he glanced obliquely through the end window and smiled good night, with a promise to return. Remember this picture also, dear reader; for years passed away and brought no change to the Buncombes, except a baby to Emily, a little girl, born when she was thirty-seven, and two grey hairs to the parson, which Emily kissed when she saw them.
THE U. S. STORE SHIP RAINBOW.
The sun arose the same day upon the harbor, shipping, and city of New York, upon Brooklyn and its Navy Yard, and upon the store-ship Rainbow stationed there, and shining down upon the snowy sails, the well polished deck, the varnished tarpaulin hats and blue jackets of the sailors, the red coats and glittering bayoneted muskets of the marines, upon the flashing epaulets of the officers, at last stole down the gangway into the captain’s cabin, where around an elegantly appointed breakfast sat our party from Heath Hall, in the following order: Sophie at the head of the table, blushingly doing the honors of the coffee and tea—on her left sat Hagar, with Raymond by her side—on her right sat Rosalia, and next below her Gusty; then came several young officers of the crew, and at the foot of the table Captain Wilde presided over the dish before him. It was a novel sight and scene for our visitors. Hagar’s lightning eyes and apprehension had taken in all the wonders of the ship at a glance, and she had no more to learn and nothing to wonder at. Sophie seemed to defer her curiosity and govern her glances, until the absence of her guests and the settlement of herself and effects, gave her full opportunity of satisfying it. But Rosalia seemed as though her eyes would never weary of wandering over the strange new scene. Captain Wilde was in the finest spirits, as well he might be; Raymond serene as usual—but poor Gusty looked cloudy. A disappointment had overshadowed him. Another passed-midshipman was appointed to the Rainbow, and he was ordered to sea, and to sail in five weeks, for a voyage of three years. So Gusty was cast down, as well _he_ might be. Rosalia, with her sweet benevolence, was doing all that in her lay to soothe and comfort him. She promised to marry him when he came back; she would have promised anything in the world to have raised his spirits; and she continued to remind him that at least they had five weeks to spend together yet—a long, long time, she said; and at last Gusty got over the first shock of his disappointment, and became cheerful. Forget this picture as quickly as you please, for it changed and vanished like the shifting combinations of the kaleidoscope, and was never re-produced.
Immediately after breakfast, Raymond and Hagar took leave of their friends, and entered a steamboat bound up the river.