CHAPTER XXXII.
THE TEMPTED ANGEL.
“A spirit pure as hers Is always pure, e’en when it errs, As sunshine broken in the rill, Though turned astray is sunshine still.” MOORE.
“You are weeping, Rosalia; why do you weep?” asked Raymond Withers, taking the seat by her side as soon as the carriage door was closed upon them; “why do you weep so, dear Rosalia?”
“Alas!”
“And why ‘alas,’ Rose?”
“Hagar! Hagar!”
“And what about her?”
“She suffers so! she suffers so!”
“_Can_ she suffer, Rosalia? _can_ her fierce, high nature suffer _at all_, Rosalia?”
“Oh, can’t you see it; can’t you see it?”
“I can see she is angry and defiant; but for the rest, Rosalia, I never saw her shed a tear in my life; did you?”
“No.”
“When _you_ suffer you weep, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Very well then, Rose; when you see or hear that Hagar Withers _weeps_, believe that she sorrows, and not _till_ then; you are weeping still; weep on my bosom, Rose!” and he drew her within his arms and laid her head against his breast.
The carriage stopped at the steamboat hotel upon the river’s side, the boat had not yet arrived, though day was breaking fast, and the Eastern horizon already looking rosy. Raymond Withers took Rosalia into the parlor of the hotel, and having seated her, went out and dismissed the carriage, and returning to her, said,
“Remain here, dear Rosalia, until I step to the Post-office to see if there be any letter come in last night’s mail for any of us. I will return in five minutes.”
He went out. The Post-office was near at hand; he reached it, and had just received a packet of letters and papers, when the sound of the approaching boat warned him to hurry on. Giving orders to a porter to carry their baggage on board, he hurried in, took Rosalia under his arm, hastened down to the beach, went on board, and the next moment they were carried rapidly down the river. Rosalia went into the ladies’ cabin to put off her bonnet, and Raymond retired to read his letters. One letter fixed his attention; it was directed in a well known hand, and postmarked Norfolk; he walked up and down the guards of the boat buried in deep thought; at length he went to the door of the ladies’ cabin, and calling the stewardess, told her to request Miss Aguilar to throw on her shawl and come up. Rosalia soon appeared at the head of the gangway. He offered her his arm and carried her up to the hurricane deck, that was at this hour vacant; they sat down on one of the rude benches (steamboats were not the floating palaces _then_ that they are _now_), the sun was just rising, and lighting up into flashing splendor the gorgeous glories of the landscape, the river flowed like liquid gold between high banks of agate and of emerald; but it was not upon the magnificent river scenery that he looked.
“Rosalia, I have a letter here from Gusty May.”
She changed color.
“His ship, or rather Captain Wilde’s ship, has been in an engagement!”
“Oh, my God!”
“Hush—all your friends are safe.”
“But, oh! _somebody’s_ friends are killed, or wounded!”
“Probably, my sweet girl; but they have been in an engagement and taken a prize—captured a slave ship!”
“Oh, sweet Providence! Sophie exposed in a battle with a pirate!”
“But, my gentle girl, Sophie is _well_—but they have captured a prize, and Gusty May has been intrusted with the command of the vessel, and has brought it home—that is, to Norfolk!”
“To Norfolk! Gusty now in Norfolk!” exclaimed Rosalia, growing pale.
“Yes; and he writes that just as soon as he can obtain leave of absence, he is coming to see you”—
Rosalia trembled so much that he had to pass his arm around her waist to keep her in her seat.
“He says that he intends to call at Churchill’s Point to see his mother on his way to see us”—
Rosalia seemed upon the verge of a swoon; he tightened his hold around her waist and went on speaking—
“He incloses this letter to you,” and opening his own envelope, Raymond Withers took out a delicately folded letter and handed it to her; she received it with a trembling hand, broke the seal, glanced over the contents, the letter dropped from her stiffening fingers, her face grew white as death, her lips paled and fell apart, her eyes closed, and she sank into a swoon upon his bosom. He held her there without alarm or embarrassment; he stooped and picked up the letter she had let fall. He glanced over it—it was full of the youthful lover’s exultant young life; one page was filled with glowing accounts of the battle, the victory, the prize; another with passionate protestations of love, fervent aspirations after a speedy re-union, &c., &c.; but upon the page upon which her eyes had been fixed when she swooned, was an expression of a hope that she would bestow her hand upon him during his present visit, assuring her that he bore with him letters to that effect from Captain Wilde and from Sophie. Rosalia opened her eyes just before he finished reading it. He raised her partly off his arm, and said,
“Well, Rosalia, I have read your letter or the greater part of it, do you care?”
“No—oh, no!”
“Well, Rosalia, you will probably meet your betrothed at the house of your intended mother-in-law.”
“Oh, I had rather die! die!”
“Rosalia!”
“Oh, I had! I had a _thousand times_ rather die than _meet_ him! much less marry him!”
“Rosalia, there is one way to avoid it.”
She looked at him in painful inquiry.
“Go with me to the Mediterranean!”
She started violently—again the blood rushed in torrents to her face, and passing, left it pale as marble. She did not attempt a reply in words—he continued,
“Captain Wilde is cruising in the Mediterranean. Sophie is either with him or residing with the family of some English or American Consul at some convenient seaport. I can easily find out. I can very easily take you to them, to Captain and Mrs. Wilde, if you would prefer that to living with Mrs. Buncombe.”
“Oh, yes, indeed I should so prefer it, greatly prefer it, but could it be done? is it right that it should be done? Will Mrs. Buncombe think it proper? and will Hagar approve of it? I wish this letter had come a day sooner, so that we might have consulted Hagar!”
Raymond Withers smiled a strange smile as he said,
“Whatever Mrs. Buncombe may say or think, I do not imagine that Hagar will be much surprised, or that Sophie Wilde will fail to give you a most enthusiastic welcome _when she sees you_!”
“If I thought it were possible, that is to say, convenient and agreeable all around, and perfectly right and proper in every respect, I—oh, I should be so happy to go! but though I do not know _why_, indeed, I am afraid it is not right.”
“Would _I_ suggest a measure to you, Rosalia, that is not right?” he asked, reproachfully.
“No, no—oh, certainly not—I did not mean _that_.” He looked at her steadily.
“And yet I don’t know! I don’t know! Why do you look at me so? Why do you look at me so—growing beautiful and more beautiful every instant—growing bright and brighter until you seem, not a man, but a star, a sun flashing into my very _brain_, bewildering, making me dizzy! striking me blind with light! Ah! I am delirious again! Save me, Sophie! save me, mother!” and with a sharp cry, half laugh, half shriek, she fell into his arms. He stooped his head and whispered,
“You are mine, _mine_, MINE! Rosalia, I have manœuvred, intrigued, and waited for this hour. I have brought a high heart to the earth, trodden a proud heart to the dust, crushed a strong heart to death in pursuit of this hour. You are mine, MINE, girl! I have bought you with a price, a high price! I have given up country, home, wife, and children; resigned integrity, pride, and ambition, and risked fair fame. Ah, God! I pay dearly for you, Rosalia!”
* * * * *
Three weeks from this day Rosalia sat alone in a private parlor in one of the principal hotels in Washington. It was mid-winter, yet the room was warm, and she reclined in a snowy white muslin robe upon a crimson sofa that was drawn up in front of the glowing coal fire; her head rested on her arm upon the end of the lounge. She was changed even in these three weeks. The round, elastic rosy cheeks, whose bloom was shaded faintly and fairly off towards the transparent and azure veined temples, and the snowy chin and brow were changed, all were changed—the beautiful faint rose glow that had overspread her lovely baby-face, had now withdrawn and collected itself in one burning fever spot in either cheek, leaving her brow and temples pallid; and the liquid and floating light of her soft blue eyes, had now concentrated in one intense fiery spark in the centre of either pupil. Her attitude was still as death, yet an air of suppressed excitement was visible in every feature. The door opened, and she started up into a sitting position, as Raymond Withers entered; _he_ had changed _back again_, having regained all his old accustomed ease and eloquence; he wheeled a large easy chair to the fire and sank down among its cushions.
“Rosalia, we leave Washington in the Norfolk boat at six o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“Have you heard from Hagar?” asked she, faintly.
“No, not a word—she is sulking, never mind her, Rose,” replied he, an expression of pain traversing his countenance, nevertheless. “_Why_ recall her?”
“I do not—she is ever, ever, _ever_ before me! her pale face! oh! pale like that of a victim strained upon the rack! I believe Hagar is dead and haunts me! Oh, let me go away, Raymond! let me leave you!” and her face suddenly grew sharp and white in anguish. He looked at her uneasily.
“Rose!”
She raised her eyes to his beautiful and resplendent countenance, and her own softened. He went and sat down by her side, and caressing her gently, said,
“Rose, dear, I am no kidnapper, no pirate. I will take with me no unwilling companion. Speak, Rose, you shall have your will in this. Listen, dear, the Arrow steamboat in which we embark to-morrow morning, the boat that is to take me to Norfolk where the brig Argus awaits to convey me across the Atlantic to my destination on the Mediterranean—that boat you will recollect passes immediately by Churchill Point—how easy, Rose, to put you ashore there, where you are already expected—where Mrs. Buncombe already looks for you with impatience.”
Rosalia shook as with an ague fit.
“Where your betrothed, who has, no doubt, already reached there on his way to the Rialto, and who, having heard of your hourly expected arrival, awaits you with all a lover’s ardor, will meet you with all a lover’s enthusiasm—come, what do you say, Rose? come, Rose, come? I have a letter to write in which I must be guided by your decision! Come, Rose! come! Shall I put you on shore at Churchill Point?”
“_Now_!” she exclaimed, in a tone of bitterest anguish. “_Now!_”
“Well, then go back to the Rialto, return to Hagar.”
“To Hagar!” she gasped, as a sharp spasm convulsed her features. “To Hagar! great God! death, _death_ rather.”
He waited until her fearful excitement subsided, and then, while he gently and softly caressed and soothed her into quietude, he murmured in a low, sedative tone,
“I know it all, dear—I know how utterly impossible it is for you to go to either. I only set the plans before you, that you might _feel_ the impossibility as deeply as I knew the impracticability of either project—and now you _do_ feel it! and now, my gentle dove, be quiet—nestle sweetly in the only bosom open to you in the whole world;” and he drew her within his arms and kissed away her tears. Presently, arising, he said, “Now I must leave you, to write a letter, love.”
And going to his chamber he sat down and penned a short missive to Hagar. It was as follows:—
INDIAN QUEEN HOTEL, } Washington City, Jan. 22, 182-. }
Dearest Hagar, mine only one—
Yes, mine _only_ Hagar—there is but one Hagar, can be but one Hagar in the world—after all. I shall be obliged to disappoint you and myself cruelly, by leaving the country without being able to see you first. The truth is this—for the last three weeks I have been dancing daily attendance between the President’s mansion and the State Department, in daily expectation of receiving my credentials—they were at last placed in my hands only four days ago—and I am to go out in the Argus, that sails from Norfolk within a week; so you see, love, the utter impossibility of our meeting again before my departure—best so, perhaps—I do not like parting scenes. I wrote to you that your cousin, Miss Aguilar, had decided to embrace the opportunity offered by my escort, to go out and rejoin her friends, Captain and Mrs. Wilde. Now, Hagar, do not take any absurd fancies about this, I do implore you. I have taken the greatest care of the _proprieties_, love, I assure you. The day after we arrived in this city, I happened to meet Lieutenant Graves, who was formerly on the store-ship Rainbow with Captain Wilde—we met him there, you will recollect—well, now he is stationed at the Navy Yard in this city, where he has a comfortable private residence, with his wife; he invited me to his house, knowing that his wife had been an almost daily companion of Mrs. Wilde and Miss Aguilar while they were in Boston harbor; I mentioned the presence of Rosalia in this city, and her intention of going out to the Mediterranean under my protection, to rejoin her friends. As I expected, the next day brought Mrs. Graves to our hotel to see Miss Aguilar, whom she invited home with her to spend the weeks of her sojourn in this city; nothing could have been more proper, more conventional, more completely _comme-il-faut_ than this arrangement; nothing could have been more _fortunate_, in fact. I bade Rosalia accept the courtesy, which she did at once, and Mrs. Graves carried Miss Aguilar home, within the walls of the Navy Yard, where she has remained up to this day. This evening Lieutenant Graves brought her back to our hotel, because we leave at a very early hour to-morrow morning. Rosalia is the bearer of many letters and presents from Mrs. Graves to Mrs. Wilde. All right. Now, Hagar, again—indulge no absurd fancies about this! Do not make me savage! you have not answered any of my letters—are you putting on airs, mistress? Well, you will get out of them. I am exasperated into writing sharply to you, by knowing instinctively what you will think, how you will feel, perhaps what you will _say_; but hold there, Hagar. Do not make me a by-word, by giving language to your suspicions. Whatever may be the broodings of your insanity, do not let it break forth in ravings that will subject us to calumny. You know my fastidiousness upon this point—please remember it, Hagar; and remember, _too_, that your eccentricities and wildness leave your sanity _questionable_ to some minds; that your jealousies will be the _ravings of madness, and that mad women are not to be trusted at large, or with the care of children_! So, for your own sake, Hagar—for the sake of all you hold most dear, be reasonable, cautious, and calm. It distresses me to write to you so, love, just upon the eve of my departure, but you are _so_ crazy—and I want you to try and retain the possession of your senses. Rouse yourself, love! go into society, cultivate and indulge all your favorite tastes; repurchase your little Arabian, and be again the gay, glad Hagar you were at the Heath; cultivate your music, give concerts, in which you shall be the prima donna—collect a congenial circle around you—purchase all your favorite books, and everything that suits your fancy—exhaust the little fund I have in bank, and let me know when it is gone. When you are weary of everything else, go and visit Mrs. Buncombe, at Churchill Point. Come, love, you have enough to occupy you during my absence. Take care of the babies. Rosalia sends her love to you—you know her aversion to writing, or any other work that requires mental application, and will therefore excuse her. Do _you_ write to me immediately—direct your letters to Port Mahon, and send them through the State Department. Why do you _not_ write to me?”
In an hour from the moment of closing and mailing his letter, Raymond Withers placed Rosalia in a hack, drove to the steamboat-wharf, and embarked upon the Arrow, which left for Norfolk the next morning at six.