CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE DESOLATED.

“Thou knowest well what once I was to thee; One who for love of one I loved—_for thee!_— Would have done, or borne the sins of all the world; Who did thy bidding at thy lightest look; And had it been to have snatched an angel’s crown Off her bright brow as she sat singing, throned, I would have cut these heart-strings that tie down My soul, and let it sail to Heaven to do it— ’Spite of the thunder and the sacrilege, And laid it at thy feet. I loved thee, lady! I am one whose love is greater than the world’s, And might have vied with God’s; a boundless ring, All pressing on one point—that point, thy heart. ——But, for the future, I will as soon attempt to entice a star To perch upon my finger, or the wind To follow me like a dog, as think to keep A woman’s heart again.” FESTUS

“Well, just once more, mother!”

“But this is expensive and inconvenient, please to remember, Mr. Gusty, and we are not rich.”

“Not rich—oh! mother, I wish you would take something from _me_—which you never will.”

“No, Gusty, I had rather be extravagant with my own funds than with yours. I wish you to accumulate property, Gusty—that is to say only _this_—spend as little of your limited income as possible, lay by the balance until you get enough to purchase a piece of land and build a house. I do think that every young man should do that—I mean every young man with a fixed salary—of course men engaged in commerce may use their money to better advantage by investing it in trade. But, oh, Gusty, I do wish to see you have a house of your own so much; a home that you can improve and beautify to your own taste; and I do wish to see your Rosalia presiding over it. Come and kiss me, dear Gusty! dear fellow, don’t you think that I sympathize with your hopes?”

Gusty laughingly sprang to his mother, and catching her around the neck, kissed her uproariously, saying—

“_Ah, mais, maman maligne_, you will not make a feast for Rose, this evening!”

“Oh! but, Gusty, see here! we have been making feasts every evening for a week past, and she has not come to eat them—and may not come this evening—and, Gusty, besides, if I take this little bride of yours here, and wish to keep her for four or five years, to save some hundred dollars of your salary annually, I must not make her too expensive to Buncombe. Dear Buncombe, he is so wise! so good! and so unobtrusive in his wisdom and goodness—I have already too much overlooked his interests and comfort in my economies and sacrifices for you and Rosalia—I must”—

Up sprang Gusty, exclaiming—

“If I thought that, mother, my honor”—

“Is _safe_ in your mother’s keeping, Gusty, believe that.”

“But, mother!”

“Come, Gusty, nonsense—no high points of honor with the woman that brought you into the world, or with her husband either—Buncombe suffers many privations that you know nothing of, and could not sympathize with, if you did know—he wants certain books, scientific and mathematical instruments, &c., that he can never purchase, because he spills his money all over the parish; lavishing his slender means upon the poor, instead of influencing the rich to relieve them from their ample store—for Buncombe can give, but he cannot beg, even for others—that requires a high moral heroism in a sensitive heart like his. I have had to pick his pockets before he goes out, every day, else they would come home empty. He never economizes; never thinks of expense—not he—and when Rosalia is seated by our fireside, he will never think whether she costs us a hundred cents or a hundred dollars a year—the blessed soul!—nonsense, Gusty,” said she, with tears in her eyes, “you will break my heart if you get upon your dignity with Buncombe.”

“Getting upon my impertinence, it would be, mother,” said Gusty, seriously, “only—well!—yes, I am sure, mother, I can leave it all to you—must do it, in fact—for until my marriage, I have no right to object, and after my marriage, there is no place where I would leave Rosalia but here with you; and if you will not receive any compensation, it cannot be helped for the present.”

“You must appreciate Mr. Buncombe, Gusty!”

“Oh! I _do_, mother, I _do_! I think he is an admirable—Crichton, or Christian—which is it, mother?—I do, indeed—I really do—your appreciation and affection endears him, mother! But now, mother, indeed it is almost four o’clock, and there is no certainty about these evening boats—they pass any time between five and ten—come, mother, tell Kitty to make a nice little supper, and not to forget the rice cakes, with honey sauce, that Rose likes, and then, mother, get your shawl and muff, and _do_ come along with me to the cliff, to watch for the boat—come, mother, oh, _do_ come!”

Emily arose with a smile and a sigh.

“Mothers with marriageable daughters make heavy complaints—the egotists!—but a mother with a marriageable son—a great loblolly boy, in love, who is always melting over her!—has not _she_ a trial? As for those rice cakes, Mr. Gusty, they are very well once in a long time, but we have had them prepared every week for your Rosalia, who has not appeared to partake of them; and we have had to eat them all up ourselves, to keep them from being wasted, and we are all getting the dyspepsia, and I am losing my complexion from indigestion, and whatever you may think, I assure you, Master Gusty, that I value the beauty of my complexion for the sake of my good man, quite as much, and perhaps more than your Rosalia values hers, for the sake of you—and as for this trip to the beach, Master Gusty, every afternoon, through the cold, and over the snow, it does not help to counteract the ill effects of the cakes quite as much as I could wish, because, Master Gusty, I have to stand upon the wet beach, in the current of wind too long, Master Gusty—and so, Master Gusty, you will please to be a trifle more reasonable in your love, if love and reason ever can coalesce in you—but, however, Master Gusty, I will once more take cakes and cold for your sake,” and going out into the kitchen, she gave the necessary orders, and returned enveloped in a large hood, shawl, and muff. Gusty buttoned up his great coat, and they set out. The walk from Grove Cottage to the promontory was rather long. The afternoon was clear, bright, and cold, and the snow, slightly crusted, crackled under their feet as they pursued their way towards the cliff. They reached its summit, and stood upon the extreme point of the peak. Emily took out her watch to note the time, gaily grumbling at its waste, while her son adjusted his pocket-telescope, and took sight up the river.

“It is five o’clock, Gusty, and nearly dark besides, or would be, if it were not for the full moon, helping the twilight.”

“It is coming, mother—the boat is coming!” exclaimed Gusty, still keeping his telescope pointed up the river. “It is the Arrow, mother, I can see the name.”

The boat bore down rapidly. They turned to descend the steep and slippery sides of the cliff, and stood upon the frozen beach as the boat flew swiftly on. His heart paused as it neared—stood still as it passed. Let _me_ pause here. Reader, notice this party on the cold beach, and now cast a magician’s glance into the cabin of the boat that is passing. In a small state room opening from that cabin, upon the floor by the side of the berth, kneels Rosalia Aguilar, with her face pressed down upon the pillow, with the ends of the pillow held up against her head, to shut out every sight and sound of the shore and home she is passing, which is yet distinctly and fearfully present to her mind’s eye and ear. She sees the village, the dividing river, the heath, with its forest in the background; the promontory, the old Hall, with its broken garden wall and poplar trees; lastly, the beach, and the party on the beach. Emily and Gusty—she knows, she feels, that they are there waiting her—she knows, she feels, that they were there yesterday, and that they will be there to-morrow. She knows, she feels, how they will both wait and wonder—how one will sicken and suffer with “hope deferred”—and ah! reverting to another home upon the banks of a Northern river,—another desolated home, desolated by herself, she sees _another_ bleeding heart and burning brain, as she presses the pillow closer about her ears to shut out sights and sounds that her spirit-eyes and ears must see and hear—how long? Rosalia was not one to enjoy a single hour’s impunity in singing—yet she went on.

Behold the insanity of passion that, through all the accumulating anguish of remorse, perseveres in sin!

The boat has passed.

“Again, mother!” exclaimed Gusty, with a look of deep disappointment.

“Yes, and again many times, perhaps, my dear boy! Something detains her; perhaps we shall hear by to-night’s mail,” and they turned to leave the cliff.

Gusty saw his mother home, and, without stopping to take supper, hurried off to Churchill Point, to await the arrival of the evening’s mail. He returned in two hours—there was no letter. The next night, and the next, and every night for a week longer, Emily and her son watched for Rosalia in vain. The mail came in twice a week, and every mail-day Gusty was waiting a letter at the post-office, and Emily waiting him at home. At last, one night, Gusty hurried in with a letter. Throwing it in his mother’s lap, he exclaimed,

“It is for _you_; open it quick, mother, do; there is something odd about it; a letter addressed in Raymond Withers’s hand, and postmarked Norfolk. What can it mean? Do read it, mother!”

Emily glanced her eyes over it, while Gusty stood pawing and champing in his impatience. It was merely a formal announcement from Raymond Withers of the change in Miss Aguilar’s plans; of her determination to go out under his protection and rejoin Captain Wilde and Sophie, &c., &c. Emily handed him the letter in silence, and watched him as he read it. Fearful was the picture of passion presented by Gusty! his bosom heaved in fierce convulsions—the blood rushed to his head, his face grew scarlet, the veins on his temples and forehead swelled like cords, his teeth ground together, his eyes glared and flashed. Crushing the letter in his hand, he raised it above his head, threw it hard upon the floor, set his foot upon the paper as though he would grind it to powder, and strode up and down the room shaking his clenched fist, gnashing his teeth, and exclaiming, as he foamed at the mouth,

“Villain! wretch! dastard! God! oh, God! that months, that days, that even _minutes_ should pass before my heel is on his neck! my sword’s point in his heart!”

Amazed, alarmed at his terrible excitement, Emily followed him up and down the room.

“Gusty! dear Gusty! in the name of Heaven sit down—be calm!”

But, foaming and shaking, Gusty did not heed, or even hear her.

“If I had him here! If I had him here, with my foot upon his chest, my hands around his throat—he would be but as a reed in my grasp—a fox’s cub in a lion’s claws! Oh! if I had him here beneath my feet! _Oh!_ if I had him here! _Oh!_ if I could get at him now! _Why_ can I not clear the distance between us at a bound!—spring upon him! bear him down to the ground!—God! oh, God! I shall dash my desperate brains out before I can get at him!”

Emily had sunk pale and trembling into her chair, quite overwhelmed by his frightful passion, while, like a man in a fit of hydrophobia, like a maniac in the height of his phrensy, like a wild beast maddened in his cage, he raved, and shook, and foamed!

Passions, like tempests, by their own fury, soon exhaust themselves. Fits of passion, in some natures, spend their last fury in tears as the storm passes off in rain. He raged until the exasperating image of Raymond Withers was replaced by the subduing form of Rosalia, and anger was drowned in sorrow for the time. He dropped heavily upon the sofa, and burying his face in its large cushions, sobbed—yes, _sobbed_—

“Rosalia! Oh, _Rose_, _Rose_!”

Emily, much wondering at, and alarmed by, the great degree of emotion raised by a seemingly insufficient cause, arose, and tottering, came and sat beside him. He remained unconscious of her presence. She sat there half an hour, waiting for him to look up, before he seemed to observe her; at length he turned over, and revealed a face pale and ghastly, as by a recent fit of illness. He looked up, with an appeal for sympathy straining through his bloodshot eyes, piercing up to the gentle face of his mother.

“In the name of Heaven, now, Gusty, what _does_ all this mean?” she inquired, anxiously.

“_Mean_, mother! Ah, Heaven! _yes_, what does it mean!”

“Surely, Gusty, it is extravagant to manifest all this frightful passion at this disappointment. I own that it was rather unkind in Rosalia to go off to Sophie when we were expecting her, and that it was thoughtless in Raymond to omit writing until the last hour, very thoughtless; but”—

“Thought_less_! the calculating, forecasting demon! it was just the contrary—it was thought_ful_ of him!”

“What do you mean, Gusty?”

Could he reveal to her the fearful light that had broken upon _his_ mind? the terrible truth that had overwhelmed him? Oh, no! at least not now; he remained silent, and she continued to misunderstand him. She went on to say—

“Your disappointment blinds you—makes you unjust, Gusty; it was thoughtlessness, or much occupation, that prevented Raymond Withers from writing, to give you an opportunity of seeing Rosalia before their departure; and for the rest, if you can only get over the present disappointment, this arrangement will be better for your _pleasure_, whatever it may be for your purse; for look you, Gusty: suppose Rose had really come, as she promised, and you had married her, and, at the expiration of your leave of absence, left her here, as arranged; you would have spent only a fortnight with her, and then been separated from her for two or three years. Now, by this new plan, you are for the present disappointed, but then you will soon go out, meet her and be near her all the time. Nonsense, dear Gusty! You have nothing really to regret.”

And so, in her happy blindness, she continued to talk to the despairing boy before her; and so, uninterruptedly, he let her talk on, while he lay there with his hands clasped upon his corrugated brow. At last, aroused by the laughing and crowing of a wakening baby in the next room, she went and brought her little girl out and sat down with her by Gusty’s side, thinking the glee of the babe, of whom he was very fond, would enliven him. On the contrary he became very much agitated. Presently he said—

“Mother, dear, if it will not be too much inconvenience, put a shirt or two, and a pair of socks, &c., into my valise; I’m off by the morning’s boat for the North.”

“Why, Gusty!”

“Dear mother, _yes_!—I must see Hagar!”

“Why must you?”

“I _want_ to see her, mother—_must_ see her! I am _anxious_ about her!”

“Anxious about her?”

“Yes, _very_ anxious!”

“And why are you so?”

Without replying, Gusty arose and walked the floor with his arms folded and his chin bowed upon his breast.

“What makes you so anxious to see Hagar, Gusty?”

He paused, and looked perplexed for a few minutes, then suddenly replied—

“Is it not natural that I should wish to see Hagar after so long an absence?”

“But it is not so long an absence, and your resolution is so sudden.”

“Well, besides, mother, finding now that it is useless to try to see Rosalia—for that was a ship-letter dated at Hampton Roads, and brought in by the pilot, you know—I wish to dissipate my chagrin, mother; is not that natural?”

“Oh, yes! Well, I suppose you do,” said Emily.

The next morning, early, Gusty May set out for the Rialto.